I march in like I own the place, chin high, skirt swishing, an expression of bored disdain on my face to camouflage the fear that churns inside me.
If anyone finds out I’ve just come from boarding school, I’ll be open to a whole lot of teasing; if anyone finds out about the fire, I’ll be expelled before I’ve even started. My safest bet is to keep a low profile and give my best mystery-girl impression.
Then I remember that the green-haired girl from last night’s party already knows my darkest secret and has probably spread it all round the school by now. I am doomed.
‘Phoenix!’ a familiar voice calls, and there lounging against a doorway is Bex, she of the dip-dyed green hair, the girl with the power to destroy my school career before it has even begun. Unless I can stop her spreading the word on my dodgy past, that is.
‘Hey,’ I reply, careful to stay cool. ‘This is it then?’
‘It is,’ Bex says. ‘Not planning anything yet, are you? If there’s going to be a fire alarm, can you save it until the afternoon, because I have a timed essay in English and I’d quite like to get it over with!’
‘Maybe,’ I reply. ‘Out of interest, where did you hear about the fire? It’s not the kind of thing my gran would go telling people …’
Bex shrugs. ‘She didn’t, exactly. I’d left my phone at the old railway carriage and I legged it over next morning to fetch it. Louisa was gardening – planting snowdrops and tulips, she said. I found my phone, and when I went past I heard her on her mobile, talking to your school, I think. She said something about a fire and she sounded quite angry and upset, so … well, I’m not proud of it, but I hid behind some trees so as not to walk right into it and embarrass her. For what it’s worth, she was quite certain that you’d been wrongly accused, and she insisted the school send you to her.’
I stifle a smile. Good old Grandma Lou.
‘Jake told us Louisa’s granddaughter had moved in … I guess I put two and two together.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘Just don’t tell the world, OK? I’m in enough trouble without getting chucked out of another school, and I’d quite like to stay with my gran for a while …’
‘I’m no gossip,’ Bex argues. ‘I’ve been in enough trouble myself in the past to go stirring things up for someone else. I haven’t even told Lexie what I overheard, and she’s my foster sister.’
‘OK,’ I concede. ‘Thanks.’
Anything else I might have said is drowned out by the school bell, an especially loud and piercing alarm that signals the start of lessons. The corridor is a sea of bodies, pushing, shoving and elbowing their way to class.
‘Where are you supposed to be?’ Bex asks above the racket.
‘Registration in room 53, wherever that is – class 9B …’
‘I’ll show you,’ she says, stepping into the scrum. I am astonished to see the crowd part for her, and I follow her through a rabbit warren of corridors and stairs until we reach room 53.
‘You might come across some of the band, depending on your timetable,’ Bex is saying. ‘Failing that, we’ll catch you at lunchtime. We sit at the back of the canteen on the right-hand side. I know Marley wants to ask you to audition –’
‘He already did – I said no,’ I snap. ‘It’s a sore point.’
‘Gotcha,’ Bex says. ‘Too bad. Anyhow … see you later!’
She strides away along the now-empty corridor, and I take a deep breath, knock on the door and walk inside to face my fate.
In the end, it’s not so bad. I manage to survive registration, French, maths and art. I do not set the school on fire, I do not reveal my delinquent past, and I do not get expelled. Instead I get lots of homework, some unwanted attention from nosy girls and flirty boys, and a little bit of praise from my new art teacher who thinks I have potential. Who knew?
At any rate, I manage the work in maths and French OK, and when we change classes I am almost sure I spot the cute boy from last night’s party, the one who was playing trumpet in the trees. Bonus, right?
At lunchtime I find the canteen and queue for a hot lunch, which looks a lot better than the gruel I had to put up with at Bellvale. I’m steering through the crowd, balancing my tray and trying not to spill my orange juice, when something or someone kicks my ankle. I trip, and the whole tray goes flying – crockery smashes, food spatters everywhere, and I’m on my hands and knees in a puddle of orange juice as a roar of applause ripples round the canteen.
It’s not quite the impression I was hoping to make.
‘Clumsy, aren’t you, new girl?’ a cold voice says, and I look up to see a mean-faced kid with bleach-blonde hair sneering down at me.
‘You’re out of order, Sharleen,’ the boy beside her says – the cute trumpet boy from last night’s party again. ‘It’s her first day!’
‘Shut it, Lee,’ she hisses, jabbing him with an elbow so he almost loses his grip on his own tray of food.
I’m on my feet now, pushing soggy tendrils of hair back from my face. My eyes meet Sharleen’s cold, flinty ones and the penny drops.
‘You tripped me,’ I say. ‘You don’t even know me, but you tripped me over on my first day. Wow … just wow. Why would you do that?’
Sharleen laughs. ‘I didn’t touch you, new girl,’ she snaps. ‘You weren’t looking where you were going. I’ll give you some advice for free, though – watch your back. And don’t tread on my toes again. OK?’
She struts away, and I have the strongest urge to grab her bleach-blonde ponytail and yank her right back, yell in her face and shove her backwards across the nearest table of Year Sevens. My arm shoots out to do exactly that, but a firm hand grabs my wrist and pulls me back.
‘Don’t,’ Bex says into my ear. ‘She’s not worth it!’
The cute boy is on his knees helping a weary dinner lady clean up the mess of my fall, and a girl I remember vaguely from last night’s party appears with a fresh tray of food while another offers a clean tissue to help me wipe myself down.
‘I’m Lexie,’ the girl with the food tray tells me. ‘This is Happi, and that’s Lee doing the clean-up job. You know Bex already, I think?’
‘Yeah … yeah, I do. What even happened there?’
‘You met Sharleen Scott, Millford Park’s snarkiest bully,’ Lexie says with a sigh. ‘At a guess, I’d say she didn’t like the look of you. Waist-length auburn curls, big green eyes, short skirt … she reckons you’re a threat. Plus, you’re new and alone, so she has you pegged as vulnerable.’
‘Does she now?’ I say.
‘Obviously she got that wrong,’ Bex cuts in. ‘But Sharleen has never been the brightest crayon in the box. She also has the attention span of a goldfish, so try to forget it … she most probably will. Seriously.’
‘Come and sit with us,’ Lexie grins. ‘Show Sharleen you’ve got a whole bunch of friends already!’
I allow myself to be led across to the corner table where the Lost & Found are sitting, but I won’t forget Sharleen Scott, I know.
I don’t think I’ll forgive her, either.
6
Fame at Last
‘We’re adopting Phoenix,’ Bex announces to the kids on the corner table. ‘For her own safety. She seems to have made an enemy of Sharleen Scott, which clearly makes her one of our own.’
Marley Hayes, the gobby kid I scrapped with at last night’s party, looks up and sneers. ‘You’ve got rice pudding in your hair,’ he says, and I scowl at him and dab again with one of Lexie’s tissues.
‘Take no notice, he’s horrible to everyone,’ Lee remarks. ‘Sit down. Chill.’
I take a closer look at Lee … I clocked him last night, a cute boy playing trumpet under the trees, but close up he’s more interesting-looking than conventionally handsome. His mouse-brown hair is jaw-length and wavy, hanging in curtains around a narrow face with killer cheekbones and a lopsided smile. He winks at me, and I sink on to a chair with relief. A sea of faces, mostly familiar from last night’s party, grin across at me.
> ‘It’s a rite of passage here to fall foul of Sharleen,’ says Sasha, the blonde girl who used to be the band’s lead singer. ‘Trust me, we’ve all been there.’
‘She hates anyone she reckons might be a threat,’ Happi agrees. ‘Prettier, cleverer, cooler … she must be massively insecure.’
‘Or massively spiteful,’ a quiet, serious-looking boy with hipster specs chips in.
‘Or that,’ Lexie concedes, and whips the tissue from my hands to finish the clean-up job. ‘There … you’re good as new.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Not sure what I did to hack her off.’
‘Most likely it was just your naturally sweet and gentle nature,’ Marley says, laying on the sarcasm with a trowel. ‘I expect you make friends wherever you go –’
‘Children, children,’ Bex interrupts. ‘Drop it, Marley, OK? The two of you got off on the wrong foot last night, but Phoenix is new here … Play nice!’
Marley raises one eyebrow. ‘Whatever,’ he says. ‘I can play nice if you can …’
I shrug. ‘I’ll give it a go …’
‘So yeah,’ Bex is saying. ‘We’re the Lost & Found. You’ve met Marley, our self-styled leader. He plays guitar and he’s not as much of a loser as he might seem …’
‘Aww, Bex, you’re too kind,’ Marley quips.
As well as Bex, Marley, Sasha, Lee, Lexie, Happi and the boy with the hipster specs, I notice a younger boy, drumming on the tabletop with his cutlery, who almost certainly has to be Marley’s brother. There’s a striking, curvy brunette who I’m sure was helping with the sparklers last night, and Lexie is snuggling up to a handsome, sad-eyed boy with bird’s-nest hair who is doodling in a mini sketchbook – I recognize him from the Syrian family I met last night.
‘Marley’s brother Dylan is our drummer,’ Bex continues. ‘George plays cello in the band, Sasha was our lead singer until very recently, and Jake, our tech guy, you already know from Greystones. Lee plays trumpet and generally causes havoc wherever he goes, Happi and Romy are our violinists, Lexie does backing vocals and lyrics, and Sami plays flute. He’s from Syria, which is kind of awesome. That’s everyone, I think!’
I manage a smile in between mouthfuls of veggie shepherd’s pie. ‘It’s good to meet you all! I’m Phoenix, and you probably all know I’m staying with my gran for a bit. I had no clue until a few days ago that she had a rock band hiding out in her back garden … That’s pretty cool. Why are you called the Lost & Found?’
‘We were all a bit lost … and then we found each other,’ Lexie says, and my eyes widen at her openness. After a lifetime of trying to hide my feelings, it’s kind of refreshing.
‘We were all set to release our first EP and video,’ Bex says. ‘We were recording down in Devon with Ked Wilder …’
I blink again. It looks like Marley’s spiel about the band last night wasn’t so far off the mark after all. ‘Ked Wilder the sixties pop legend?’ I check. ‘Sang that old song “Phoenix”? For real? I think my gran knew him, back in the day!’
‘That’s the one, and yes, they’re still good friends,’ Lexie tells me. ‘Louisa told him all about us, and we spent half-term at his recording studios in Devon. It was amazing! We came so close …’
‘What happened?’
‘I got ill,’ Sasha explains. ‘Absence seizures. It’s a kind of epilepsy. And I wasn’t enjoying the limelight anyway. I’m more of a behind-the-scenes girl. I feel bad, dropping everyone in it …’
‘Don’t, Sash,’ Marley says sadly. ‘You have to do what’s best for you. We’ll manage – we’re auditioning from midday tomorrow at the old railway carriage. Who knows, there might even be someone as good as you out there!’
‘Any contenders?’ I ask, trying to build one of those bridges Grandma Lou mentioned earlier.
‘Not really,’ Lexie replies. ‘A few locals, some unknowns coming over from Birmingham. Even Sharleen Scott applied, believe it or not. As if … you’ve seen what she’s like … We can’t just take anyone – it has to be the right person.’
‘Someone with a brilliant voice, bags of confidence and a really strong look,’ Marley says, giving me the side-eye. ‘We can even overlook a snarky temper for the right person …’
‘No,’ I say, putting down my fork. ‘If you’re talking to me, Marley Hayes, then no. Is this a set-up?’
‘Definitely not,’ Bex promises. ‘Marley’s a chancer!’
‘I’d audition the school janitor if I thought it’d help the band,’ he says with a shrug. ‘This is an emergency – we can’t hang around or we’ll miss our moment. You can’t blame me for trying!’
‘I told you last night,’ I argue. ‘I can’t sing!’
‘Oh?’ Sasha says with a frown. ‘That’s not what Jake reckons …’
I look at Jake, and watch two spots of pink bloom on his cheeks. He’s Sheddie’s stepson, the boy who lives in the basement flat at Greystones.
‘I was heading home the other night and I heard you singing,’ he says. ‘You were sitting in the oak tree, and it was dark and it seemed kind of a private moment, but it was hard not to hear all the same. You sounded … well, incredible. Awesome …’
When you’ve been to boarding school, you get used to having little or no privacy, but I’m still mildly hacked off that Jake wandered past the other night when I was singing to Pie. I’m also shocked to hear him describe my singing voice as incredible and awesome.
‘I just happened to mention it to Marley,’ Jake is saying.
‘And I mentioned it to Louisa,’ Marley adds. ‘She said you had a great voice and she’s right about most things, but don’t worry – I get the message. No go. You can’t blame me for trying!’
‘Guess not,’ I admit.
‘I have a meeting tonight with some bigshot guy from the council, too, about a really exciting gig opportunity,’ Marley says. ‘Could be a big break for us!’
‘The timing is wrong,’ Bex points out. ‘You can’t book us for anything right now, Marley, not until we get a new lead singer!’
‘Obviously. I know that!’
‘We don’t need another “big break” moment – we need a singer,’ Lexie agrees.
‘Wish I hadn’t mentioned it now!’ Marley growls. ‘I was thinking out loud, that’s all. And, Phoenix, no hard feelings if the muso life is not for you. I guess we sort of hoped you were the answer to our prayers …’
‘I’m more like your worst nightmare,’ I mutter.
‘I quite like nightmares,’ Marley says.
I trudge home through a steady drizzle that soaks my cheap blazer and turns my hair to frizz, but, as I get to the edge of the park, Pie flies over and makes a clumsy landing on my shoulder. He rides all the way back to Greystones chittering into my ear. I think he has forgiven me for kidnapping him.
Back at the house Grandma Lou has freshly baked ginger biscuits waiting, and a hug for me the moment I step through the door.
‘Good day?’ she asks, and I smile and let my encounter with Sharleen Scott slide away.
‘Yeah, really good,’ I say with a grin.
‘I’m glad!’ she tells me. ‘Me too … I’ve been drawing outside, getting to know your little friend! Take a look!’
Grandma Lou’s studio is covered in big charcoal sketches of Pie. There he is with wings outstretched, with his head arched back, sitting on a tree branch, strutting across the grass. There he is in all his splendour, a cheeky, flint-eyed creature, beautiful and brash.
‘They’re amazing! Are you going to paint him?’ I ask, remembering Grandma Lou’s distinctive paintings of timeless, stylized humans alongside mysterious animals. ‘Are you putting Pie in a picture?’
‘I hope so,’ she says. ‘I’m still working on ideas, but I have something in mind. I’d like to do some sketches of you too. Will you sit for me after tea?’
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘I do have English homework … nothing much, only a piece of creative writing on the theme of fireworks. I mean, original, much?’
<
br /> ‘Make it original,’ Grandma Lou says. ‘You can make it anything you want it to be.’
I like this take on things – it’s the polar opposite of Mum’s view, which is that everything should be done by the book. In her eyes, a poem about fireworks should rhyme and be stuffed with metaphors, similes and at least one iambic pentameter in every verse. (No, I don’t know what one is, either.) The anything-you-want-it-to-be approach is way more appealing.
After tea, we curl up on the squashy sofas in the living room, me with a new notebook and pen, Grandma Lou with a sketchbook and pastels. I try to pretend that she isn’t drawing me, but after a while I forget and zone it out. There’s an upbeat sixties LP on the old-fashioned record player and the stove is lit, an ancient enamel coffee pot on top … the room smells of woodsmoke and coffee.
I think back to last night’s fireworks display, then remember Grandma Lou’s words. When I touch my pen to paper something unexpected comes out. It takes an hour of scribbling, scoring out, searching for the right words, but at last I have a poem, and it’s not the one I planned to write at all.
7
Sing
The next morning, I wake up with a weird, fizzing, hopeful feeling inside me. I’m singing in the shower, turning the ‘Fireworks’ poem into a song with a melody borrowed from one of those old sixties tunes Grandma Lou likes to play. The result is fast and fierce and surprisingly upbeat, and as long as I keep the shower running there is no danger of anyone else hearing and laughing at me.
Grandma Lou is in her studio already, mapping out painting ideas on huge rolls of sugar paper with charcoal and chalk, so I help myself to toast and head outside, huddled in my new black duffel coat, woolly scarf and fingerless gloves.
As I climb the big old oak and settle myself on the horizontal branch with my back against the trunk, Pie drifts down and lands on my shoulder.
Forever Phoenix Page 4
