‘A disagreement,’ Paul corrects himself. ‘Nothing serious. Kit decided to leave, and Joey went too.’
‘So – did you and Joey fall out too?’ Jed asks me.
‘No.’
‘But she’s gone off and left you, without explaining why?’
I glance at the abandoned chess game, a few pieces still scattered across the table.
‘I think Joey likes Kit,’ I say quietly It’s like the whole idea of it only just occurred to me, but the minute I say it out loud I know it’s the truth. Kit likes Joey, that’s old news. But Joey likes Kit?
Where does that leave me?
‘Well, he’s a nice enough kid…’ Jed says.
‘I mean, I think she likes him,’ I explain. ‘Y’know? And he likes her.’
There’s a silence.
‘She’s too young,’ Eva frowns.
‘This is crazy,’ Jed says. ‘Dumfries is twenty-five miles away On a day like this!’
‘What if the buses stop running?’ Eva panics.
‘The snow’s not that bad,’ I whisper. ‘Is it?’
‘Would they go back to your place, Hannah?’ Eva appeals. ‘I could ring your mum.’
‘Worth a try.’
But Joey and Kit are not at my place, and Eva’s phone call just gets Mum and Dad all worried. Dad says he’ll take a walk around the village to see if he can find them, and Eva promises that I’ll be dropped home safely as soon as Jed has the van on the road.
She drifts back to the window, pressing her face against the lace-patterned glass. She is not the kind of person who worries about school uniform or black lipstick, biker boots or stripy hair, but she is worried now. Her face is pale and her brow is crumpled.
‘It’ll be OK,’ I say, but she doesn’t seem to hear me.
‘It’s my fault,’ Paul mumbles. ‘My fault they’ve gone.’
I guess maybe it is Paul’s fault – that thing with the sketchbook was pretty freaky. Why so many pictures of Kit? If they were of me, I’d be embarrassed, but happy too. Kit is embarrassed and seriously hacked off. I know he is finding Paul hard work, and I have a feeling this may just kill the friendship dead.
‘I think you made Kit feel uncomfortable,’ I say carefully. ‘All those pictures of him.’
‘It’s just that he’s in my class, y’know?’ Paul shrugs. ‘He’s my friend. He’s always around. It was just easy to draw him.’
Maybe, maybe not. I look at Paul’s sad eyes and I want to say something to make it better for him.
‘Kit overreacted,’ I tell him, pulling on my coat and boots. ‘They were just pictures, weren’t they? And Joey shouldn’t have gone at all. Don’t worry – they’re probably in Dumfries, holed up somewhere warm and dry, eating pizza.’
‘I’ve wrecked everything,’ Paul says gloomily. ‘Kit won’t want to know me now.’
‘He will,’ I say, but I’m not so sure.
‘No way. And now they’re missing, and it’s all my fault.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I say, squeezing his arm with one mittened hand. ‘They’ll be fine. It’ll all work out.’
Jed calls from the doorway that he’s got the van running, so I grab my hat and scarf and head out into the storm.
Kit sneaks in the back door, some time after seven. He is halfway up the stairs when Dad collars him.
‘Where have you been?’ Dad wants to know. ‘That poor girl’s family are worried sick. What are you playing at?’
‘I’m not playing,’ Kit says.
‘Where were you?’
‘We went to Dumfries,’ Kit snaps. ‘I told Hannah. What’s the big deal?’
‘It was snowing,’ Mum says. ‘We were worried.’
‘You don’t usually worry,’ Kit points out. ‘Some days, I’m out in Kirklaggan with Murphy, Fergus and Tom till past ten at night. You’ve never said anything before.’
‘Joey’s parents –’
‘– act like she’s still four years old,’ Kit says. ‘That’s not my problem.’
‘I think it might be,’ Dad says. ‘You’re older than her. You should be more responsible. Let people know where you are, what you’re doing.’
Kit shrugs. ‘Right now, I’m going upstairs to my room,’ he says. ‘Is that OK with everyone?’
‘Not really, no,’ Dad huffs.
‘Tough.’ Kit turns his back and climbs the stairs, and we hear his door slam shut.
Dad goes kind of pink and his lips set into a hard, tight line. He stomps into the living room, resisting the temptation to slam the door himself. I watch him chewing his lip as he battles with his temper.
‘At least he’s found a nice girl,’ Mum says brightly. ‘A bit offbeat, Joey, but very polite. He’s growing up, our Kit.’
‘He’ll never see fourteen the way he’s going,’ Dad mutters darkly. ‘Cheeky little git.’
Kit is grounded for a month. He is not allowed to hang out with his mates, he is not allowed to see Joey and, most importantly of all, he is not to set foot in Beachcomber Cottage.
‘This is so unfair,’ Kit grumbles later, when I tell him about the ban. I’ve smuggled him up cold pizza and chips left over from teatime, but there has to be a trade-off. I want information, hard facts.
‘Shouldn’t have cheeked Dad, should you?’ I tell him. ‘Boy, is he mad. You’re lucky it’s only a month.’
‘They’re making way too much of it,’ Kit protests. ‘I went into Dumfries with Joey. How come the world has such a problem with that?’
‘Is she your girlfriend now?’ I ask.
Kit shrugs. ‘Maybe. You’d better ask her.’
‘D’you want her to be?’
‘You know I do, Hannah. That’s not a crime, is it?’ Kit says. ‘I like Joey. A lot. It’s Paul Slater I have a problem with.’
‘He didn’t mean any harm.’
‘The kid’s a nightmare, Hannah,’ Kit huffs. ‘I’ve tried to help him fit in, be his mate. What does he do? Gets all weird and creepy on me, like some kind of headcase stalker.’
‘He was only drawing!’
‘Yeah. Well, if he comes near me with a pencil again, I’ll break his fingers. You can tell him that from me, OK? It’s his fault, this whole mess.’
I flop down on the end of Kit’s bed and watch him wolfing down dried-up old pizza. He doesn’t tell me to get lost like he normally would. His open wardrobe reveals a rail of neatly ironed hoodies, black T-shirts and jeans shaped like potato sacks. On his desk, next to the PlayStation 2, sit body spray hair gel and a brand of shower gel that claims to make skinny spotty boys irresistible to women.
‘Paul is part of Joey’s family right now,’ I remind Kit. ‘You can’t just drop him.’
‘Watch me.’
‘Joey won’t like that,’ I warn, but Kit just shrugs. He is smiling slightly to himself, like he knows way better than I do what Joey will or will not like. He reaches over to his coat pocket, takes out a fat, white package and hands it to me.
‘Got you this,’ he says carelessly. ‘In town.’
I unwrap a squashed, greasy doughnut with pink sugar sprinkles. When we go to Dumfries as a family, we always buy hot doughnuts from the bakery in the high street. This is my favourite kind.
‘Not as good cold,’ he says regretfully.
‘Still yummy, though. Thanks, Kit.’
‘No problem. Thanks for the pizza.’
I grin, biting into my doughnut. Maybe Joey will be a good influence on my brother. Maybe he will go back to being kind and thoughtful, the way he was before puberty got in the way.
‘Do you think Joey will be in trouble for today?’ he asks me. ‘Were Jed and Eva mad?’
I pull a scary face. ‘Kit,’ I tell him, ‘seriously You don’t want to know.’
*
Much later, when I’m almost asleep, my mobile goes off somewhere on the other side of the room. Joey downloaded an old Good Charlotte song ‘Riot Girl’ as the ringtone. It is not the kind of ringtone you really want to hear at
eleven forty-five on a Saturday night when you are just a whisper away from sleeping, and it sends me scrambling across the room in a kind of panic.
Joey doesn’t have a mobile because Jed and Eva think the radio waves scramble your brain or something. Possibly they would reconsider if they happened to find one in a skip. They could always decorate it with seashells and clumps of seaweed to neutralize the bad vibes.
I jump back into bed and press the call button.
‘Hannah? It’s me, Joey.’
‘Hi! Are you OK? What happened?’
‘Oh, Hannah, I had a fantastic time. We got the bus to Dumfries – it took forever, because of the snow. Kit knows all these really cool places. I bought a T-shirt down on the Whitesands and a pair of red fishnets for school –’
Joey’ I interrupt her. ‘What did Jed and Eva say? Aren’t you in trouble?’
‘Oh, well, sort of,’ she admits. ‘They’re not happy, but what can they do?’
‘Ground you for a months, like Dad did to Kit?’ I suggest.
‘No way!’ Joey howls. ‘Poor Kit! That’s terrible. I thought Jed and Eva were bad. I had two solid hours of lectures and warnings, but I said sorry, and I promised I’d never go off again without telling them where I was going.’
‘Jammy pig,’ I say. ‘How come you always get away with murder?’
‘Must be my natural charm,’ Joey says, giggling.
‘How’s Paul?’
‘He’s OK. Kit’s pretty hacked off with him, though. Thinks he’s some kind of stalker.’
‘Kit overreacted,’ I say firmly. ‘Paul just likes to draw.’
‘Whatever,’ Joey says. ‘Kit just got spooked out, that’s all. It was a bit weird, you have to admit.’
I’m not about to admit anything, so I chew my lip and ask the question that’s been bugging me all day. ‘Are you going out with my brother?’
There’s a long pause, and I hear Joey sigh. ‘Will you be mad if I say yes?’ she says.
‘Will it make any difference?’ I counter.
‘Not really. I like him, Hannah. He’s really cute and funny and cool.’
‘Yeuww. I don’t want to hear this.’
‘OK. No problem.’
There’s another long pause, and then Joey breaks the silence. ‘Thing is, Hannah, could you let me speak to him?’ she asks. ‘I just wanted to thank him for today, let him know I’m OK. I had to wait till it was late – I didn’t want Jed and Eva listening in. I thought your mobile would be more private and stuff. So if it’s OK…’
I tiptoe across the landing and sneak into Kit’s room. He jolts awake when I switch the light on, looking like a startled rabbit.
‘It’s for you,’ I whisper, holding out the mobile, and his face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning.
I close the door behind me, creep back across the landing and into bed. I am pleased, really, for Kit and Joey, but it’s been a long day, a weird day, an exhausting, confusing, crazy day.
I pull the covers up over my head and press my face into the pillow, and I wonder why my throat is aching with tears I’m too proud to cry.
CHAPTER 7
I guess I’m just not ready to lose Joey to some spotty skinny boy. It doesn’t help that it’s my own brother – it’s not like Joey and I can talk into the small hours about how cute he is. Please.
‘It’s amazing,’ she says for the forty-second time this week, as we lean up against the cast-iron radiators waiting for Kit’s class to come out from French. ‘I mean, all those years and I just never really saw him before, you know?’
‘Whatever,’ I shrug.
‘He’s a great kisser. Really strong lips.’
‘Joey! Too much information, seriously.’
At this moment, Mr McKenzie stalks past and casts an outraged glance at Joey’s Royal Stewart tartan minikilt, draped with chains. It is barely visible beneath the hem of her ratbag blazer, which may account for Mr McKenzie’s purple scrunched-up face. Any minute now, there will be steam coming out of his ears.
‘Miss Donovan,’ he chokes out. ‘What… is… this?’
He flicks a gnarled and quivering hand towards the tartan skirt, and Joey springs to life and does a little twirl for him.
‘Sir, I know it’s not uniform,’ she says sweetly. ‘I know that, and I’m sorry. But we are a Scottish school, and I’m a Scottish girl. We’re studying Scottish history and learning Robert Burns’s poems in English, and you’re always telling us to be proud of our heritage, aren’t you? So I thought that, under the circumstances –’
‘You thought wrong,’ Mr McKenzie roars. ‘That skirt must go!’
‘What, now, sir?’ Joey blinks.
Mr McKenzie backs away, suddenly pale. ‘Not now, you insolent girl,’ he says shakily. ‘You know fine well what I mean. No more kilts, Miss Donovan. And you’re in detention – for a week!’
As Mr McKenzie disappears round the corner, a small roar of applause breaks out behind us. Kit and his mates have been watching from the classroom doorway. Murphy, Tom and Fergus melt away, leaving Kit to wander up to Joey. He brings a packet of sweets out of his blazer pocket and hands them to her. Love Hearts.
I turn away, suddenly in need of fresh air.
Outside, the playground is a muddle of football games. Small knots of girls huddle on the edges, gossiping, catching up on homework or reading magazines. Beyond them I spot Paul Slater, sitting alone on a low piece of wall beside the music block. Paul has been alone all week – in class, in the lunch hall, in the playground. He’s probably feeling worse than I do.
I walk over to him, watch him close a small black sketchbook and slide it into his pocket as he sees me approach. He slips a pencil behind his ear and grins at me from behind the toffee-coloured hair.
‘OK, Hannah. No Joey today?’
‘She’s with Kit,’ I tell him. ‘Surprise, surprise. I kind of got the feeling that three was a crowd.’
‘Ouch,’ Paul says. ‘That’s two of us out in the cold, then.’
‘Kit still hacked off about the drawings?’ I ask.
‘Ever so slightly. I just thought – at the start – I thought it might work out OK. Should have known.’
‘Kit’s a pain,’ I tell him. ‘Don’t stress, you’ll make other mates.’
‘I’m not so good at all that stuff,’ Paul admits. ‘I’ve always been more of a loner.’
‘You don’t have to be,’ I say.
‘Don’t worry. I’m fine.’
‘OK. See you in Miss Quinn’s room at lunchtime?’ I ask, throwing him a quick lifeline. ‘Yeah, maybe.’
As I walk away, a football crashes up against the wall where Paul is sitting. Tom, Murphy and Fergus shout over. ‘Kick us the ball back, Muppet!’
I watch over my shoulder as Paul walks over, scoops up the ball and throws it back into the playground. In seconds, it bounces back again.
‘Oi, Muppet!’
Paul picks up the ball and throws it back a second time, but Murphy slams it straight back over. This time it hits Paul on the leg, hard. He looks faintly hacked off, but chucks the football back again.
Instantly, Murphy slams it back. I stop walking and turn to watch.
‘Kick it back, Muppet,’ Murphy shouts. ‘Only girls throw. Can’t you kick?’
Paul looks at Murphy for a long moment, his gaze clear and steady. Then he turns to get the ball, hooking it with the toe of his boot. He glances briefly at Murphy, Tom and Fergus, then kicks the ball hard in the opposite direction. It ricochets off the music room, scuffs across the grass and bounces through a knot of S2 girls before disappearing behind the science block.
Paul Slater walks away, not looking back. He doesn’t see the look of fury on Murphy’s face. He doesn’t know he’s made an enemy.
I cannot stand another five minutes of watching Kit and Joey feed each other bits of sandwich and sips of orange juice across the lunch table.
‘Fancy going up to the art room?’ I ask Joey but she just mout
hs ‘later’ and turns her back so she can listen to Kit describe the plot of last night’s Simpsons’ episode, practically word for word.
Nightmare. My smart, sassy and sometimes scary best mate is turning into a fluff-brained, lovesick gimp. When Kit is around, nobody else exists for her. It’s possible I am becoming invisible.
‘I’m gonna go on up,’ I tell her.
‘Mmm.’
‘There’s a rumour going around that Benji from Good Charlotte will be there,’ I say, testing to see if she’s even listening. ‘Miss Quinn invited him in to give a one-off workshop on non-permanent tattoos.’
‘Right,’ says Joey vaguely.
This proves it. I am officially invisible.
Room 15 is packed with the usual ragbag of kids. The ones who are into their art sit painting or doing strange, experimental stuff with wire and pliers and papier mâché. The ones who are avoiding the windswept playground lounge on desktops, chatting and adding the occasional scribble to a piece of classwork. The ones who are here because they have nowhere else to go, nobody else to be with, try the hardest to look busy.
Normally, I’m in the second category, looking for a warm place, to hang out when the weather gets arctic. Today, though, I know I’m in with the losers, the loners. I fish my art folder out from the drawers and take out an unfinished still-life painting.
‘Hi, Hannah.’
Paul Slater waves from the sink area, then wanders over to where I’m sitting. His sleeve-ends are damp from the sink, because he never bothers to push them up, but he doesn’t seem to care. He sets a paint palette and water jar down on the table, and takes a huge comic-style happy families picture from his folder. Two smiling faces, a young woman and a little boy, arranged like a holiday snapshot.
‘It’s good,’ I tell him. ‘Is that your mum?’
‘It’s how I remember her, anyway’ Paul says with a shrug. ‘I don’t have any photos. Sometimes it’s hard to remember, exactly.’
‘Tough one.’
Paul fishes a glass bottle of something red and fizzy from his rucksack, pushing it across the table at me. It’s one of those old-fashioned kinds of pop you can buy at the corner sweet shop opposite the school. Cherryade. It’s sweet and cool and fizzy, with a flavour of long-ago summers.
Driftwood Page 4
