Love from Lexie

by Cathy Cassidy

  Marley grins. ‘Might work,’ he says. ‘Yeah, we’ll try it! I’ll tell the others tomorrow, get them to wear black and red for the next day’s practice. Once this week is up, we’ll be on a real countdown. Time’s going to fly past. We need to be ready. And we still need one more song …’

  ‘Anything in the pipeline?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m working on a few things, but they’re not quite right,’ he tells me. ‘Every time I think I’ve struck gold, it turns out to be a riff I’ve stolen from some other song without realizing it. I’ll keep trying.’

  ‘I’ll keep trying too, I promise.’

  At the end of the week, we have our first internet sensation, and it’s library linked, not Lost & Found. Happi has posted a screenshot of Sami’s Library Love Letter online, and suddenly it’s going viral on Twitter and Facebook, with hundreds of shares and thousands of likes.

  Sami looks baffled by it all, but when Miss Walker rings Bex from the library to tell us a national newspaper has seen the post and would like to speak to Sami, everything goes crazy. The Daily News have a freelance reporter and photographer in the area who can be at Bridge Street Library within the hour, if Sami can be there.

  ‘Will you do it?’ Bex pleads.

  Sami looks from Bex to Happi to me and back to Bex again, and then he shrugs and says he’ll try. Marley, forced to wind up the morning practice half an hour early, takes charge of Sami, coaching him to mention the festival and namecheck the Lost & Found. He tries to coax Sami out of the ancient, threadbare overcoat he wears everywhere, but Sami won’t budge on that.

  We walk him down to Bridge Street Library, me and Marley and Bex and Jake and Happi, and Miss Walker meets us, so excited she’s practically fizzing, her candy-pink bouffant updo bobbing as she rushes about making everything look perfect. She shows us her latest display – a wall of letters from authors, illustrators, musicians, artists, actors and assorted other famous names, all mixed in with school kids, pensioners and locals; Sami’s letter is somewhere in the middle.

  ‘We’ve sent copies of every letter to the council,’ Miss Walker explains. ‘And lots of people will have sent their letters straight there, of course. But I couldn’t resist putting these ones up. It cheers me up just to see how much people care!’

  It’s a bright, joyful patchwork of library love, and the photographer ends up standing Sami against it, his dark eyes staring out from under a mess of bird’s-nest hair. His coat hangs loose and his arms cradle half a dozen books as if they’re some kind of treasure.

  When the reporter steps in to talk to Sami, I wonder if he will speak at all, let alone parrot back the speech Marley mapped out for him. Asked why he cares so much about Bridge Street Library, he is silent for so long that the reporter repeats the question, then looks around as if to check whether Sami speaks English after all.

  ‘When I came here to England, I knew nothing,’ he says abruptly, his voice calm and clear. ‘This library taught me everything, took me in, gave me a safe place to be. This library saved my life.’

  The reporter switches her recorder off, grinning.

  ‘Perfect,’ she says.

  The next day, Sami’s photo is on page five of the Daily News, along with a full transcript of his letter, under the headline ‘Refugee Boy Speaks Up for the Library that Saved Him’.

  Everyone agrees that it is indeed pretty much perfect.

  26

  Time Flies

  She throws a suitcase on to the bed, opens the wardrobe and flings an armful of bright clothes into it. ‘Come on, Lexie!’ she exclaims. ‘Let’s go – we don’t belong here! I was thinking Cornwall, or north Wales … what d’you reckon?’

  ‘Not yet,’ I plead. ‘It’s the school trip next week. It’s going to be cool! We could go after that maybe? If you still want to?’

  Mum’s face darkens, and fear seeps through my body like a virus. I have seen this before, seen how quickly Mum can flip from elated to angry to totally wiped out. I used to be able to calm her with a hug, a promise, but the older I get the harder it’s becoming.

  ‘Of course I’ll still want to go,’ she says, sulkily. ‘Where’s your sense of adventure, Lexie? You’re no fun any more. So boring!’

  ‘Mum, have you been taking your tablets? You don’t seem yourself just now. You should see the doctor …’

  ‘Don’t tell me what I should and shouldn’t do!’ she rages, and her hand flies up as if to lash out …

  The bedroom light snaps on, and I sit up, blinking. Mandy is in the doorway, her face creased with sleep and worry.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asks. ‘You were calling out in your sleep …’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I mumble, although I’m really not. My heart is racing and my cheeks are wet with tears.

  ‘Nightmare?’ Mandy asks, sitting down on the edge of the bed. ‘That hasn’t happened in a while. Want to talk about it?’

  I shake my head. Talking to Mandy about how my mum wasn’t the perfect parent I’ve always made her out to be would feel like a betrayal. I am carrying enough guilt already. Sometimes I think the weight of it will crush me.

  ‘Just a bad dream,’ I whisper.

  I’ve kept the bad memories buried for a while now – I thought they were gone for good, but no, here they are again, shoving their way into my dreams. It must be the stress of the festival gig and things with Marley that are dragging them back into the open, or maybe the soul-searching and songwriting.

  What’s the point of dwelling on the bad stuff? It just messes with your head and your heart.

  ‘You can always tell me if you need to – you know that, don’t you?’ Mandy says softly. ‘I’m on your side, always.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I whisper.

  When she leans down to hug me, I try to hug her back, but, as usual, the guilt gets in the way and I lie there passive, like a rag doll, one hand uselessly patting Mandy’s shoulder. She tucks me in, switches off the light and creeps away, and I roll over, turning my face to the wall.

  It takes a while for the Lost & Found to sort out their stage costumes. You’d think that everyone had a few items of black clothing hanging about, but this is clearly not the case. A bunch of us go trawling the charity shops one day after school. Sasha discovers a scarlet prom dress with a sweetheart neckline and a red bandana for her hair. Happi finds a black beaded top and a black tulle ballerina skirt. Bex spots a black mesh top to wear over a red vest with black skinny jeans, and plans to dye her hair crimson especially for the gig. Me, I’ve already got a tunic top and leggings, so that leaves Romy.

  We put her in a baggy black T-shirt with leggings, black mini, red socks and black Doc Marten boots, and she looks amazing – even Marley approves. We manage an early dress rehearsal with everyone in black and red, and for the first time ever we actually look like a band as well as sounding like one. Sasha acts as unofficial stylist, and she’s good; she brings along a binbag of accessories found on our charity-shop trawl. Adding a hat here and a scarf there, she somehow manages to pull things together and still allow everyone to keep their own style and individuality.

  ‘OK,’ Marley declares, looking awesome himself in a red T-shirt and black skinny jeans. ‘We have got this thing sorted, image-wise. Good work, Sasha, all of you! Oh, hang on – Sami, can you drop the coat? It’s not the right image, y’know?’

  ‘I like the coat,’ Sami says.

  ‘I know you like the coat,’ Marley says patiently. ‘We’ve all noticed that you like the coat. Fine, whatever. But we’re trying for a unified look here, and seriously that coat does not fit.’

  There’s a kind of silent stand-off when Marley glares at Sami and Sami gazes back, sad-eyed but stubborn. I worry for a moment that Marley’s going to react the way he did with Dylan and threaten to dump Sami from the band, because I am pretty sure Sami would walk away without a moment’s hesitation. In the end, Marley just sighs and tells Sami he can’t wear the coat on stage at the festival. The stare-out is over, but it’s impossible to guess
who’s won. Interestingly, I don’t think it’s Marley.

  ‘Photo shoot?’ Jake asks coaxingly, and we all pile outside to mess around in front of the old railway carriage while he shoots image after image on his iPhone. When we check the pictures on the band’s Instagram page, even I raise an eyebrow because we look good, with Lee playing his trumpet and Bex pulling faces and Dylan and George leaning together while Sami hides beneath a hat Sasha has given him, still in the big coat. I’m with Happi and Romy, striking a cheesy pose and waving my tambourine in the air, and only Soumia, Marley and Sasha actually look poised and sane. It looks great, though, as if we’ve just stepped offstage and relaxed for a moment, which is kind of what we have done. Plus, the railway carriage makes the best backdrop ever.

  Things are coming together; we can all sense it. We’re sounding better, tighter than ever before; we’re looking cool – and now, finally, we are feeling confident too. Well, most of us.

  Marley is on a permanent high because he has written another melody at last and is nagging me daily to sort some lyrics for it. I try, but when I’m stressed and anxious the words don’t come easily and everything’s so hectic I can’t find the time or the space to really focus. I try not to worry too much, but the pressure to come up with something sits on my shoulders like a rucksack full of bricks.

  I tell myself that the feeling will pass, that the words will come.

  Nine days before the festival, Bex gets an email from one of her favourite YA authors, Rae Kelly, saying that she’d be happy to come up from London to support the protest.

  ‘Whoa,’ Bex breathes. ‘She says she’s happy to do a book event at the festival, and she’ll sign books and speak on stage about the libraries – whatever we want her to do.’

  ‘That’s amazing! I think there’s going to be a tent just for author events and workshops. I’m going to go along, if I get a chance.’

  ‘It’s going to be cool,’ Bex declares. ‘Miss Walker says there’ll be a karaoke with book-themed songs, a children’s book character fancy dress and a workshop where kids can put themselves into a story and then take it away to print out. The librarians are dressing up as famous book characters to do storytelling, and a friend of Miss Walker’s is doing a workshop on making things like bunting and paper flowers out of old, damaged books …’

  ‘I can’t wait,’ I say. ‘The community groups are all doing stalls too – just raising awareness of everything a library does, really. And Louisa Winter says she’s bringing a few big name friends along … It’s going to be epic!’

  The Millford Gazette seems to think so too. They have nailed their colours to the mast and come out as library supporters. They’re giving us loads of great coverage too. They run a double-page spread all about the festival, mapping out what’s going on: several local bands are playing, but we are astonished to find that we are the only one scheduled to play on the stage. The others, a couple of pub bands and some teen acts, including the delightful Sharleen Scott, will be playing in one of the tents – the Music Zone, as the Gazette calls it.

  The Lost & Found will be up on the main stage, though, opening for Ked Wilder. Seeing that in black and white in the pages of a newspaper is a bit of a reality check.

  Song, I think, fear of failure curdling in my belly again. I’m feeling quite low and lost, but I have to push through it, find some words. I have to turn Marley’s music into a song. If I fail, we all fail. Four songs are not enough to make an opening set, and we are running out of time. Don’t think about it, I tell myself. Don’t think about failing in public, letting everybody down. You can do this. Chill out, give yourself a chance.

  But still no words come.

  ‘This festival has set the whole town buzzing,’ Mandy comments. ‘Everyone I know is planning to go, and people from outside Millford too. Jon’s got friends from Yorkshire coming down specially, and my mum and her friends are travelling from Northampton. They used to be big Ked Wilder fans, back in the sixties – just wait until they see you two with your band! They’ll be so proud!’

  Next, the Millford Gazette runs a copycat feature on Sami’s letter. It causes quite a stir, and a few days later they come out to cover a Library Squad visit – me, Bex and Happi talking in a primary school assembly and walking the class down to Bridge Street so every child can get a library card. The photos capture the kids writing their Library Love Letters, decorating them with paint and glitter and feathers. The following day, there’s a full colour page in the paper. There’s a picture of me with a bunch of kids around me, and my stupid heart leaps with hope yet again in case, somehow, my mum sees that picture and finds me.

  That doesn’t happen, obviously.

  ‘Are you OK, Lexie?’ Bex asks one evening after band practice. ‘You’ve gone all quiet on me again. Are you stressed because of trying to write that last lot of lyrics? I wouldn’t blame you. Time’s racing past …’

  ‘Don’t remind me!’

  I’m helping Bex to dye her hair red, ready for the big day. She is wrapping her head in tin foil to stop the sludgy dye dripping while I mop up the spills and tidy the sink. Right now, it looks like a scene of carnage, the aftermath of a particularly gory stabbing. Mary Shelley stares at us from the laundry basket, eyes narrowed in what could be despair.

  ‘Nothing else on your mind?’ Bex checks.

  Can I say to Bex the things I couldn’t say to Mandy? Maybe. I could try.

  Bex is not a replacement mum, after all – more of a big sister/bestie combo, someone I can rely on to tell it like it is.

  I sigh. ‘I’m just … thinking about Mum a lot, lately. Is that crazy? It’s all this stuff in the papers and on the radio and TV. I keep wondering what would happen if she saw me, recognized me, remembered …’

  Bex looks dismayed. ‘Oh, Lexie, no … that must be awful,’ she says. ‘Like a kind of self-torture. You do know she’d have been in touch by now if she could, Lexie? Or … if she wanted to?’

  The tears come from nowhere, sliding down my face like rain, and Bex puts her arms round me awkwardly, trying to keep the drips of hair dye at bay. We talked about all this so many times when I first came to live here. Every option, every possibility was examined in forensic detail, detective style. There were only a few conclusions to be drawn:

  Something bad had happened to my mum; an accident or a sudden illness or an act of violence, and she was dead and never coming back.

  She’d run away to build a new life for herself, leaving me behind.

  She’d had some kind of mental breakdown and been locked up in a high-security hospital, and she couldn’t get out.

  She’d had an accident that had left her with severe amnesia, and she had no memory of me at all.

  Every one of those options had seemed too painful, too cruel to believe, so I’d pushed them away, packed them in a box and sealed it shut, shoving the box to the back of my mind. Somehow, writing songs has opened up the box again, let the hurt seep out. Having my picture in the paper has fooled me into hoping, dreaming that things could still be different.

  ‘I try so hard, Bex,’ I whisper. ‘I always have. Why is it never enough?’

  My foster sister wipes my tears with a wad of loo roll and scrubs away a smudge of crimson hair dye that has appeared at my throat.

  ‘Lexie, don’t,’ she says. ‘You are the best person I know, little sister, OK? The smartest, the kindest. You are amazing. The way you rescue everybody and everything – boxes of maps and sheet music, old toys, Mary Shelley …’

  The little tortoise blinks up at us, head tilted to one side.

  ‘And people too,’ Bex pushes on. ‘Me, Happi and now the whole gang of us in the band … even Marley. I don’t think anyone would put up with that boy but you. I’ve got no clue what’s eating him, but, trust me, he’s more messed up than the rest of us put together …’

  I sit down on the edge of the bath, feeling shaky, and Bex puts an arm round my shoulder.

  She sighs. ‘Thing is – I stopped bein
g a detective years ago, but you never did, Lexie. You’re still searching for … well, the impossible!’

  ‘D’you think I’m crazy?’ I ask. ‘Ridiculous? Sad?’

  ‘None of those things,’ Bex tells me. ‘OK, I tease you sometimes, but I love what you’re doing, bringing people together. You’re a rescuer, Lexie. You always have been, ever since I’ve known you. You find the lost stuff. People, pets, whatever. The thing is, I have a feeling that the person who really needs rescuing is … you.’

  I wipe the tears away and try to smile. ‘I don’t think anyone out there is planning to rescue me,’ I say. ‘Too bad, huh?’

  Bex shrugs. ‘I don’t know. I think maybe it’s something you have to do for yourself.’

  That doesn’t seem fair. A wave of grief rises up inside me, angry, messy grief that threatens to pull me apart all over again.

  ‘What if … what if my mum is out there somewhere, Bex?’ I whisper. ‘Looking for me?’

  ‘Then she’ll find you, Lexie,’ Bex says. ‘Or … not.’

  I love Bex for her honesty, most of the time, but not today. Not today.

  27

  Cutting It Fine

  ‘I knew you could do it,’ Marley says, pulling out his earbuds after listening to the GarageBand link I’ve just sent him. ‘Cutting it fine, though, Lexie, cutting it fine! Another sad song … but brilliant. Just tell me it’s not about me!’

  We are sitting in the Leaping Llama, sharing a strawberry milkshake. I’m too tired, too weary now to tiptoe around his feelings, or to disguise my own. I go down the honesty route – Bex would be proud.

  ‘It’s mostly about my mum,’ I tell him. ‘She left me when I was nine … went missing, I suppose. I never found out what happened to her. That’s why I’m in foster.’

  Marley blinks. ‘God, Lexie, I’m sorry – I had no idea!’

  ‘You never asked,’ I say with a shrug. ‘All that time hanging out, talking about music and the band, plotting our rise to fame … you never asked.’