‘No.’
‘I’ll tell you. It’s five. Five per cent.’
‘Is Jojo also one of them?’ The question leaves my lips before I can stop it.
Ms Abraham tilts her head to one side. ‘Does it make a difference if she is or isn’t?’ she asks.
I shrug. ‘No.’
Yes.
There’s a pause. Ms Abraham has painted her toenails coral. She must have done it at home herself because it’s a bit messy, specks of polish clinging to her cuticles.
‘Frankie,’ she says. ‘I know you may not want to hear this, but I’m really looking forward to having you in my A level class this coming term. Seriously, the Arts Academy’s loss is my gain.’
‘Thanks, miss,’ I say. ‘But you really don’t have to do this.’
She raises an eyebrow as if to say, ‘Don’t I?’
‘Honestly, miss, I’m not bothered. It was ages ago now. And yeah, I wanted to get in at the time, but I’ve had the summer to think about things, and the truth is, I’m not sure it’s the right place for me anyway.’
‘Really?’ she says, continuing to look doubtful.
The Arts Academy is a free specialist arts college, the only one of its kind in the whole of the Midlands. Entrance for the acting strand is ultra-competitive and by audition only. Ms Abraham was the one who told Jojo and me about it in the first place; the one who encouraged us to apply for a place in Year Twelve; the one who wrote our references, and helped us pick out audition pieces.
‘Really,’ I say. ‘I mean, I’m sure Jojo will get on just fine there, but, I dunno, it just struck me as a bit regimented, you know? A bit stuck up its own arse.’
‘Oh,’ Ms Abraham says, blinking. ‘Right. Well, I have to say, I’m a bit relieved.’
I frown. ‘Relieved? Why relieved?’
‘Well, to be honest, I’ve been a bit worried about you, Frankie.’
‘Me?’ I say, screwing up my face.
‘Yes. You.’
‘Why?’
‘I know how badly you wanted to get in. I hated the idea of you getting despondent based on this one disappointment. Especially when you’ve got so much talent.’
Have I, though? Surely if I was that talented we wouldn’t even be having this conversation right now. I’d be too busy preparing for my first term at the Arts Academy.
‘Yeah, well that was then and this is now, and I’m totally over it,’ I say.
Ms Abraham continues to look unsure.
I laugh. ‘Seriously, miss, there’s no need to look so worried. It’s ancient history, I swear.’
Finally her face melts into a smile. ‘Well, that’s great to hear, Frankie,’ she says, nudging my shoulder with hers. ‘Really bloody fantastic.’
My phone buzzes in my bag.
‘’Scuse me, miss,’ I say, getting it out.
It’s a WhatsApp message from Mum.
My eyes drift to the time in the top right-hand corner of the screen. I’m supposed to be at the salon in less than ten minutes. Maxine’s usually pretty good if I’m ever a bit late, but I don’t want to take the piss when she’s already given me the morning off as paid leave.
‘I’d better get going,’ I say, clambering to my feet. ‘Work.’
Ms Abraham stands up to join me. ‘Is Jojo on her way, do you know?’ she asks.
‘Why? Has she not come in yet?’
‘No. Her envelope’s still here. I assumed you’d come together.’
‘Yeah, well, that was the plan …’
Ms Abraham’s expression turns serious once more. ‘Everything’s OK between the two of you now, isn’t it?’
‘Course,’ I say. ‘Fine. Something must have come up, that’s all. I’ll give her a ring on my way to work and see what’s up.’ I pull my backpack onto my shoulders. The canvas straps are damp with sweat from where they’ve been wedged under my armpits.
‘I’m really glad we got the chance to chat, Frankie,’ Ms Abraham says. ‘I’m so pleased you haven’t taken the Arts Academy thing to heart.’
‘Course I haven’t,’ I say. ‘I mean, at the end of the day, it’s just a school, right?’
She nods and smiles, and I know I’ve said the right thing.
We say our goodbyes and I walk briskly towards the gates, my lie reverberating in my ears.
Because it’s not just a school.
It’s the school.
And Jojo is going and I’m not.
Chapter 3
My colleagues at the hair salon have clubbed together and bought me a box of Ferrero Rocher and an oversized card with ‘Congratulations’ splashed across the front. It’s really sweet of them, but I can’t help but feel a bit embarrassed considering my pretty ordinary results. I keep the details vague to save face but can’t help letting slip about my nine in drama, my voice glittering with automatic pride.
‘Now, what’s a nine again?’ Alison, the receptionist, asks. ‘It was just A, B, C, D, E or F back in my day.’
‘A nine is like an A-plus I guess, only better,’ I say.
They all make impressed noises.
‘Just make sure you remember us when you’re rich and famous,’ Maxine says with a grin.
‘Will do,’ I promise.
Maxine’s salon isn’t remotely cool. The black and white photos of hair models hanging in the window are at least thirty years old and it caters almost exclusively for old ladies, but as part-time jobs go, it could be a lot worse. The work (making cups of tea, washing hair, sweeping the floor) is easy enough, and I like the other staff a lot.
I offer around the chocolates before stowing them away in the staff-room fridge. When I return, I’m straight on tea duty, making a cup of Earl Grey (not too strong, splash of milk, two sugars) for Ida, one of our regulars.
‘Absolutely dreadful,’ she says as I place it down in front of her.
‘You haven’t tasted it yet, Ida,’ I joke.
She tuts. ‘I’m talking about the baby.’
‘What baby?’ I ask, balancing a Rich Tea biscuit on the edge of her saucer.
‘The missing baby,’ Maggie – one of the senior stylists – says, pulling a comb through Ida’s pure white hair. ‘You know.’
‘No. What missing baby?’
‘The baby that’s gone missing from Larwood Avenue.’
‘Larwood Avenue? I tried to walk down it about an hour ago. It’s all cordoned off.’
‘Well, you know the petrol station?’
I nod. It’s about halfway up the road, near the alleyway that comes out onto Heaton Way. They have a Krispy Kreme fridge. Jojo and I used to go there after school on a Friday and split an original glazed (Jojo’s choice) or a chocolate-iced custard-filled (mine). I don’t know exactly when or why we stopped doing it, only that it’s been months since we did.
‘Well,’ Maggie says. ‘Someone nicked a baby right out of the back of a car parked just outside.’
‘When?’ I ask.
‘This morning,’ Ida says. ‘In broad daylight too!’
‘Didn’t the baby’s parents or whoever try and stop them?’
‘That’s the thing,’ Maggie says. ‘The baby’s mum was inside at the time, getting a coffee. She says she swears she locked the car door.’
‘Only she clearly couldn’t have,’ Ida chimes in. ‘Because by the time she got back’ – she clicks her fingers – ‘the baby was gone.’
‘Isn’t it all on CCTV?’
‘No,’ Maggie says. ‘There are cameras on the pumps, but she was parked in the little car park bit, you know, round the side.’
‘Are you talking about Olivia Sinclair?’ a woman sitting at the next chair, her hair in pink rollers, pipes up.
‘Who’s Olivia Sinclair?’ I ask.
‘Keep up, Frankie,’ Maggie says. ‘Olivia Sinclair is the name of the missing baby.’
‘Oh.’
I try to decide what would possess anyone to nick a baby. Going by my baby cousins, as far as I can work out all they do is dribble, cry, sleep and po
o themselves. Not my idea of a good time.
‘Awful, isn’t it?’ the woman in curlers says.
‘Horrible,’ Ida agrees.
‘Just thinking about it makes me shudder. I mean, what kind of monster takes off with someone else’s baby?’
‘God knows. There’s only so long they can hide, though. The whole country is going to be looking for them. And when they find them’ – Ida pauses for dramatic effect – ‘there’ll be hell to pay.’
‘Frankie,’ Maxine calls from across the salon. ‘Can you gown up Mrs Penrose for me?’
I leave the women to gossip and grab a gown from the pegs on the wall.
By the time Maxine tells me to take my break almost two and a half hours later, I’ve had it up to here with Olivia Sinclair. It’s all any of the punters want to talk about. Not that I don’t think it’s a big deal that a baby’s been kidnapped practically on our doorstep – I just don’t see the point of going on and on about it, especially when there are so few facts to actually discuss.
I step outside and let out a sigh of relief. With its non-existent air con, the salon is pretty toasty at the best of times, but it’s been almost unbearable the past couple of weeks.
I go to the newsagents next door and buy a white chocolate Magnum with the £1.50 tip Mrs Penrose left for me, and then head up the street in search of some shade from the throbbing sun. I find it in the form of the awning outside the greasy spoon on the corner. I sit down at one of the plastic tables set out on the pavement and take out my phone.
I have five new WhatsApp messages – another one from Mum badgering me about my results, two from my friend Ella about what I’m wearing to Theo’s party tonight, one from my other friend Bex asking what booze I’m taking, and one from a boy in our year called Rory asking what time I’m planning on getting there. Quickly I tap out replies to everyone but Rory. He’s a nice-enough boy, but I’m not really interested in him like that and I’m worried a swift response will only give him the wrong idea. Tonight is about having fun with my mates, Jojo especially. The last thing I want is a boy getting in the way of precious re-bonding time, especially one I’m not even really that into.
I scroll down to my most recent set of messages to Jojo. It’s not just that they haven’t been read: they haven’t even been delivered, a sad grey tick next to each of them. Which means she’s either run out of battery or switched her phone off, both of which strike me as highly unusual. Unlike me, Jojo never leaves the house without a fully charged phone and she always keeps a portable charger on her. I should know; I borrow it enough. As for turning her phone off, I just can’t think why she would, unless it was by accident, and if that was the case, surely she’d have realized by now and turned it back on.
I think back to the last time I saw her face to face. It was less than twenty-four hours ago. She came over to mine yesterday afternoon and we lolled in the garden for a couple of hours, taking it in turns to choose what music to pump through my mini speakers. She looked even paler than usual, but I put that down to her still being ill. She claimed she was feeling much better but refused every offer of crisps or biscuits; she even turned down an ice lolly. She was quiet too. But then Jojo has always been prone to disappearing into her own little world every now and again so I didn’t take it to heart.
‘Are you OK?’ I asked as she sat beside me, her freckled arms slick and shiny from where she’d applied sunscreen, her loose cotton T-shirt dress pulled down over her knees.
‘I’m fine,’ she said.
‘You sure?’
She forced her lips into a smile. ‘Course.’
She paused, plucking a daisy from the grass and slicing a hole through its stem with her thumbnail.
‘Why’d you ask?’ she added.
‘Oh, no real reason. You just seem a bit preoccupied, that’s all.’
‘I’m probably just a bit anxious about results.’
I couldn’t help but frown. What did Jojo have to be anxious about? She already has her place at the Arts Academy. Her grades make no difference. Even if she bombed. Which she wouldn’t. Jojo has always been naturally academic, quietly sailing through her mocks with apparent ease.
I didn’t say any of this, though. I knew I’d only look petty if I did.
If it was the other way round, you’d want Jojo to be happy for you, Mum keeps reminding me.
And she’s right. Of course she is. But it’s still hard.
‘You’ll be fine,’ I said instead, scrolling through my phone for my next song choice.
‘I know,’ Jojo said. ‘I’m just being stupid.’ She wriggled her toes in the sun. ‘You know what I’m like,’ she added with a little laugh.
I did. Jojo is a worrier. She always has been, although she hides it well, burying her worries so deep the untrained eye would never ever guess anything was wrong. She can’t fool me, though. I’ve known her for too long. If she were in front of me right now, I’d get to the root of what was going on in minutes, I’m certain.
I try to remember what else we talked about. Our song choices, Luca being a pain, Theo’s party, how sick of the weather we were. Nothing important or particularly deep, just general chit-chat. I tried to get her to stay so we could watch The Great British Bake Off together, but she said she had to get back home for dinner.
‘Next week, then?’ I said.
‘OK,’ she replied.
Before she left, we made clear plans for today, plans we then confirmed later via WhatsApp. I scroll back to our most recent exchange. It was shortly before midnight, her last words:
Which only leaves one question: where the hell is she?
Chapter 4
On paper, Jojo and I probably make a pretty unlikely pair of best friends. We’re opposites in practically every single way.
I’m tall; Jojo is petite.
I’m brunette and go brown the second I step in the sun; Jojo is a proper English rose who wears factor 50 practically all year round, even in deepest darkest winter.
I never stop talking; Jojo always thinks before she speaks.
I’m hopelessly messy; Jojo is forensically neat.
I’m impulsive; Jojo is calm and watchful.
I’m a night owl; Jojo is an early bird.
We once sat down and did one of those online personality tests. Our scores were polar opposites in every single category. Not that we were surprised. We’ve been best friends long enough to realize it’s our differences that make us such a good team.
The bottom line is: I’m the one who forgets to charge her phone, not Jojo. Overnight, everything’s gone topsy-turvy and I don’t like it one bit.
As I walk up Jojo’s driveway, the late afternoon sun beating down on my back, I realize that thanks to her mystery illness I haven’t been to her house in well over a month now, at least not inside.
If there’s ever a choice between which of our houses to hang out at, we almost always pick Jojo’s, mainly because she’s an only child so there are no obnoxious older brothers to contend with. Also, her mum and stepmum are really relaxed and cool and kind of just leave us to it, unlike my mum and dad who are distinctly uncool and can’t resist showing off, even in front of Jojo who has known them since she was four and isn’t the least bit impressed by their antics (although she’s far too polite to admit it).
When Jojo first messaged me to let me know she was ill, I dropped off some sweets (Maoam Stripes, her favourite) and a stack of magazines from the salon, but Helen, her mum, wouldn’t let me any further than the front door.
‘Is it really that contagious?’ I asked, peering up the stairs.
‘Afraid so,’ Helen replied, her hand resting on the door-frame. ‘Maybe next week, eh?’
Standing in the exact same spot, I realize it never dawned on me to ask exactly what was wrong with Jojo.
I ring the doorbell.
No answer.
I try again, pressing for longer this time, just in case.
Still no answer.
I kneel dow
n and poke my fingers through the letter box, wedging it open.
‘Hello?’ I call.
Nothing.
The house is silent in that thick heavy way that only empty houses ever are.
I straighten up and let the letter box fall shut, then cut across the grass to the side gate. I open it and follow the paved path round to the back of the house, where Jojo’s bedroom is. I walk into the centre of the lawn and look up. Jojo’s curtains are open and I can see the silhouette of her moneybox, a big fat ceramic pink pig she’s had as long as I can remember, on the window sill. For a second I consider finding a pebble and lobbing it at against the glass, before quickly rejecting the idea.
I’m being stupid.
She’s clearly not in.
No one is.
I sigh and walk back round to the front of the house.
I ring the bell one more time for luck before admitting defeat and trudging home.
‘Frankie! Is that you?’ Mum calls from the living room as I slam the front door shut behind me.
‘Yes!’ I yell back, kicking off my flip-flops at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Can you come in here, please?’
I grin. I expect she’s bought a cake or something to celebrate my exam results and this is the grand unveiling. My parents may not be very cool but they can be extremely cute when they want to be.
‘Hang on, I’m just getting a drink,’ I say.
That’ll give her time to light the candles or sparklers or whatever.
I get myself a glass of water from the kitchen before heading into the living room.
But there are no sparklers. No cake. Just Mum, hovering by the mantelpiece, still wearing her uniform from the care home she works in – a generic polyester tabard – over her chinos and T-shirt, with Helen and her wife, Stacey, perched on the sofa, two untouched cups of tea sitting on the coffee table in front of them.
‘Hi, Frankie,’ Helen says with a tight smile.
‘Hi. Is, er, everything OK?’ I ask.
Helen and Stacey exchange a look too quick for me to interpret.
First Day of My Life Page 2
