Caramel Hearts

by E. R. Murray

  “Right. If that’s how you feel!”

  She marches to the bin, stamps on the pedal to open it and pours my food away. Then she lets the lid slam shut, slings the plate into the sink and stomps off. It happens so fast, I can’t even think of a smart comment.

  “I’m fed up of you, you little cow,” she calls after her.

  “Not as fed up as I am,” I shout back.

  Hardly an impressive comeback, but at least it’s something. Starving, but determined not to give Hatty the satisfaction of knowing it, I decide that dinner’s overrated and it won’t kill me to miss it. She’ll be sorry when I end up dying of anorexia. Jack too. I stamp up the stairs and play Johnny as loudly as the record player will allow, imagining a long, slow, dramatic death. I’m halfway through planning my obituary when my anger abates and I decide the whole thing would require far too much effort. Especially when there’s a heap of recipes still to try.

  Laid on my bed, listening to Personal Jesus, my mind races. How am I going to put things right? I can’t go on like this. Guilt sucks. It destroys your life. My mind wanders back to Harriet’s advice: “You’ll get outta here one day too, you know. Just hold in there.”

  What if Hatty is wrong? What if hanging on means I’m trapped in the Egertons for ever? If only after returning the bag I could leave the estate – take some time out. But where would I go?

  My mind goes crazy, thinking up possibilities. Whitby, Oxford, Disneyland Paris, London… if only I knew where my dad was. Then I could visit him. Like Jack said, I could make it happen. Imagine how happy he’d be – reunited with his long-lost daughter. It’s all I can think of for the rest of the night. As I drift off to sleep, stomach rumbling, my made-up image of his face is the last thing I see.

  * * *

  That night, I dream of breaking glass and loud sirens. Long streaks of laser beams blast the sky like a pyrotechnic show and the whirr of a helicopter’s propellers fill the thick night air.

  There is a search party out. It’s looking for me.

  I run upstairs to the safety of my room. Harriet’s bedroom door swings open and my sister sways in the doorway, her hair replaced by writhing snakes. They squirm and coil.

  “You sssteal… you sssteal…” they hiss, preparing to strike.

  I take a sharp breath in and edge my way past just in time. Slamming the bedroom door behind me, I rest against it, breathing hard. Inside, gentle music plays, birds sing and sunbeams pattern the floor like lace. My carpet is littered with retro toys I liked as a kid: Ladybird books, Operation, Buckaroo. As I pick up the plastic saddle, placing it carefully on the spring-loaded donkey, a voice calls from the wardrobe.

  “Liv, sweetheart, are you there?” It’s Mam. The sweet, light-hearted voice of a Mam I barely remember. A Mam that could be nicknamed “Happiness”. “Come and see the surprise I have for you.”

  Uncertain why I’m scared, I edge towards the wardrobe. As I swing the door open, the room turns dark and cold.

  “Thief, thief, thief.”

  The chant starts off quietly, growing gradually louder. The voice is gravelly and angry. It’s coming from somewhere beneath my clothes.

  “Thief, thief, thief.”

  I try to say something but can’t. Searching my face with my hand, I discover my mouth has gone. It wasn’t my fault, I want to call out. I didn’t mean to do it. The chant continues, growing louder still. I have to make it stop. Stepping into the wardrobe, I search through the rubble of clothes. As jeans, skirts and polo shirts fly beyond me, the voice grows deafening.

  “Thief, thief, thief.”

  Pain shoots through my jaw as I try to talk without a mouth. I shove more clothes out of the way and realize I’m crying. Then I find it.

  The Blue Handbag.

  It has eyes and teeth.

  Dancing up and down on the spot, the handbag screams out its accusation. I try to wedge my hand over its mouth but it bites down hard, drawing blood.

  The helicopter whirr grows closer. Light beams from sniper guns settle on my chest. I scream.

  On waking – sweating and shivering, my legs entangled in the quilt – I lie as still as I can and let the darkness wash over me. Wiping my teary cheeks dry with the back of my hand, I wait until my heartbeat calms and the fear abates.

  When I feel brave enough, I sit up and check around me, happy to see my floor littered with vinyl sleeves, Harriet’s cast-off magazines and Recipes to Make Happiness Bloom. Rubbing my eyes, I check the time.

  4.30 a.m.

  It’s going to be a long night.

  My mind turns into a jumble of questions. What can I do with the bag? Should I tell Sarah? Will Jack ever speak to me again? Will I ever meet my dad – and when will Mam come home? I try to figure out some answers – even one would do – but I end up giving myself a headache instead. Thank God it’s Saturday and I’ll be visiting Sarah’s. Only a few more hours to go.

  I distract myself by practising my kissing technique – first on the pillow, then on the back of my hand. I manage to get my teeth out of the way of my lips, but I have no idea what to do with my tongue. It strays in all the wrong places, looking for somewhere to go. Maybe I should be grateful I’m too ugly to kiss? Thinking I’m relaxed enough to sleep, I snuggle down into my quilt and try to drift off. But every time I drop off, I jump awake, certain I can hear the handbag hopping around chanting Thief! Thief! Thief!

  Instead of fighting it, I decide to get up and make the peanut-butter fudge. Only when it’s cooled and divided up into portions – some to share with Mam, some for Sarah – do I dare go back to sleep.

  * * *

  Crawling out of bed and rubbing my eyes, I approach the wardrobe with caution. As I shovel down into the mound of clothes, my heart races. Even though I know Harriet will be busy making breakfast, I can’t help checking over my shoulder.

  When I see the stupid blue bag, I flip and start kicking stuff around. I can’t take it any more. I have to figure out how to return it without getting caught.

  Checking the time, I quickly pull on my green and black stripy tights, short black skirt and khaki Converse. Walking always helps me think, and Sarah’s is a good half hour away. Smoothing some wax into my hair, I grab Sarah’s fudge and head out, pausing only to double-check my hair in the mirror. Just in case I bump into someone along the way.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Did I Say Something Funny?

  “I was thinking… if you want to make it up with Jack…” Sarah rolls onto her side and leans her head on her hand.

  “There’s not much to make up, is there? We hardly know each other,” I say.

  “So? You want to talk to him again, right?”

  “Yeah. Of course – he stuck up for me.”

  “I bet that’s not the only reason – but anyway, I’ve got the perfect plan… Why don’t you impress him with your cooking?” Sarah dips her hand into the airtight container and pulls out a huge piece of fudge. She chews loudly, smacking her lips. “He won’t be able to resist.”

  “What? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard! It’s going to take more than sweets to impress someone like him.”

  “Like him? He’s not a god, you know! And it’s not a stupid idea. Think about it. They say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

  “That’s nonsense. Who’s ‘they’, anyway?”

  Sarah shrugs, raises an eyebrow and chomps on the fudge. “My mum, for one. She says that Dad doesn’t communicate with words – he uses his belly instead.”

  I have to smile. Her dad’s always the first to sit at the table and he clears the leftovers from everyone else’s plates. He even sneaks your food while you’re still eating if you don’t keep an eye out, and he’s as thin as a whippet.

  “For your information, I don’t want to get to Jack’s heart,” I say.

  I don’t know how I expect to convince Sarah when I’m not convinced myself.

  “So, if he tried to kiss you, you’d tell him t
o get lost.”

  Her question almost winds me.

  “Yes. I’d tell him to get lost.”

  “Liar.”

  “I’m not in the same league, Sarah. This isn’t a fairytale.”

  We both laugh awkwardly.

  “So, what do you want?” asks Sarah.

  “I dunno… friendship. To thank him for helping me.”

  My heart pounds so loudly, I’m worried Sarah might hear it. Friendship would be OK, but it would be nice if Jack were something more. The way he leaned in… Then I think about my straying tongue, and dismiss the idea instantly. Until I get that thing under control, there’s no way I’m kissing anyone.

  “Hmm. Just good friends,” says Sarah, in a loved-up voice.

  “Stop it!” I plead.

  Sarah stops, but not for long. After a millisecond, she starts up again.

  “Seriously, though. It could work. Think about it: you need to distract the class from Maddy’s nonsense – she thinks she’s a big deal since everyone found out she attacked you – and you need to patch things up with Jack. You could do it in one go by baking. Something for everyone to share.”

  “But I’m not good enough… what if no one likes it? That’d make things even worse.”

  “How could it make things worse? Liv, you’re brilliant. Taste this and tell me it’s not divine.”

  I roll some fudge around my mouth. I have to admit, it’s good. Better than the pre-packaged stuff you buy. My fudge is creamy and melt-in-the-mouth.

  “You honestly think it would work?”

  “Yep.”

  “I can’t just bring in a bag of goodies and expect everyone to dive in. Mad Dog’s got them wrapped around her finger.”

  “Bring it on a Monday morning,” suggests Sarah. “Mrs Pearl always asks if there’s anything we’d like to share about our weekend. She’s all hippy like that—”

  “I want you all to have a voice, feel like you’re equals—” I mimic.

  “Exactly! It’s fool-proof.”

  “I dunno…”

  “You’ll win Jack over.”

  Sarah grins, knowing she has me hooked.

  “I guess it’s not such a bad idea…” I say.

  “It’s a great idea.”

  “But what should I bake?”

  “Something Jack likes. Find out his favourite.”

  “How do I do that when he’s not talking to me – and the whole class thinks I’m a leper?”

  “That’s a problem. Maybe we could ask Maddy?” Sarah offers with a roguish expression.

  “That’s not even funny,” I say.

  “Sorry… maybe I could find out?”

  “How? What are you gonna do – march up to Jack and ask him? You’ve hardly spoken two words to him outside of lessons!”

  “No, but I have an inside weapon: Dad.”

  I almost spit out my fudge. “What’s your dad got to do with this?”

  “He knows Jack’s mum. They’re on the Neighbourhood Watch committee together.”

  “Don’t you dare! The last thing I want is your parents knowing about this!”

  “They don’t have to know why. I could tell Dad I need to know for a project and that I’m too embarrassed to ask. He’s a soft touch.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “He’s been looking after Mum since for ever, don’t forget. He’ll find out – no questions asked. Then all you have to do is make it and bring it in.”

  I lean back, popping another piece of fudge in my mouth.

  “Fine,” I say. “I’m in.”

  “You are? Liv, this is going to work, I promise you!”

  We squeal and hug, not noticing Mrs Butler’s arrival.

  “What are you two all excited about?” she asks.

  “Nothing,” we reply in unison, then fall about giggling. Mrs Butler shakes her head and smiles.

  “It doesn’t look like nothing to me.”

  Mr Butler sticks his head round the door. “What’s the commotion?” Before anyone can reply, he notices the container on the floor. “Ooh, fudge – don’t mind if I do!” he says, taking the biggest chunk and shoving it in his mouth.

  This time, we collapse. I hold my stomach, which hurts so much from laughing. Sarah whispers, “I think I’m going to pee myself,” and that makes us worse.

  Mr Butler stares at us, reduced to a puddle of giggles on the floor.

  “Did I say something funny?” he asks.

  Chapter Thirty

  A Glimpse of How Things Used to Be

  It’s a week since I had the fight with Jack. We’re completely avoiding each other and I can’t think of anything other than how great it would be if Sarah’s plan worked – especially the “more than friends” bit. I’ve decided to concentrate all my energy on our plan – I need to pull out all the stops to put things right. So the last thing I want to do is visit Mam, but we have no choice.

  “She probably won’t even turn up,” I say, as we sit at the back of the bus. I tuck my legs up against the seat in front of me, knowing it will wind Hatty up.

  “Liv, you can’t say that.”

  “I just did. It’s true, isn’t it?”

  “You can’t think that way. We’ve got to treat it like a new opportunity every time. Anyway, she’ll love the fudge you’ve brought her.”

  “The fudge she won’t get because she won’t turn up.”

  Harriet lets the matter drop. She knows something’s up and would probably listen if I opened up to her, but every time I decide to try and be nice, her words play over and over in my head: “I’m sick of everything. And everyone. I wish it’d all just go away.”

  The journey seems to take much longer than usual. The bus stops in every town and village and it’s difficult not to lose my rag. I keep quiet so I don’t take things out on my sister. After a while, Harriet gives me a nudge.

  “The only way Mam will get better is if we give her the support she needs,” she says.

  I nod, though I’m not sure how I can help Mam when I can’t even help myself. To avoid any further conversation, I turn to the window and check out my reflection. I’m getting used to my hair, and I actually quite like it. My black eyeliner makes me look older, but I’m still plain and boring. Why I ever imagined Jack might be interested in kissing me, I don’t know.

  To try and take my mind off things, I watch the world flash by. There’s nothing better than laughing at other people when you’re fed up with yourself. I see a lady in red, spiky heels wobbling along the pavement. Then, a round, red-faced man jogging clumsily, clutching his chest like he’s having a heart attack. I chuckle as a small, curly-haired girl trips and bawls – until her dad scoops her up, hugging her close and whispering in her ear. So much for laughing. I can’t take my eyes off them as he dusts her down and dries her tears. My hand splayed against the glass, I watch as they grow smaller, fading into the distance until they’re invisible. Then I sit back and close my eyes.

  When we finally arrive at Ashgrove House, my feet feel leaden as I climb the steps. It was much more fun sneaking around at night. It takes every morsel of energy and courage to keep going. My instincts scream at me to turn round, but one glance at Harriet’s determined face forces me through the door.

  As we walk up to Reception, Harriet adopts her best smile, and I do the same. Wearing our masks, we sign in and turn towards the waiting room. But before we can sit down, Mam arrives, smiling and bright skinned. Her eyes sparkle golden-green and her greying hair is freshly washed, swishing in waves around her shoulders. I run my fingers through my own hair nervously.

  “Oh no – you cut your beautiful hair!” cries Mam, before hugging each of us in turn.

  I glance at Harriet. Doesn’t Mam remember seeing my hair – does she even remember running away? Harriet looks just as confused, but Mam doesn’t seem to notice.

  “But why so sad?” continues Mam. “I love it! Don’t ruin that cute face with a frown. C’mon, I’ve reserved the table tennis.”

  I can’t help smi
ling. To think I was considering turning back. Harriet links Mam’s arm and I grab the other. We trot down the corridor.

  “Liv’s brought something for you,” says Harriet, winking behind Mam’s back.

  “A surprise? You know how much I love surprises!”

  The ping-pong table stands in the sunniest spot in the games room. Before we start playing, I hand over the slabs of fudge. As she peers in, Mam gives a squeal of delight.

  “Is this what I think it is?”

  “Peanut-butter fudge,” offers Harriet, before I get a chance.

  Trying not to sulk about it, I worry I haven’t brought enough. I shouldn’t have shared it with the Butlers. Why does everything have to be so complicated? Why isn’t there a recipe for how to do the right thing?

  “It’s years since I’ve had this!” says Mam, taking a small nibble and chewing slowly. “It’s divine – thank you. This calls for a proper celebration. Go get us some drinks from the canteen. Three cream sodas, like old times!” She fishes in her pocket and hands me a five-pound note.

  “I’d prefer a Diet Coke,” says Harriet.

  I hold my breath. Has Hatty gone mad? She should know better than to challenge Mam. But Mam raises an eyebrow, says something about Hatty not needing “diet” anything, then changes the order.

  “Make that two cream sodas and a Diet Coke,” she says. “And ask to borrow a knife so we can cut this up equally. We’ll mind the table!”

  I race towards the canteen as fast as I can. My echoing footsteps remind me of running away from the kitchen that day, and no matter how fast I move, I can’t outrun the guilt.

  As I round the corner into the canteen, a pained screech sounds from somewhere down the corridor, followed by a loud clatter. Like something being thrown at the wall. I quickly select the drinks and rush to the counter to pay. The tall, spindly lady behind the till smiles gently.

  “Don’t let the noise frighten you,” she says. “It’s all part of the healing process.”

  What does she know? She’s just a crappy canteen assistant.

  “Are you visiting someone special?”

  I shrug, wishing the woman would hurry up and hand over the change. I want to get back to Mam as quickly as possible. The lady smiles sympathetically.