by Melody James
She breaks it off. ‘Oh, Gem! You’re a genius! Did you see him staring at me. I’ve really got his attention now.’ She’s overjoyed.
I’m gutted. Another plan backfired. I’m the opposite of genius.
Then I spot Jeff and Treacle wandering arm in arm across the fast-emptying playground. They’re gazing sappily into each other’s eyes, meandering like drunks over the tarmac.
Maybe there’s hope. After all, I got it right with Jeff and Treacle. Perhaps, in the end, I’ll do the same for Savannah and Marcus.
‘Turn it down a bit!’ I yell over the racket of Ben’s Xbox.
Ben flashes me a death-glare but lowers the volume.
Once Sonic the Hedgehog isn’t making the ornaments rattle, I try again. ‘Will’s going to make it as hard for me as he can, I just know it.’
‘Don’t let him bully you.’ Treacle’s slouching on the armchair opposite, pulling a post-pizza muffin apart and filling her cheeks. She’s come round to help me babysit Ben while Mum and Dad are feasting at the local gastropub. Not that I need help. I’m a world-expert on Ben. I know that in exchange for forty minutes uninterrupted Xbox he’ll give in gracefully to physio, meds and bedtime. Especially if I airplane him from Xbox to physio-table to bed, while he machine-guns invisible aliens.
I check my watch. Thirty minutes of Xboxing to go. ‘I’m not so worried about him bossing me about,’ I confess. ‘I’m worried he won’t let me work on the article at all. When Mr Harris told him he had to let me help, I thought he was going to strangle Cindy, then beat me to death with her cold, dead body.’
Treacle laughs, spraying a mouthful of muffin crumbs. ‘I can see why you want to be a journalist,’ she says, dabbing up the mess. ‘You do have tendency to thrive on drama.’
I ignore the slur. ‘But he looked really angry.’
Treacle sits up. ‘Let’s not brand him a psycho-killer yet,’ she says sensibly.
‘OK.’ I sweep reality under the carpet. ‘Let’s pretend he’s a sweet, helpful, generous guy who wants me to help.’ I chew at my thumbnail. ‘But what if I mess it up? This is my big chance to prove I can do some real journalism. What if I can’t? What if I just follow him around saying stuff so dumb I prove him right?’
Treacle gulps down the last of her muffin. ‘But, Gemma, you rock as a writer! Cindy gave you the horoscopes and you’ve made them the talk of the school. You’re going to do the same with this article.’
I’m grateful, but unconvinced. ‘But I’m such a klutz around Will. He turns me into a quivering wreck. I’ll never be able to think straight with him snapping at me and pointing out every tiny mistake.’
‘Fair enough.’ Treacle brushes the crumbs from her jersey into the palm of her hand and drops them into the bin beside her chair. ‘Let’s practise.’
I frown. ‘Practise what?’
‘You made me role-play meeting Jeff’s parents.’ She stands up. ‘Let’s role-play you working with Will Bold.’
‘The Jeff role-play didn’t turn out too well,’ I remind her.
‘Yes, but once you’d demonstrated just how horrible it could be, I felt ready for anything. I still do. You’ve totally prepared me for Friday night.’ She straightens up. ‘There’s no way Jeff’s mother will be as awful as you.’
‘Hey!’ I object.
She grins and hauls me to my feet. ‘Come on. I’ll be Will.’ She rolls her shoulders forward and drops her chin. ‘Right, Gemma,’ she growls, ‘I suppose I’m stuck with you. We’d better start work.’
‘What do you want me to do, Will?’ I ask eagerly.
Treacle breaks character, ‘No! no! You have to play it cool. You’re not a puppy trying to please. You’re a reporter looking for a story.’
I nod, shaking out my arms in an attempt to loosen up. I remind myself of the advice I gave Savannah. Act aloof, as though he’s the last boy in the world you’d bother with.
‘Let’s try it again.’ Treacle jerks me from my thoughts.
I nod. ‘Ready.’
‘Have your brought your notebook?’
I sniff carelessly. ‘Yeah.’
‘Pen?’
‘Will this do?’ I slide out a pencil I’d lodged in my curls when I was doing some homework earlier.
‘Neat trick.’ Treacle rubs her nose. ‘OK, start taking notes.’
I hold out my pretend pad and real pencil and wait for dictation.
Treacle starts. ‘So Slider’s holding three corners, selling one hundred, two hundred caps a day, slicing a piece off the top of every sale, and Juicy finds out, takes offence and decides to make a hit . . .’ Treacle’s obviously been watching US cop shows again.
I scratch my ear with my pencil. ‘So we’re tailing Juicy?’
She looks at me, managing to pull off a perfect Will Bold sneer. ‘Juicy? Why would we tail Juicy? It’s Slider who’s got the brains.’
‘So we tail Slider?’ I ask, trying to keep up.
‘Why would we tail Slider? He’s just taken a hit. Are you listening to a word I’m saying?’
I start to fluster. Her Will impersonation is too good. I feel like an idiot.
‘So who are we tailing?’
‘Who said anything about tailing?’
The Xbox goes quiet. Ben’s hanging over the back of the sofa, watching. ‘Are you playing cops and robbers? Can I play?’
Treacle slides him a look. ‘Sure, Shorty. But we’re reporters, not cops, and we’re about to bust a case wide open.’ Her gaze flicks back to me. ‘If my idiot assistant can keep up.’
Ben clambers over the sofa, lining up beside Treacle. ‘Yeah, Gem. Keep up.’
My heartrate’s climbing. ‘I’m trying.’
‘Then read it back,’ Treacle orders.
‘Read what back?’
‘You were taking notes,’ Treacle reminds me with a Will-style snort.
‘Oh, yeah.’ I remember the imaginary notepad. ‘Slidey was making caps and the juice was taking hits . . .’
‘Hey, Shorty.’ Treacle nods at Ben. ‘You make the notes. Girl Friday’s pencil seems to be running on unleaded.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Ben snatches my pencil and starts making pretend notes.
‘Hey! That’s my job!’ I snatch it back.
‘Treacle wants me to do it!’ Ben makes a grab for the pencil. I hang on to it and we tussle to the ground, squawking. As I finally pin Ben down and uncurl his fingers from the precious pencil, I notice Treacle’s foot tapping beside us.
‘Quite finished, Stone?’ She’s peering down her nose at me.
I scramble to my feet. ‘Sorry about that. I was just getting my pencil.’ I hold up my imaginary notebook again. ‘Ready.’
Treacle rolls her eyes. ‘Note-taking’s over, Stone, we’ve got real work to do now.’
‘What?’
‘Do I have to think of everything?’ Will-Treacle snaps.
Ben’s on his feet. ‘I know. Let’s find some evidence.’
Will-Treacle pats him on the head. ‘Good thinking, little guy.’
My blood boils with frustration. ‘That’s not fair. This is my role-play!’
Treacle pushes up her sleeves. ‘No time for playing, Stone. There’s work to be done.’
I begin to object. ‘But you said—’
‘If I said “jump off a bridge” would you do it?’
‘I wouldn’t!’ Ben shouts.
‘Nor me!’ I chime in.
Treacle tips her head. ‘But what if we’re undercover and we just got busted and it’s the only way out?’
‘Oh! I don’t know, I . . .’ My head is spinning. Too much, too fast. ‘I don’t know!’ I slam down on to the sofa, arms crossed tight.
Treacle drops the act and slumps to the floor. Sitting at my feet, she looks up at me earnestly. ‘I think we should drop the role-play,’ she suggests. ‘Improv’s clearly not our thing.’
Ben looks crestfallen. ‘Awww. It was fun!’
I reach out and ruffle his hair. ‘Go play Xbox,’ I
tell him. ‘I’m starting your physio in twenty minutes.’
‘OK.’ Ben clambers back over the sofa and drops down in front of the TV.
Defeated, I grab a cushion and hug it. ‘He’s going to kill me.’
‘Who? Ben?’ Treacle blinks.
‘No, Will.’ I sigh. ‘Why on earth did I ask if I could work with him?’ A cloud of despair floats across the room and settles above my head. ‘He’s going to totally annihilate me and use my blood as printer ink.’
My despair cloud’s not exactly lifted by the morning, but I’ve wrestled it down to a mini-cloud I can fit in my pocket and take to school with me.
It’s Wednesday: publication day. The webzine will be hitting everyone’s school email around lunchtime.
The morning drags and, by the time lunchtime actually arrives, I’m starving. I’m the only person I know who gets hungry from worrying. I’m also the only person I know who carries despair-clouds in her pockets.
I sit down at the lunch table with Treacle, Savannah and Sally Moore, happy to be lost in the lunch room hubbub.
‘Have you checked out your stars yet?’ Savannah’s got a new smartphone and she’s scrolling through her email while the rest of us munch our sandwiches.
Sally leans over and peeks at the screen. ‘What does Jessica say today?’
I chew my tuna sub and watch Savannah’s face as she scans her horoscope. Will she get the anti-LJ message?
She starts reading out loud: ‘You may think you’ve found your heart’s desire but, my dear Fin-derella, your Prince Charming may turn out to be all charm and no prince.’
Savannah sniffs. ‘Wow, Jessica’s a bit out of date this week,’ she scoffs. ‘She’s still talking about Josh.’
No, she’s not!
‘Yeah well, she was right about him and she still is.’ Sally stares hard across the lunch room to where Chelsea and Josh are cosied up at a table, sharing crisps.
‘I know, but you’d think she’d have realized I’ve moved on since then,’ Savannah replies. ‘Maybe she’s ill or something.’ She looks at me. ‘Is she ill?’
‘How should I know?’ I say a little too defensively. Under the table, Treacle gives my foot a kick.
“Ummm . . . I mean, she never actually comes in to the school. She’s a friend of Cindy’s dad . . . She used to do the horoscopes on the paper he edited. She emails her column over to us every week. I have no idea where she is. Or who she is,’ I splutter, my heart pounding.
Treacle kicks me again. Harder. I cling on to my tuna sub like it’s a life raft.
‘All right, all right, calm down,’ Savannah says. ‘I’m sure she’ll catch up with the new man in my life eventually.’ Her gaze flashes to the doorway, where LJ appears like a summoned genie.
Treacle slides down behind her sandwich. ‘Saved by Prince Charming,’ she mutters.
My heart rate slows back to normal, even if I do think LJ is a total loser at least his arrival seems to have distracted Savannah from questioning me any further about Jessica Jupiter. ‘How does she not get that he’s Prince Charmless?’ I whisper to Treacle.
‘She doesn’t want to get it,’ Treacle murmurs back.
‘Oh. My. God!’ Sally’s gabbling. ‘He’s coming over.’
Savannah instantly slips into cool mode, fixing her gaze and pretending she’s not aware that a god is descending from the heavens. Crowds part to let LJ pass as he heads for our table. A small entourage of angelic Year Tens flutter after him.
I quickly wrap my foot around the empty chair at the end, but LJ tugs it free and sits down. ‘Hi.’ His ultra-white, super-toothed smile is aimed directly at Savannah.
Bethany Richards – the only Year Ten to rival Cindy in plastic good looks – grabs the empty seat beside LJ and sits down.
The rest of the entourage settle around us too, perching on the edge of the table and backs of chairs like Trafalgar Square pigeons.
Savannah slides LJ a look but doesn’t speak.
Sally does. ‘Hi, LJ.’ She sounds so grateful for his presence I want to wretch.
Instead, I snatch a bite of my sandwich. Treacle’s watching through slitted eyes as LJ unclicks the lid of his sushi box. He takes out a pair of chopsticks and taps them on the table before picking out a piece of fish. ‘Is that a chicken sandwich?’ he asks Savannah, before popping the raw sea-flesh into his mouth.
‘Uh-huh.’ Savannah takes a bite.
‘Back home, no one mixes protein and carbs any more.’ He swallows. ‘It’s the fastest way to put on weight and destroy your dermalayer.’
Treacle looks at me. ‘He means skin, right?’
I shrug. We need Cindy to translate. She’d love this conversation. I wonder suddenly if LJ inspired her eat-yourself-pretty article.
Bethany leans across the table and pats Treacle’s arm. ‘Sporty types like you don’t need to worry,’ she says reassuringly.
Treacle nearly coughs up her dinner. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Bethany smiles sweetly. ‘You’re more about muscle tone than good looks, so you can eat anything you like.’
Treacle growls in my ear. ‘I’ll show her some muscle tone in a minute.’
I’m less worried about Treacle folding Bethany into an origami napkin than I am about Savannah’s reaction to LJ’s comment. She’s put down her sandwich and started eating an apple instead.
I watch her nibble and take a defiant bite of my tuna sub. No vain boy is going to put me off my food.
LJ’s comfortable now, foot up on Bethany’s chair, chatting and laughing with his entourage.
Savannah is staring at the tabletop, sucking on her apple like a Hollywood princess with an eating disorder.
‘Are you coming?’ I pack up my lunch box. ‘Treacle? Sav?’
Savannah shakes her head.
‘We’re not finished,’ Sal rattles a packet of chilli rice crackers at me.
Treacle shoves her sandwich box in her backpack. ‘I am.’
As we head for the door, the entourage ruffle feathers, fighting over our empty chairs. I glance back at them in dismay. ‘I can’t believe Sav dumped her sandwich just because LJ—’ Slam! I walk straight into someone.
‘Look out!’ Marcus brushes me away, looking flustered.
‘S-sorry!’ This is all I need. I managed to get through the whole of yesterday and this morning without looking at Marcus; even though we share every lesson except Geography, our gaze managed to avoid crashing across a crowded classroom. I don’t know what he thinks about my Facebook blunder and I don’t want to know. But as I stare at him, blushing, I realize I’m about to find out.
He’s blinking at me, a frozen look on his face like he’s just stepped into traffic. ‘Oh, hi,’ he says awkwardly.
Swallow me, Earth. Just open up and swallow me whole.
The Earth ignores me.
‘Gemma . . .’ he begins.
‘It’s OK. I know.’ It’s not OK and I don’t know; I just want to stop him. There’s nothing he can say that I want to hear.
‘It’s just,’ Marcus presses on, ‘it’s not that I don’t like you, or there’s any reason not to like you, except that . . .’ his blush intensifies.
I kind of feel sorry for him. ‘The whole status thing was an accident!’ I blurt out.
‘Good!’ he blurts back. ‘I mean not “good”, just I’m glad, because I sort of like someone else.’
‘Of course you do.’ Did that sound bitter? ‘I mean it’s OK because I just put you in my status by mistake. I was actually doing a search. For birthdays. Because I’m – er – I’m – er . . .’ I try out the same lie I tried on Savannah. But this time I stall. I sound so lame. He’s going to know I’m lying. ‘There really was a good reason for searching for you. Honest.’ I’m babbling, ‘I don’t just randomly search for boys. Not that I searched for you on purpose. I mean—’
Treacle grabs my elbow. ‘Come on, Gem. Or we’ll be late for the thing.’
‘Yeah.’ Relief floods me
as she drags me past Marcus. Then, for some reason only a really stupid person would understand, I glance back at him. ‘Bye, Marcus.’
‘Shut up!’ Treacle grabs my hand as I perform a lame wave.
As we reach the safety of the corridor, my shoulders droop. ‘He’s going to think I like him, isn’t he?’
Treacle sucks air through her teeth. ‘You didn’t exactly play it cool,’ she admits. ‘It was like your Jessica Jupiter jabbering in the canteen all over again!’
‘Shoot me,’ I beg. ‘Put me out of my misery.’
‘Later,’ she promises. She looks at her watch. ‘I’m meeting Jeff on the pitch. Come with me?’
I shake my head. ‘I’ll go and do some work on the webzine.’ Hiding in the storeroom sounds like a better idea than being anywhere in public right now.
Treacle looks worried. ‘Are you sure? Jeff won’t mind.’
I’m not up to making small talk with Jeff. ‘Thanks, but I want to see if Jessica’s got any fan mail.’ I force a smile.
Treacle shrugs. ‘OK.’ She gives me a sudden hug. ‘Don’t worry about Marcus. I bet he’s flattered really. It’s just that he’s still hooked on Sav.’
‘I wish she was hooked on him and not LJ.’
‘Go and start work on her horoscope for next week,’ Treacle encourages. ‘And this time, don’t be so subtle.’
‘I’ll type with a sledgehammer,’ I promise, heading for the stairs.
As I near Webzine HQ I hear Sam’s guitar. It sounds really good. I can tell he’s been practising. ‘Nice riff,’ I tell him as I enter and park my bag.
He looks up, his pensive frown smoothing. ‘Thanks.’
Behind me, a keyboard is rattling beneath thundering fingers. Only one person types that intensely. ‘Hi, Will.’ I turn round. He’s got his head down, hammering out words at a hundred miles an hour. He doesn’t answer. Great. I can see we’re going to work really well together.
‘He’s been like that for fifteen minutes,’ Sam tells me.
‘Doesn’t he need to eat?’ I wonder.
‘I guess not.’ He leans his guitar against the wall behind him. ‘Are you busy Friday night?’
I’m never busy Friday night. ‘Not really.’
