Kitten Smitten

by Anna Wilson

  Great! That little escapade was going to keep Dad amused for weeks, if not months, I could see. He’d probably end up writing it into one of his plays, knowing my luck, then everyone would get to know about it. Why did his sense of humour have to be so pathetic?

  ‘OK,’ I said, shooting him an I’m-ignoring-your-childish-behaviour look. ‘I suppose when she’s had her jabs we could put a cat flap in the back door? Then she can go out into the garden whenever she wants.’

  Dad had turned up the volume on his silent laughter and was wheezing and hooting again.

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake!’ I snapped.

  Luckily the doorbell rang.

  ‘That’ll be Jazz,’ I said pointedly.

  Dad took the hint and went up to his study. I carefully shut the kitchen door behind us, making sure Jaffa was still safely under the radiator. Every day had been like this so far, with Dad and I working together to cover all available entrances and exits as though we were a SWAT team trying to contain a heavily armed criminal. I grimly thought things might be easier if we’d had night-vision goggles, motion detectors and perhaps walkie-talkies to communicate from one doorway to the next. This cat was a serious contender for Cat Burglar of the Year Award, she was so swift and silent.

  I opened the front door, my heart still pounding from the covert operation in the kitchen.

  ‘Hi!’ Jazz was bouncing up and down on the doorstep, grinning like an overexcited chimpanzee – one who’d just won the Banana Lottery, by the looks of her.

  But I couldn’t help it; I started bouncing too, all thoughts of my dad’s insanity and my worries of escaping felines immediately forgotten in my eagerness to show off my new kitten. (MY new kitten! How cool did that sound?)

  ‘Hi! Come and see this!’ I said, flinging out an arm in the direction of the kitchen. I grabbed Jazz by the elbow and propelled her into the house, automatically checking all doors and windows and slamming the front door shut behind her.

  ‘Whoa! What’s up?’ Jazz hurtled down the hall after me.

  I got to the kitchen door then turned and put a finger to my lips. ‘You’ll scare her if you make too much noise,’ I said, my voice low. ‘And watch where you put your feet.’

  Jazz was shaking her head at me and making a face that quite clearly said, ‘You are an out-and-out ultra-stressy nutcase.’

  I opened the door a crack and scouted round to make sure Jaffa wasn’t going to make a break for it or get squashed. No sign of her directly in my line of vision. I took a deep breath and hissed, ‘Ready?’ to Jazz. She shrugged and half nodded, so I grabbed her arm again and whizzed her in behind me.

  I dropped down on to my hands and knees and gestured to Jazz to do the same. ‘Ber-tiiiie!’ she wailed. ‘What is it with all this Alex Rider rubbish? Get up, can’t you? I’ve got my best black jeans on!’

  I pulled down the corners of my mouth in disgust. ‘Get a life, Jazz. I want to show you something much better than your stupid jeans. Under here – look.’

  Curiosity overcoming her annoyance, Jazz joined me down on the floor and peered under the radiator. A sweet little orange and white face peered worriedly back, the huge unblinking blue eyes flashing with fear and trepidation. My heart swelled so much I thought I might choke.

  ‘Oh. A kitten,’ Jazz said, sounding distinctly underwhelmed. ‘What’s she doing under there?’ She reached out and tried to touch Jaffa, but the tiny cat backed away and her face creased up into an expression of such total anxiety that I felt I must look like a monster looming over her like that.

  ‘Hey, maybe we should let her come out in her own time,’ I said cautiously.

  ‘Why won’t she let me touch her?’ Jazz said accusingly. ‘What is it with me and cats? First Kaboodle and now this one.’

  It was true Kaboodle had never exactly been fond of Jazz, but I couldn’t prevent my hackles from rising. I felt incredibly overprotective of my little cat. Trust Jazz to get on the wrong side of Jaffa already.

  ‘I think you’ve just got to give her time to get used to you. She’s a real softie, aren’t you, Jaffsie?’ I coaxed, pressing my face closer to the floor to make my head level with hers. ‘Hey, why don’t you come out?’ I reached one hand towards her to try and stroke her, to reassure her.

  Her eyes widened in alarm as my hand crept towards her and in a sudden streak of bright orange, she shot out from under the radiator like a flame and headed for the utility room. Jazz and I scrambled to our feet and scuttled after her. There was nowhere to hide in there, so the kitten threw herself into the air in a wild attempt to shin up on to a cupboard, but she missed her footing and slid back to the floor. I swiftly scooped her up before she could rush at the cupboard again. She must have been a bit dazed from her fall, because she shook her head and blinked and then sat in the palm of my hand and let out another silent mew that seemed to go on for ages, her mouth stretched wide and her whiskers stiff with fear.

  Jazz hadn’t seemed to notice, however. ‘So – can I hold her, or what? Only, this is getting a bit . . .’ she yawned extravagantly, ‘. . . bor-ing.’

  I frowned at Jazz and turned my attention to the poor little kitten. ‘Are you frightened?’ I asked softly.

  Jaffa looked up at me. I gasped. ‘Did you see that?’ I hissed at Jazz. ‘She nodded!’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Jazz, inspecting her chewed-off nails, painted a petrol-blue today, I noted. ‘And she told me she’d like a plate of tuna washed down with a saucer of milk. What are you like, Bertie? You were always going on about that Kaboodle like he was a human, and now you’re doing it with this cat. Anyone would think you could “talk to the animals”,’ she crooned in a sing-song voice. ‘Where’s she come from anyway? You never said you were getting a kitten. Does your dad know about this? Won’t he freak?’

  ‘It’s OK, Dad knows all about Jaffa,’ I said quietly.

  Jazz raised one eyebrow sceptically. ‘And what kind of a name is that?’

  I felt a prickle of annoyance. ‘It’s like Jaffa Cake or Jaffa oranges – you know? Cos she’s orange.’ I was not in the mood for one of Jazz’s stupid arguments. ‘Do you want to know how I got Jaffa or what?’

  I went back into the kitchen and Jazz followed, huffing and puffing. I grabbed a packet of chocolate-chip cookies to get her in a better mood, then we drew back a couple of chairs and sat down. I put Jaffa on my lap, where she promptly fell into a deep sleep, and told Jazz the whole story about Pinkella bringing Jaffa round. (I missed out the bit about Kaboodle being in charge of the handover, obviously, as I knew Jazz would just say something along the lines of me being clinically insane.) I burbled on about our trip to Paws for Thought and all the stuff ‘Bex’ had advised us on, and how weird it was to suddenly have to think of all these things. (I also missed out the bit about Dad batting his eyelashes at ‘Bex’, as I knew Jazz would never let me forget it.) And I finished by saying that the strangest thing of all was that Cat-Hater Extraordinaire, i.e. Dad, seemed to have fallen head over heels for Jaffa just like that, and hadn’t even minded when she’d peed in the sugar bowl.

  ‘When she WHAT?’ Jazz said, howling with laughter and causing Jaffa to twitch in her sleep.

  I shrugged. ‘Yeah, well, I guess she’ll take her time getting used to living in a new place.’

  ‘Yes, but the sugar bowl?’

  ‘OK, I’ve had enough of that from Dad,’ I said tetchily.

  Jazz pulled a face. ‘Sor-ree. Anyway, you’re not the only one with exciting news, as it happens,’ she added, tossing her head airily and crossing her arms, pretending she wasn’t bursting to tell me her secret.

  I remembered guiltily that Jazz had mentioned something on the phone earlier. ‘Oh, yes – you said. So, er, are you going to tell me about it?’ I asked.

  Jazz couldn’t keep up the cool act any longer. Her eyes flashed and she leaned in towards me, every single one of her gleaming white teeth on show in a maniacal grin.

  ‘A family’s moving into Pinkella’s house opposit
e. You’re getting new neighbours . . .’ She paused for dramatic effect. ‘And I know who they are.’

  I looked carefully at my friend’s flushed face. ‘Well, whoever it is, you seem pretty excited about it. Hey! It’s not Zeb Acorn from Summer School Dance Camp, is it?’

  ‘Are you trying to be funny?’ Jazz said darkly. ‘Cos it’s so not working.’

  Jazz has watched her DVD of Summer School Dance Camp so many times it’s a miracle the DVD player doesn’t just put it on automatically every time she walks in the room. She knows every word of every song and every tiny variation of every dance move. Oh, and she’s totally in lurve with Zeb Acorn, one of the actors who stars in it. And by the way she’s going to marry him. Although I’m not sure he knows that yet.

  I raised an eyebrow at her and said innocently, ‘Me? Trying to be funny?’

  Jazz inhaled deeply so I cut in fast to prevent one of her tirades about how I didn’t appreciate fine music, etc etc, blah-di-blah-di-blah-blah. ‘So, who is going to move in then?’

  Jazz put on her knowing look again and said, ‘It’s a family. With a boy. He’s coming to our school after the holidays. He’ll be in Year 9 and he’s called Fergus.’ She sat back, a look of smug satisfaction spread across her face like a cat who’s broken into the fish shop and helped itself to starter, main course and dessert and then scarpered before getting caught.

  ‘Fergus? What kind of a name is that?’ I said in disgust, echoing Jazz’s earlier criticism of ‘Jaffa’ as a name. Fergus. Sounded like Fungus, like the kind of name you’d give a pet frog, I thought sullenly. And a boy? Why couldn’t it have been a family with a girl my and Jazz’s age? That would’ve been cool. But a boy? And two years above? I couldn’t see what Jazz was so excited about.

  ‘Like you’re any good at choosing names,’ Jazz sneered. ‘Anyway, Mum’s met them, cos they came round to see their new house yesterday and Mum and Aleisha were passing, so they said ‘hi’. Mum says the boy’s really into music!’ Jazz squeaked. ‘He’s in a band, plays guitar and sings. Do you reckon they need any backing vocals?’

  OK, it was all becoming clear now. Jazz was always on the lookout for a way to further her so far non-existent singing and dancing career. She was hoping Mr New Boy on the Block was going to be her way to fame and fortune.

  ‘It’s probably just some gross grungy boy band full of geeks with greasy hair,’ I said. ‘Don’t you think you’d better wait until you meet him before you get so excited?’

  Jazz leaped to her feet, her excitement instantly replaced with anger. It was freaky how quickly that girl could switch her moods sometimes.

  ‘You’re just jealous that I found out before you did!’ she snapped.

  ‘Jealous? Of what? You haven’t even met the guy yet, anyway—’

  ‘It’s OK, I get it,’ Jazz interrupted. She always did that if she knew she was going to lose an argument. ‘You’re too busy with your new baby. Never mind. I’ll see you around.’

  She pushed her chair back noisily and made for the door.

  ‘Wait, Jazz!’ I called after her, shifting awkwardly so as not to wake the ball of fluff that was still snoozing on my-lap. ‘Stop! I didn’t mean . . .’

  I tried to ease Jaffa into my arms without waking her so that I could go after my friend.

  But it was too late. She’d slammed the door.

  I looked down at Jaffa. ‘Seems like a case of “three’s a crowd”,’ I said sadly. I sighed and gently rubbed the kitten’s ear.

  I couldn’t sleep that night. And it wasn’t just because I had a skittish kitten careering around my room like a bolt of lightning, chasing shadows, spiders – anything that so much as flickered in the gloom. It was also because I felt totally hollow after Jazz had walked out on me.

  I had tried talking to Dad about it after Jazz had gone, but he had given me all the usual guff about, ‘You girls are always falling out – one minute you’re best of friends, the next minute you’re not talking. You’ll get over it.’ Thanks for nothing, Dad. He didn’t give me a chance to tell him about the new neighbours, either. I wondered if he would even care.

  I wouldn’t have minded if the argument with Jazz had been worth it. But all that huffing and puffing just because some lame boy could sing a few songs? I knew what those school ‘bands’ were like. There were some acne-fied guys at our school who’d done a gig for the fair last year to raise money for charity. ‘The Skulls’, they called themselves. Complete ear-splitting, teeth-grinding rubbish. Jazz was off her head if she thought Mr New Boy’s band was going to be any different.

  I sighed and wriggled around to find a cool patch in the bed. This summer was turning out to be hotter than any I could remember. I was desperate to have the window open, but I didn’t dare in case Jaffa got out – and she was already pawing at the glass. I sighed. Poor Jaffa, she was probably as hot as me. Especially with all that fur.

  ‘Jaffa? Jaffsie! Come here, cutie. What are you doing?’

  I didn’t know why I kept talking to this animal. It wasn’t as if she even purred back at me. I carried her back to my bed.

  ‘Hey, little Jaffs, I just don’t believe you can’t speak to me,’ I tried again later, during a moment of quiet when she was sitting on my tummy, her eyes flashing like lamps in the gloom. ‘Maybe you can and it’s just that I’m still really unobservant.’ I hesitated, willing myself to tune into Jaffa’s wavelength. ‘Maybe you’re cross with me for taking you away from your family?’ I ventured. ‘You know, I didn’t ask for Kaboodle to bring you here – I mean, don’t get me wrong, I am totally thrilled that you are here. It’s such a dream come true, I can’t tell you.’

  Jaffa made a tentative move towards my face as I said this, but thought better of it and sat back down. Then just as it seemed like she might settle down and go to sleep, something caught her eye and she was off again, whirling round the room as though she were being chased by a pack of angry dogs.

  I glanced at my alarm clock. Two o’clock! This was no good. I had to get some sleep.

  I scooped up the little ginger firework and crept down to the kitchen, shutting her in the utility room, thinking at least she’d have her litter tray in there. Then I tiptoed back up the stairs so as not to wake Dad. I needn’t have worried – he was snoring for England as usual.

  I snuggled back down and closed my eyes, letting my mind wander aimlessly and at last began to drift off, dreaming that Jaffa was sitting by my ear, whispering to me in a voice that sounded like Kaboodle’s: ‘Jazz is just jealous. She’ll get over it.’

  Even in my semi-awake state, I doubted that she would.

  5

  Pins and Needles

  In the end I slept in. I was woken by Dad banging on my door, shouting at me to ‘come and help clear up the mess downstairs’. I stomped wearily down in my PJs to find him scrabbling around with a bucket and a mop, a look of despair etched on his face.

  ‘So much for cats being clean creatures,’ he muttered. ‘She’s kicked most of the litter out of the tray. It gets everywhere this stuff – look!’ He pointed through the open utility room door to where clumps of cat litter and bits of sodden kitchen roll lay all over the floor.

  I went in, tiptoeing over the mess, and grabbed a dustpan and brush.

  ‘Where is she?’ I asked, while I swept the dirty litter into a plastic bag.

  ‘I think she’s skulking up there,’ Dad answered, pointing to the wash basket on top of the washing machine. ‘I’m going to make some coffee. Come and get your breakfast. We’re due at the vet’s in half an hour.’

  I’d forgotten about that. Apparently it was important to get Jaffsie vaccinated as soon as possible.

  ‘Found yourself a comfy bed then!’ I said softly, peering into the laundry basket. Jaffa didn’t blink; she carried on snoozing in that snuffly kittenish way of hers that sounded almost like snoring. ‘Don’t go getting in the washing machine again now, will you?’

  Dad came up behind me with a steaming mug of coffee. ‘
Hello, little Jaffa,’ he said cheerily, all comments on mess and dirt forgotten, I noticed with relief.

  Jaffa unfurled from her sleeping position and arched her back in a luxurious stretch and then sat back on her haunches and reached out with her front paws. It was so sweet seeing her behave like a fully grown cat when she was still so small!

  ‘Aah, have you had a lovely sleep then?’ Dad twittered, giving her back a little stroke with one finger.

  Jaffa blinked at Dad.

  ‘Not very talkative, are we?’ Dad went on. ‘Come to think of it, Bertie,have you heard her say anything yet?’

  I stared at him. ‘What do you mean, say anything?’ Had Pinkella known all along that I could talk to Kaboodle? Had she said something to Dad?

  Dad looked at me strangely. ‘You know – has she mewed or made any cat-like noises, howling or – I don’t know, anything? It’s just she seems very quiet to me. Do you think something’s wrong with her?’

  I breathed again, relieved Dad wasn’t talking about actual words. ‘Oh, no. I mean, I don’t know whether there’s anything wrong, but I haven’t heard any miaows or anything, no. Maybe we could ask the vet about it later?’

  ‘Yes!’ Dad glanced at his watch. ‘Blimey – look at the time. Come on Bertie, you have to eat and get dressed now. I’ll find a box to put Jaffa in.’

  I ran upstairs and hastily pulled on a pair of crumpled jeans I’d thrown on a chair the night before, found a half-clean T-shirt and pulled my hair back into a scrunchie, then I raced back down to stuff some toast in my mouth. Dad was cradling Jaffa in his arms, stroking her head and cooing to her. ‘I’m sure I heard her purr just now,’ he said, looking up at me as I clattered my plate into the sink and washed my hands. I ignored him. I was beginning to get a bit annoyed about his obsession with Jaffa talking. It was like when he’d suggested names for Jaffa: it made me feel left out somehow.