by Anna Wilson
‘Bertie!’ Jazz said, jabbing me in the arm with a very sharp finger. I glanced down, frowning – that had hurt!
‘Are those false nails?’ I asked her, my jaw dropping in total disbelief. What had got into her?
‘Bertie, you are not listening to me,’ Jazz said, ignoring my question and frowning. ‘I asked you if you’d seen Fergus. You’re not going to see much if you just stand there gawping at me like that.’
I chewed back a comment along the lines of ‘You’re the one who’s gawping’, and said sweetly, ‘Sorry, Jazz. Just got a bit sidetracked by those talons of yours. And by the way, they’re quite sharp, you know?’ I rubbed my arm for dramatic effect.
Jazz’s face darkened. ‘Sor-ree. I think they’re cool. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about the finer arts of manicure,’ she sneered. ‘Come here and watch what’s going on outside.’
I shuffled into the tiny space she had left me and squashed up against the window. All I could see was the huge removal lorry (which I’d already seen quite enough of since it arrived last night), several men hoisting beds and garden furniture down a ramp and into the house, and a man and a woman standing by the front door pointing and gesturing.
‘That’s Fiona and Gavin Meerley,’ Jazz said knowledgeably. ‘The mum and dad— oh wow!’ she interrupted herself. ‘He’s got a drum kit!’ She rapped an excited rhythm on the pane with the freaky fingernails. ‘And – do you reckon that’s his guitar?’ She pointed to a strange elongated parcel covered in thick brown paper. By the level of interest this had generated in my friend, I was pretty sure ‘he’ referred to this Fergus guy, not his dad.
‘Hmm,’ I said. I was scanning the contents of the lorry, which were coming out in quick succession. I wondered idly if these new people had any pets. Would I be able to guess from the stuff they had brought with them? Did you even pack pet stuff in a van when you moved?
‘There! There!’ Jazz shrieked again, breaking into my thoughts. I spotted a lanky figure slope out of the house, his hands in the pockets of his hugely baggy jeans, his longish hair flopping in his eyes. He mooched off around the side of the van and stood there for a moment, looking up and down the street. Jazz squealed again and jabbed noisily at the windowpane with her false nails.
And that’s when Slouch Boy decided to look up and see my best mate doing her I’m-about-as-bonkers-as-it-gets routine in my bedroom window. I quickly shot out of sight, but not before I saw the boy smile sheepishly in our direction and wave. It was a smile which totally transformed his face from pretty normal-looking to mega-friendly-looking in an instant. I felt heat rush to my face and turned on Jazz.
‘Now look what you’ve done!’ I hissed.
‘What do you mean?’ Jazz retorted. ‘It’s not my fault! If you hadn’t been so dopey in the first place I wouldn’t have had to point him out to you and then I wouldn’t have tapped the window by mistake and then he wouldn’t have looked up.’ She paused to gaze dreamily out of the window. ‘He’s soooo cool!’
I snorted. ‘Oh, you think so?’
Jazz flipped round. ‘Yes. I do actually,’ she spat. ‘Why are you smirking?’ she went on in a low voice. ‘You’re jealous, aren’t you? I knew it!’ she howled, throwing her hands up in the air.
‘Oh, cut it out,’ I said irritably. ‘I don’t even care who this loser is. I’ve had enough. I’m going to look for Jaffa.’
‘I’m going to look for Jaffa,’ Jazz mimicked in a sing-song voice.
‘Yes, I am!’ I butted in before she could say anything about what a baby I was thinking about my kitten all the time. ‘And you know why? Because I care about her and I’m worried about her and I don’t give a monkey’s about a new family or a “lush” boy or anything else at the moment, actually. She’s a tiny little cat out there all alone! Anything could happen!’
‘Oh get a grip, Bertie!’ Jazz muttered, rolling her eyes.
I gasped. What was happening between me and my best friend? She had never been so mean or uninterested in me before.
I burst into tears and stormed out of the room, down the stairs and out of the back door. I was about to slam the door with a final dramatic gesture when I remembered that I needed to take some keys with me. I whirled back into the utility room to grab them off the hook and came face to face with a very superior-looking Jazz.
‘Honestly, all this fuss over a kitten. You do know you’re overreacting, don’t you?’ she said pityingly. She shook her head as though I was a hopeless case. ‘I guess I’ll see you later.’
Then waving her ridiculous long nails at me, she sashayed out of my house and back into her own much more grown-up and sophisticated life.
9
Who's Got Talent?
We didn’t find Jaffa. After we’d scoured the street, Dad said he’d go back and search every corner of the house just in case she had got back in somehow. Bit unlikely, I know, but we were feeling pretty desperate.
In the end I had to admit defeat. I was hot, thirsty and hungry. I hadn’t had any breakfast, I remembered. I dragged my feet back home and made us some food.
‘You could always put a poster up in the street,’ Dad suggested through a mouthful of cheese sandwich. ‘Or leave a plate of something really tasty out by the back door,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘And you know what? I think I’ll go and get a cat flap today. Maybe she’s been trying to get back in and hasn’t been able to. What’s her favourite food, d’you think?’
‘She loves tuna,’ I said feebly. ‘Well, she loves the tuna-flavoured kitten food we got from Paws for Thought. Maybe we could try leaving some real tuna out?’
Dad rolled his eyes. ‘OK. But don’t be surprised if you have half the cats in town crowding round the back door.’
Even I managed a weak laugh at that. I could just imagine what Kaboodle would say. ‘Fancy leaving tuna out for all the rabble to come and help themselves! Honestly, Bertie, you have no idea how we cats think . . .’
So Dad went out to buy a cat flap (and have a good natter with ‘Bex’ as well, no doubt!) and I fetched a tin of tuna and set it down outside the back door.
My mobile rang early the next day. Jazz had reprogrammed the ringtone again. It had made me laugh when she’d done it, but the way I was feeling right now, it wasn’t doing anything to lighten my mood.
‘You’ve got to come here – I’ve got so much to tell you. And show you!’ Jazz announced breathily, hardly giving me enough time to say ‘Hi’. ‘He came round last night!’ I grimaced quietly to myself. I didn’t have to ask who ‘he’ was. And no sign of an apology from Jazz.
Still, I swallowed my sadness and told Dad I was going to Jazz’s.
‘We’ll continue the search for Jaffa,’ I said, hoping against hope.
But of course, Jazz had very different plans.
‘Quick, come upstairs – I don’t want Ty to hear us talking,’ she hissed, whisking me through the door so fast I nearly fell over my own feet. ‘He was a right pain yesterday, shoving Huckleberry in everyone’s faces and butting into the conversation with stuff about guinea pig poo, like the total idiot that he is.’ She rolled her eyes as far back as it was possible for them to go without rolling out of her head altogether.
Good old Ty! I wished I’d been there. Jazz didn’t notice my reaction; she was in too much of a tearing hurry to get me into her room. I almost tripped up the stairs. Once on the landing, she whirled into her room, her head twisting from side to side as though she were being tailed by a gang of evil mafia guys, and then yanked me through the door by my elbow, catching me off balance.
‘Hey!’
‘Shh!’ she admonished, her finger to her lips. Ty might hear.’ She closed the door quietly and firmly behind us and dragged a beanbag over to keep it shut – although I didn’t think a beanbag would have much effect against the human cannonball that was Jazz’s younger brother.
Jazz whizzed over to the far corner of the room, plonked herself on the floor and gestured wildly at me to sit with her.
‘Are you wearing perfume?’ I asked disbelievingly.
Jazz scowled. ‘Yeah. So? Anyway, listen – like I said, he came over with his mum.’ Her voice had dropped to a half-whisper.
There was no use in complaining or trying to change the subject. Jazz had that flashing look in her eyes and that wide-stretched smile she reserved for occasions of extreme excitement, like the time her dance class had won the regional championships and she had been chosen to go up on stage and receive the cup.
‘And?’ I said, thinking I had to say something to show I was listening.
‘And you’ll never guess what!’ she replied, pausing dramatically in what would have been a build-up of tension. Except that as far as I was concerned, there wasn’t any.
‘What?’ I replied.
‘His mum is a television producer and his dad works in the music business!’
Oh no! This was possibly the worst news I had had so far about this family. I could just about cope with the fact that they were living in Kaboodle’s old house and had set my best friend’s heart aflutter with all the musical instruments they’d moved in with, not to mention their son, but now Jazz was telling me that the parents were her ticket to fame and fortune! Well, that really put the lid on it for me. The new family had it all. I was out of the picture. Case closed.
I sat hunched over, elbows on knees and head in hands, and half-listened as Jazz burbled away.
‘The Meerleys know Pinkella from, like, ages ago? From when Pinkella was on TV all the time,’ Jazz was saying in that know-it-all voice she’d used the day before when she’d told me their names.
‘Pinkella? On telly?’ I butted in. This was news to me, I thought irritably. She’d told us she’d been in films and plays and stuff, but on telly? ‘Since when? I’ve never seen her in anything.’
‘Yeah, well, it was, like, way before we were born, wasn’t it?’ Jazz said impatiently. ‘Anyway, when Pinkella’s house came up for rent the Meerleys were the first people she thought of. And this is where the REALLY cool stuff comes in,’ Jazz finished. She bounced up, grabbed a newspaper from her desk and opened it in front of me with a flourish.
‘Da-daaah!’ she sang, beaming such an exaggerated smile I thought her face might actually split in two.
‘What?’ I asked. I was looking at a copy of the Daily Ranter, the paper that Dad used to write for. There had not been anything interesting to read in it when he had been responsible for most of the articles and I could not imagine that there would be anything interesting to read in it now that he wasn’t.
‘Since when have you been a loyal reader of the Ranter?’ I asked, trying to sound cool while a wobbly feeling of unease seized my guts.
‘Fiona showed it to me. Read it!’ Jazz insisted, jabbing at the paper and thrusting it nearer.
Who’s Got Talent? You Have!
the bold black type shouted.
Already I was not liking the sound of this.
Jazz pulled the paper impatiently out of my hands with a huff of exasperation and started to read out loud. I peered over her shoulder at the words.
‘Have you got what it takes to star in the nation’s favourite television show, Who’s Got Talent? If so, Simon Cow and Danni Minnow want to meet you! Britain’s biggest talent show is in town this Sunday 12th August, looking for the new star who’ll get the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to win a recording contract. Remember, it’s all about a new voice and a new look, so don’t forget to dress to impress! Make sure you join the crowds at the Pinkington Theatre at 8am sharp.
‘Can you believe it?’ Jazz finished in a squeak. She had not drawn breath once, and now she was clutching her hands to her chest and gazing at the ceiling in a dream-like stance, as if Prince Charming had just snogged her and made all her wishes come true. I shuddered.
‘Oh. My. Goodness!’ Jazz continued. ‘This has so got to be the most exciting thing that has ever happened to me. In My. Whole. Boring. Life! They’ll be here! In our dumb old town where nothing ever happens to anyone. And Fiona is the producer! She knows Simon and Danni and . . . and oh, everyone!’ she finished in an exaggerated sigh, still gazing upwards as if a host of heavenly celebrities were about to be lowered down through the ceiling on a glittery pedestal right in front of us.
‘Erm, yeah. It’s cool,’ I said quietly. Jazz always had this effect on me when she got overexcited about something. The louder she got, the quieter I became.
Jazz still hadn’t noticed my reaction. She was now jabbing her finger at the newspaper and saying, ‘So, what are we going to wear?’
What? Since when did we become involved?
‘Er, sorry?’ I stammered, playing for time.
‘What are we going to wear?’ Jazz repeated, suddenly sounding touchy. ‘Come on, Bertie. Get with the programme! Haven’t you worked it out yet? Fiona’s the producer; I’ve met her; she likes me. I told her I was into the performing arts . . . Duh! It’s obvious, isn’t it?’
Oh dearie, dearie me with knobs on! Jazz was on a roll. And as usual it was all based on the assumption that, as ever, I would be happy to go along with her plans. It was always the same: Jazz snapped her fingers and I was supposed to jump to it and do what she said. I was getting pretty fed up with it all, to be honest.
But of course Jazz had not noticed my total lack of excitement. ‘Tell you what, let’s make a list, right? You like lists, don’t you, Bertie?’ I flinched. She was talking to me like I was her baby sister all of a sudden. ‘Here.’ She snatched a pad and pen from her desk and started scribbling and reading aloud as she wrote: ‘What – I – Need – to – Dress – to – Impress . . .’ What was it with these false nails? A sudden rush of anger welled in my throat.
‘Sorry, Jazz, but I don’t see what this show has got to do with you – or me – or the – what’s their name? – Meerleys,’ I said.
Jazz’s face clouded dangerously. I stared back at her while a dizzying sensation in the pit of my stomach gathered momentum like a distant thunderstorm.
‘What are you talking about?’ Jazz asked, her eyes narrowed. ‘It’s got EVERYTHING to do with us!’
I waited.
Jazz waggled her head at me as though I was the slowest train on the tracks and said slowly, for the benefit of my idiot-loony brain: ‘I told you; Fiona is the producer. She can get us to the front of the queue.’
‘How do you know Fiona can get us in? Have you asked her?’ I felt myself squaring up to Jazz, even though part of my brain was telling me to stop, to slow down and let her have her moment in the sun.
Jazz faltered. ‘I – I – it’s just obvious. She’s soooo lovely and I bet if I asked her it would be cool. Anyway, I am going to audition,’ she ended abruptly.
I knew it. I tried to keep my voice level.
‘So you haven’t actually asked her yet? I mean, you haven’t had a proper conversation about it?’
Jazz’s face was growing bleaker by the minute. I watched it dawn on her that she hadn’t thought this thing through.
‘Why don’t we just go and watch?’ I tried to sound reasonable. I didn’t want to upset my best mate, I told myself. ‘Dad used to work for the Ranter, don’t forget. Maybe he could sort us some good seats.’
Jazz flicked her braids out of her face and shot me a look of utter horror. ‘He can’t come with us!’ she gasped.
Admittedly, the idea of Dad rocking up to Who’s Got Talent? in his naff jeans and faded sludge-coloured T-shirt was pretty horrific – even I knew that. But that didn’t mean I was happy with Jazz’s reaction. What had this Fiona got that my dad hadn’t? (Apart from contacts in TV and the music business, I thought glumly.)
I squinted at the tiny writing in the newspaper that outlined the rules for the auditions, while a rollercoaster rocketed around somewhere inside me. I couldn’t deal with all the different feelings this conversation was stirring up. On the one hand I wanted to scream at Jazz to
shut up about this new family and the auditions, and to get a grip. On the other I wanted her to give me a hug and tell me nothing had changed and we were still best mates and by the way, here was a poster she’d been working on to help find Jaffa, and did I want to go out right now and stick copies up everywhere?
But soon Jazz was off on one again, conveniently sidestepping all my practical questions.
‘So, like I said, what are you going to wear? I’m going to practise that new routine I’m learning in my Street Dance class, hence the jeans cos I’m doing the splits – not that great a look in a skirt and quite tricky to do too. Then again, maybe my white jeans will be too tight—’
‘You can’t,’ I said quietly.
‘What now?’ Jazz said, one eyebrow arched.
‘Jazz,’ I said, taking her cue and adopting her you-are-not-on-Planet-Normal approach. ‘You’re eleven—’
‘Twelve in three months!’ she cut in defiantly.
‘You’re eleven,’ I repeated. ‘And you can’t audition for Who’s Got Talent? until you’re sixteen.’
‘Says who?’ Jazz’s confident expression wavered.
‘Look.’ I pointed at the small print which laid down the terms and conditions. ‘It says here you have to be sixteen.’
‘So? I could look sixteen if I got Aleisha to lend me some make-up,’ she said airily.
I could not keep a lid on my emotions any longer. ‘Yeah, like she’s going to do that!’ I rapped out, my voice laced with sarcasm and anger. Putting my head on one side, I talked up in a baby voice to an imaginary older sister: ‘Oh, hi, Leesh. Can I have some of your make-up, please?’ I looked down as if talking to a smaller person. ‘Sure, Jazz. What for?’ ‘Well, I’m entering the auditions for Who’s Got Talent? and I need to dress to impress.’ ‘Of course, darling little sister. Here, take the whole shebang, why don’t you, and while you’re at it why not borrow my favourite designer jeans?’
