by Anna Wilson
Jazz had her hands on her hips and her face was hardening into a fierce mask of fury.
I threw my hands up. ‘OK! OK! But you know what I mean!’ I shouted. ‘She’d have a fit if she knew what you were planning – and she’d definitely tell your mum.’
Jazz sucked her cheeks in and wobbled her head at me. ‘You just don’t want me to have a chance of winning,’ she said through clenched teeth. I didn’t think I’d ever seen her look so scary. I should have known then to back down.
But instead I did something really stupid. I couldn’t help it. I don’t even know where it came from – it burst out of me like bubblegum popping in my mouth.
I laughed.
It was just the idea that Jazz could actually believe that an eleven-year-old who sang like a strangled canary had the slightest chance of winning ‘the nation’s favourite talent show’ and be on television – and get a recording contract!
Jazz, predictably, did not find the idea as amusing as I did.
‘You, Bertie Fletcher, need to seriously get a life. And I mean seriously. You need to grow up. All this bonkers utter RUBBISH about pets and kittens and fluffy little hamster-wamsters. I mean how old ARE you exactly? We’re not at Junior School any more, Bertie. We’ll be nearly teenagers this time next year. You need to shape up your act, girl, or you are going to be doing time with the Losers of Loserville from here to the end of eternity. And I for one will not be hanging around to watch that happen.’
And she spun on her heel, her beads thwacking against her flushed cheeks, and marched out, slamming her door behind her, leaving me staring at the newspaper article and feeling as though she had just knocked all the life out of me.
10
Petless and Friendless
Some holiday this was turning out to be. I blundered down the stairs, swiping furiously at my wet, tear-streaked face and pushed past Ty who was standing in the hall, gawping at me and waving a long-suffering Huckleberry in the air.
‘Ber-tiiie,’ he whined. ‘Jazz just called Huckleberry a tail-less lettuce-munching rat!’
‘S-sorry, Ty. Gotta go,’ I mumbled, letting myself out of the house and running down the street before Jazz’s mum or sister could spot me and make me sit down with Jazz and ‘try to sort it all out’.
All I could think was how much distance I wanted to put between me and Jazz.
How could she have said those things? We had always been mates. OK, so we didn’t get on one hundred per cent of the time, but she’d never been so hurtful before. What was I going to do now? It had always been Jazz and Bertie, Bertie and Jazz. I wished I had Kaboodle to run home to – that gorgeous, soft, clever little kitten who always had some words of wisdom and a loud jet-engine purr to make me feel better. He certainly would have had some sharp, witty comments up his whiskers when it came to Jazz. But Kaboodle had gone. And Jaffa too. And Dad was working.
I thought of Jazz and how she too was probably in tears right this minute because I had laughed at her. I should have felt bad about that, I supposed. But why should I feel sorry for her? She had a mum to cuddle her when she was down, a big sister to give her advice. She even had a guinea pig in the family.
I had no one.
I was wallowing in the deep end of my own personal pool of misery and running along at full tilt with my hair flying in my face, so I didn’t see someone coming the other way. And I ran right into them.
‘Uh – oh, sorry!’ I muttered, keeping my face hidden behind a curtain of mad-as-a-mongoose hair.
‘Er, it’s OK,’ said the someone.
I wiped my face on the back of my sleeve and moved to one side to get past.
The someone moved in the same direction and we bumped into one another again. I felt heat rise to my face.
‘Sorry!’ I almost shouted it this time. I just wanted to get home.
Then I sensed a hand on my arm and glanced up sharply.
‘Hey, you OK? You look as though you’ve been crying.’
Oh. No. Holy Stromboli with grated cheese and extra salami. It was only him wasn’t it? Prince Charming himself.
‘I – I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. I’m Fergus, by the way – we’re neighbours, I think.’
I pursed my lips to stop myself from coming out with any words that I might live to regret for the rest of my life.
Fergus was taller than me. He had to stoop to try and hold my gaze while I shuffled uncomfortably and tried to flick my hair back over my eyes. I couldn’t think of anything to say and wished he would stop staring at me like that. Apart from anything else, it made it difficult for me to get a proper look at him.
‘How old are you?’ I blurted out.
WHAT DID I SAY THAT FOR? We weren’t in Reception any more! Next thing I’ll be asking him if he wants to be my friend. Actually, scrap that. That’s one thing I would definitely not be asking him.
Fergus grinned. I noticed, through my hair-curtain, that he had very white even teeth. And his hair was actually really glossy and quite an unusual dark red, which glinted in the sunlight – what you’d call auburn. I felt even more of a hot and dirty mess.
In fact, I felt like I was running a temperature. I wished the pavement would split in two and that some alien life form would emerge and drag me down into the depths.
‘Thirteen. Why? How old are you?’ Fergus was saying.
I was so shocked I forgot to stay hidden behind my fringe. My eyes were doing their best to leap out of their sockets, but I did my best to restrain them. Thirteen? Bang went Jazz’s dreams of Prince Charming leading her up into the dizzying heights of fame and fortune!
‘I’m eleven – nearly twelve,’ I added, immediately biting my lip and thinking how utterly dumb that sounded. Why didn’t I just say ‘eleven’ and be done with it?
‘Oh. Right – I thought you might be older than that,’ Fergus said, his smooth face going a bit pink. ‘It’s just – er – your friend Jazz told me she was thirteen and I guess I thought you might be in the same year as her.’
I was finding it incredibly difficult to speak like a normal human being. Jazz was unbelievable. But for some weird reason, I couldn’t allow myself to drop her in it and tell Fergus the truth.
‘So. I guess we’ll be in the same school in September,’ he was babbling on.
‘Yeah, probably.’
I’d calmed down slightly now, what with all this bizarre conversation, and I realized I didn’t feel like crying any more. I sniffed loudly.
‘So, er, what are you into?’ Fergus said, kicking at a leaf on the pavement.
‘What?’ I said. What kind of a question was that, for goodness sake?
‘Well, like, your friend Jazz is into music and dancing and stuff – she told me all about it—’
‘I bet she did,’ I muttered.
‘Eh?’
‘I said, “That sounds like Jazz!”’ I fibbed extra-brightly.
‘Yeah, so – are you into music?’ he persisted, peering down at me through his floppy fringe.
I picked at some loose threads on the sleeve of my T-shirt. ‘Kind of. Not really. I mean, it’s OK, but it’s not my thing,’ I said with a slight sneer. ‘I’m not in a successful band or anything.’
I knew I should be trying to be nice to this boy. He was only making conversation. He was probably a bit lonely if he’d moved a long way from all his friends. And I knew what lonely felt like. But it was all that stuff about Jazz: I couldn’t help it.
‘Oh, right. You’ve heard about the band . . . Actually, it doesn’t exist any more. We had to split when I moved,’ Fergus said. He looked sad suddenly. Then he blurted out suddenly, ‘Sorry, enough about me. I should let you go. Erm – hope you don’t mind me asking though, but is everything OK? Only, you were crying, like I said, and—’
All at once I was fed up with this freaky chitchat with a boy I had never even wanted to meet in the first place. I didn’t care about his band. I didn’t care about him. I snapped. ‘Not that it’s any of your busine
ss, but animals are really “my thing”; not music, not Summer School Dance Camp, not Zeb Acorn, not Street Dance – animals. And if you absolutely have to know why I was crying, it’s cos I’ve lost my cat and she’s only little, so it’s kind of upsetting.’
I had been trying to keep my eyes fixed firmly on the pavement during this whole tirade, so that I didn’t embarrass myself by bursting into tears again, but a sharp gasp from Fergus made me start.
‘What?’ I asked, looking up.
Fergus was frowning and chewing his lip.
‘Have you seen her?’ I pressed him.
‘I’m not sure, but . . . You say she’s little. How little?’ Fergus asked, his dark blue eyes clouding over. Why was he suddenly so concerned about my kitten?
‘We-ell, size-wise she’s about this big.’ I showed him with my hands exactly how tiny my little Jaffa was. About the size of a grapefruit – I could still hold her in one hand. The last time I’d held her, anyway. ‘But we don’t know exactly how old she is. She was given to us, you see. By – by the lady who owns the house you’re living in, as it happens.’
Fergus smiled. ‘Oh, Fenella Pinkington.’
I found myself smiling too. ‘Yeah. Pinkella!’
Fergus laughed. ‘Great nickname – wish I’d thought of that! Makes sense when you see the walls and carpets. Mum’ll crack up when I tell her.’
I was horrified. ‘You can’t tell your mum! She might tell Pink— I mean, Ms Pinkington, and I’d hate that. She was really nice to me,’ I tailed off, pathetically.
Fergus shrugged. I could tell he thought I was a right doofus. ‘So – your kitten,’ he prompted.
‘So?’ Was he humouring me?
‘Tell me what she’s like. Apart from being small.’
‘I – well, she’s mega-cute. I called her Jaffa cos she’s gingery-orange. Made me think of Jaffa Cakes? Oh, and she’s a bit white too. And she seemed really happy with us to start with, and then we had to take her to the vet for her jabs and stuff, and ever since then—’
‘Sorry,’ said Fergus, interrupting my stream of babble. ‘Did you say she was ginger?’ He was looking anxious again.
‘Yeah, unusual for a female cat, I know,’ I said airily, hoping I sounded knowledgeable.
‘No, it’s not that. It’s just, I . . .’ He faltered, suddenly looking ill at ease.
‘Yes?’
‘No, really. It’s nothing. Er, listen, are you doing anything right now? Do you want to maybe go to the park or something?’
Where did that come from? I thought, my forehead creasing into a frown. Why would he want to go to the park? With me? He was definitely winding me up now.
‘No thanks,’ I said firmly. ‘I need to look for Jaffa and I don’t think she could have gone all that way.’
He chewed his lip and then said in a totally over-the-top fake careless manner: ‘It’s OK. I only asked as I was going to the park anyway. Might call on your mate Jazz and ask her if she’s free.’
‘Fine,’ I said, turning on my heel. ‘See you around.’
‘Yeah, see you!’ Fergus called out.
‘Oh.’ I swivelled back. ‘And if you do see a small ginger kitten, you will let me know, won’t you?’
Fergus glanced away quickly. ‘Uh-huh.’ He nodded casually. Then stuffing his hands deep into his pockets, he turned round very slowly and slouched off in the direction of Jazz’s house.
11
Now We’re Talking!
Dad was in the hall, beaming all over his face when I got in.
‘What’s up?’ I asked gloomily.
‘Look who’s here!’ he said, gesturing towards the sitting room with a ‘Daa-daaaa!’ and a flourish of his hands, as if he’d just pulled a white rabbit out of a top hat.
Actually, it was better than that.
‘JAFFSIE!’ I yelled, my whole face lighting up with joy. I stopped myself just in time from running towards her and frightening the life out of her, and instead I tiptoed up to my little kitten and scooped her into my arms for a gentle cuddle. ‘Where have you been?’ I whispered, rubbing my nose softly against her fur.
She whipped round and sank her tiny, needle-sharp teeth into my hand. ‘Miaaaaaow! None of Bertie’s business.’
‘Wh—aaaaaa?’ I nearly dropped her.
‘Hey, that was some noise! Did she scratch you?’ Dad asked, leaping to my side.
‘I – yes, but it wasn’t . . .’ I stammered. She had spoken to me, hadn’t she? Or had I imagined it in my excitement?
‘Grrrrrooowl!’ Jaffa let out a low warning snarl.
And then (I was absolutely sure of this) I heard her say something, so soft that it came out in a hiss: ‘Don’t you be telling that man nothin’.’
I gasped.
‘She’s hurt you, hasn’t she?’ Dad said, looking concerned. ‘Give her to me,’ he went on, stretching out his arms. ‘Blimey! Who would have thought such a tiny cat could—’
‘No, no, it’s fine,’ I said, thinking quickly. ‘I think she must be hungry. I’ll go and get her something to eat.’
Dad shook his head. ‘You know what? I tried giving her something when she came trotting in just now, but she wasn’t interested.’
‘What did you give her?’
‘That kitten food, of course. What else was I supposed to offer? A prawn cocktail?’
‘Kitten food yucky. Prawns . . . purrrrr . . . scrumlummmmtious.’
There it was again!
‘I – I’m going to try something else,’ I said, backing out of the sitting room. ‘I think we should give her a proper treat to welcome her home. Actually, have we got any prawns?’ I asked, as casually as I could.
Jaffa started purring so noisily at this, I was completely positive that she had understood what I’d just said. I was intent on getting away from Dad by now. I had to go to my room so that I could talk to Jaffa. Maybe once I got her on her own we could have a proper conversation and she’d tell me where she’d been the past few days.
‘We have, but . . .’ said Dad, sounding unsure. ‘Hey, I think I might just ring Bex at the pet shop to ask her if she thinks it’s safe to give Jaffa rich food.’
‘Fine,’ I cut in quickly. This was just the diversion I needed, even if it involved ‘Bex’, I thought irritably. ‘We’ll be in the kitchen.’
Dad was already dialling the number for Paws for Thought. I vaguely wondered why he hadn’t needed to look it up in the telephone directory, but was too preoccupied with the purring bundle in my arms to follow this thought through.
I scurried to the kitchen and shut the door behind me, then, lifting Jaffa to my face, I said, ‘So tell me, am I imagining it? Or can you really talk?’
Jaffa’s icy blue eyes closed in a slow blink and then she stopped purring and in a tiny muffled voice said, ‘Of course me can talk. You ninny.’
I laughed out loud. ‘Ha! I knew you could. I knew Kaboodle wouldn’t have left me with a cat that couldn’t talk!’
Jaffa’s ears went flat and she hissed in annoyance. ‘All cats talk, silly-billy. Humans too busy rushy-rushy to notice.’
I frowned. ‘That’s not true,’ I said. ‘I’ve been trying to get you to talk to me ever since you arrived.’ Jaffa lifted one paw and examined it absent-mindedly before spreading out her toes to wash in between them.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ I blurted out. ‘I know you cats like to think before you act and wash before you think and all that, but I think I’m entitled to an explanation, don’t you?’
Jaffa wriggled and said tetchily, ‘Me want go down!’
I tutted, but set her down gently on the table and drew up a chair so that we could face each other more easily. ‘So?’ I persisted. ‘Why didn’t you talk to me before now?’
‘Like the horrid iron-claw lady say – kittens not talk right away,’ she said, with an edge to her voice that seemed to imply that I really was incredibly stupid.
I frowned, puzzled. Horrid iron-claw lady?
‘Me
not going there again. Ever,’ Jaffa added emphatically.
Aaaah! Light dawned in my dim and befuddled brain. ‘You mean the vet?’ I said. ‘That wasn’t her claws: we took you to the vet for an injection!’ I almost laughed, but saw that Jaffa was giving me an if-you-were-a-mouse-I-would-kill-you-right-here-and-now look. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said hastily. ‘I really am. I know injections are nasty, but it’s only so you don’t get sick.’
‘Me nearly was sick after nasty lady stuck claws in me,’ Jaffa said, her voice getting more audible the more indignant she became. She thrust her tiny pink nose in the air. ‘And there was horrid long twisty-turny scary creature too.’
The snake! I hadn’t even realized Jaffa had noticed it in all the excitement.
I thought she was about to turn her back on me in a sulk, but she opened one eye and then said, ‘You sure I not go again to this – vet person . . .?’
I chewed my lip. I couldn’t really promise that, could I? What about the follow-up vaccinations Dad had mentioned? And what if Jaffa ever got sick or needed an operation or something?
‘There’s nothing to worry about, Jaffa,’ I said in as soothing a voice as I could manage.
Jaffa opened her other eye and stretched her mouth into what looked strangely like a smile. She purred long and loud and nuzzled her soft head against my hand. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘But who is the “Jaffa” you keep sayin’?’
I giggled. ‘That’s you! It’s the name I chose for you.’
Jaffa sat back on her haunches, her eyes half closed as if she were thinking hard. ‘No, no, no . . .’ she said, shaking her head slightly. She turned swiftly and gave her shoulder a lick. ‘Me Perdita. Mum said.’
Panic lurched in my stomach. Did Jaffa even know that she’d been taken from her mum? She was still such a tiny baby. Maybe she didn’t realize? What had Kaboodle told her? Was that why she’d disappeared for so long – to try and find her mum?
