‘Well, they weren’t going to let just anyone in, were they? I had to look the part. You wouldn’t believe the trouble I went to pull this off. I had to fake phone calls from my mum, and from the education authority in Cardiff –’
‘Cardiff?’
‘We just moved here from Cardiff,’ she says sweetly. ‘At the weekend. All my files got lost in the post.’
‘Do you go to drama club, or a support group for compulsive liars?’
‘Acting, lying, it’s all the same thing,’ Cat says. ‘Anyway, I’m here. Cool, huh?’
‘No,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘Not cool. I told you, Cat, I’m trying to stay out of trouble – I don’t need this.’
‘I’m not causing trouble,’ she says airily. ‘Just having a laugh. What’re you doing in this class, anyhow?’ She lowers her voice. ‘I mean, it’s not like you’re thick, is it?’
That hurts. ‘Thanks a bunch,’ I say. ‘But apparently I am. My spelling’s bad, my reading’s worse, and writing gives me a headache.’
‘This’d give anyone a headache,’ Cat replies. ‘They’ll be dancing on the tables, next.’
‘You wanted to see what it was like.’
‘I know.’ She grins. ‘It’s even better than I imagined. Our place is the opposite – super-strict. Sneeze in class and you get detention for a week.’
‘Funny how well you’re adapting.’
‘Isn’t it? Maybe I’m just born to be bad. So. What’re you doing?’
She picks up the cartoony worksheet. Her eyes widen a little when she sees the questions, but she doesn’t say anything, and I can feel my skin flush crimson. Is she laughing at me, or pitying me? I don’t know which would feel worse.
‘You’re dyslexic, aren’t you?’ she says to me. ‘Lots of people are. My friend Naomi …’
I don’t want to hear about Cat’s friend Naomi. I pick up the worksheet, scrunch it up into a ball and skim it across the classroom. The supply teacher looks nervous, but doesn’t say anything. I look at the clock. Five minutes till lunchtime. I don’t know if I can survive it.
‘It took me forever to track you down,’ Cat is saying, brightly. ‘I went to maths, French, history, chemistry …’
I hide behind my fringe, scowling.
She frowns. ‘Aren’t you even a little bit glad to see me, Mouse? I thought you’d be pleased. I thought this would make you laugh!’
‘Did you?’
‘Don’t be mad at me, Mouse,’ she says.
The bell goes, and kids stampede for the door. I grab my bag and try to lose myself in the crowd, but Cat is running along behind me. ‘So,’ she asks me. ‘What happens at lunch?’
I don’t even want to think about that. Fitz, Chan, Neela Rehman, the rest of the kids in my class – and Cat, eating turkey twizzlers and pretending it’s cool. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Help me, I think. Please.
A firm hand grasps the back of my jacket and pulls me up short.
‘Kavanagh,’ Mr Brown says. ‘Finally. My office now.’
Sometimes, help comes from the most unexpected places.
I sit across the desk from Mr Brown. ‘No tie today, Kavanagh?’ he asks.
I could tell him it was stolen by a psycho posh girl who is in the school canteen right now, impersonating a Green Vale pupil and asking the dinner ladies if they have Camembert cheese and fairly traded chocolate pudding, but a few dregs of loyalty linger on.
‘Lost it,’ I say.
‘I’m impressed,’ Mr Brown says.
‘Uh?’
‘Not about the tie,’ he says, hastily. ‘No. It’s the effort you’ve been making to stay out of trouble, and the wonderful things you’ve been doing in art. Mr Lewis has nothing but praise for you.’
‘He does?’
‘He does. And I have to say I agree. You have an unusual talent.’
‘Who, me?’ I can feel myself sitting up straighter, taller.
‘Yes, you,’ Mr Brown says. ‘What’s more, I feel I may have underestimated the depth of your feelings with that whole graffiti incident. I’ve reread your letter and I can see that you raised some very real criticisms. What seemed like an act of vandalism at the time may have been, in fact, a cry from the heart.’
He’s crazy. Teachers get this way, sometimes, especially at this time of year. Stress, school dinners and endless school reports have scrambled his brains.
‘You made a valid point with your graffiti protest. I don’t approve of the way you made it, but you were right. This school needs more colour. That wall needs more colour! A mural, perhaps? Something tasteful – perhaps a countryside scene? You’re the expert, of course. I thought you might find time to draw up some designs over the Christmas break?’
I blink.
‘Green Vale has always been a school where pupils are encouraged to reach for the stars,’ he says. ‘This is your chance to do just that!’
I really scare Mr Brown then. I jump up and give him a high five, tell him he’s not the stuffy old loser everyone says he is. Then I’m out of there, sprinting off along the corridor, jumping up to drag down the paper banner as I go. It falls to the ground behind me, curling itself around Mr Brown’s feet. Amazingly, he doesn’t seem to mind.
At least one thing is going right today.
My fingers are gritty with silver glitter from the banner, like they are made of stars. I might even put Mr Brown up on my star map – a distant star, obviously, in a far-off galaxy. But still.
The minute I get to the school canteen, though, my mood crashes. Cat is at a table with Fitz, Chan and a whole bunch of Year Nine lads. She’s laughing, flicking her hair, flirting shamelessly with Lee Costa who is perched on the table beside her, eating her chips.
She sees me and waves, winking cheekily. Suddenly, I’m not hungry any more. I turn round and walk away, but Cat is right behind me. ‘Wait up,’ she says. ‘What did he want with you, the Head? Are you in trouble?’
‘No,’ I say shortly. ‘You are.’
‘What?’
‘You don’t belong here,’ I snap, though it’s clear from what I’ve just seen that she’s settled in pretty well.
She slips a hand into mine, but I shake her off. ‘Mouse, what’s wrong?’ she asks, genuinely baffled.
I stop walking and turn to face her. Last night, holed up on the bus-shelter roof watching fireworks explode above the Eden Estate, I felt closer to Cat than I’ve ever felt to anyone. Today, it’s like I never knew her at all.
‘Why did you come here, Cat?’ I ask. ‘To laugh at me? To see what school is like if you don’t have rich parents and endless cash? To land me in trouble again? To flirt with my friends, sneer at the scabby desks and scruffy classrooms?’
‘It’s not like that,’ Cat says in a small voice.
‘So what is it like?’ I demand. ‘Oh, what’s the point? I’m sick of your stupid games. Go away and leave me alone.’
I think she might cry, but instead her eyes flash with anger and she pushes past me, shoving her way through the double doors and marching out across the playground.
‘I want my tie back,’ I yell after her. She just drags it off and drops it on to the concrete playground without a backward glance.
‘Sheesh,’ says Fitz from behind me. ‘Great move, Mouse. You’ve really blown it now.’
I never used to have a girlfriend and I never used to have a dog, but now, without them, I am lost.
I feel bad about Cat. She wasn’t trying to wind me up, but the sight of her flirting with Lee Costa was just about the last straw. I got mad, and I said stuff I shouldn’t have said, and she walked out of my life. It’s probably a good thing. She doesn’t need a boyfriend from the Eden Estate, especially one who is sad and scared and has enemies like Frank Scully.
All the same, I miss her.
I walk up and down her street about a dozen times that night, and again the night after. She doesn’t come out, but on the third night, her mum pulls back the curtain and gives me a long, h
ard stare.
I give up then, pretty much. Looks like I’m destined to be a no-dog, no-girl boy. I try to walk away, but walking away from Cat is not easy. I get about halfway down the street, come to a halt at a bus stop and look back at her house. If she’d just come out, then maybe I could explain, tell her why I acted so mean. Maybe.
I have a quick look around, then haul myself up on to the bus-stop roof. The view is better from up here, but it’s dark and cold and there’s a soft drizzle starting to fall. I’ve just about given up hope when I spot a bicycle whirling along towards me, ridden by a sad-faced girl with coffee-coloured skin and ringlet curls.
I jump down off the bus shelter roof. ‘Cat!’
She skids her bike to a halt and the dynamo lights fizzle and fade. ‘You,’ she says, coldly.
‘Nice to see you too. Look, Cat, about the other day …’
She shrugs. ‘I’ll get over it. You’re not so special.’
That hurts.
‘You walked past my house about a million times last night,’ she comments. ‘Why didn’t you call in?’
‘Didn’t think you’d want to see me. Why didn’t you come down?’
‘Same reason.’ Her mouth twitches into a smile. ‘You look terrible.’
‘Of course I do! I’ve lost you, I’ve lost Lucky and there’s a knife-wielding maniac on the loose out there with a grudge against my mum … I’ve had better weeks.’
Cat’s eyes widen. ‘What?’ she says. ‘What are you talking about? What maniac? Where’s Lucky?’
We lean against the bus stop and I tell her the whole sorry story. ‘Scully doesn’t want Lucky,’ I explain. ‘He just wants to hurt me – and Mum. What if he does something bad to Lucky, just to spite us?’
Cat bites her lip. ‘Look, Mouse, this isn’t right. We have to get Lucky back!’
My heart leaps, but I know it’s not that simple. ‘That’ll just make Scully madder than ever,’ I say sadly. ‘Lucky is his dog … well, he thinks so, anyway. No. It’s awful, but we have to let Lucky go.’ Even as I say it, I feel a stab of pain inside. Letting Lucky go is against every instinct I know.
‘We can’t!’ Cat protests.
‘If we take Lucky back, Scully’s going to go crazy,’ I say. ‘He’s already had a go at the other witnesses, scared them into withdrawing their statements. I don’t want him to start on Mum.’
Cat looks let down, as if I just sold my best friend into slavery. Well, maybe I did. I don’t know what to do with the mess of anger and frustration and hurt that’s bubbling away inside me. I want to kick through plate-glass windows until the pavement glitters with splintered glass, punch a wall until the skin on my fist is mashed and bleeding. I want to yell and swear and curl up and cry.
I don’t do any of that, of course. Cat slips her hand into mine.
‘What a mess,’ she says.
I’d feel better if I could at least see Lucky out and about around the estate, but it’s like he has vanished off the face of the earth. Fitz and Chan ask around a bit for me, but nobody’s seen Lucky – or Scully – for days.
‘Word is that Scully’s gone away for a while,’ I tell Mum. ‘He must be lying low.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ Mum asks.
‘I suppose.’
I can’t stop worrying, though. I just need to know that Lucky is safe. On Friday, after school, I see old Mrs S. carrying her shopping towards the lift, beneath the twinkling icicle lights, and I run up to help.
‘Oh, Mouse, thank you,’ she says. ‘Those bags were heavy! I’ve been getting a bit of shopping in for my Frank.’
‘Right,’ I say carefully. ‘I heard he was back.’
‘Yes,’ she says, beaming. ‘It was all a mix-up, Mouse. He’s not really a bad boy.’
I bite my tongue. Scully has been trouble since the day he was born, I reckon. He may wriggle out of the drug-pushing charge now that he’s ‘persuaded’ the witnesses to back off, but everyone in the Phoenix saw him threaten Mum with a knife. He won’t get away with that, surely?
‘I’ve already made some cakes,’ Mrs S. is telling me. ‘My Frankie has always had a sweet tooth. He’s bound to be round to see his old gran.’
We step out of the tinselled lift. ‘You haven’t seen him yet then?’ I press.
‘No,’ Mrs S. admits. ‘He’s been over in Luton, the last few days, seeing his mum. He’ll be back soon, though – today, perhaps. I want to be ready.’
She turns the key and steps back to let me into the flat. In the lounge, the table is spread as if for a child’s party, with plates of iced cakes wrapped in cling film, wilted sandwiches cut into neat triangles and a bottle of lemonade. It looks like Mrs S. has been ready for Frankie’s visit for a while.
‘I can make some fresh sandwiches now,’ she says, taking the shopping bags from me. ‘Thank you, Mouse. Would you like some cake? There’s plenty!’
‘No, no, it’s OK,’ I tell her. ‘Mrs S. … well, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but did Scully – I mean, Frank – take Lucky to Luton, d’you know? My dog? It turns out he belonged to Frank after all. He – um – took Lucky back, and I miss him, and I just want to know that he’s OK.’
‘Your dog?’ she echoes. ‘Oh dear. My Josie didn’t say anything about a dog.’
I frown. ‘Right. OK,’ I say. ‘I expect someone around here is looking after Lucky then.’
Mrs S. looks doubtful. ‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘I hope so. I’ll have a word with Frank for you, when I do see him. He’s just not cut out to look after a dog – his temper gets the better of him.’
My heart sinks to the soles of my converse trainers. Where the heck is Lucky, if he’s not with Scully? And what does she mean, about Scully’s temper getting the better of him?
‘When will Scully – I mean Frank – be back?’ I ask.
Mrs S. looks vague. ‘Oh, sometime soon, I expect,’ she says. ‘Today or tomorrow, or maybe the day after. He’s bound to come and see me, the minute he can. I’ll ask about the dog, I promise.’
‘Well, great,’ I tell her. ‘Thank you.’
Back at the flat, Mum is draping fairy lights round the Swiss cheese plant, singing to herself. ‘Bit early, aren’t you?’ I ask. ‘It’s not even December till next week.’
‘I know, I know, but I thought it might look nice … I’ve had a bit of good news, Mouse.’
I don’t want good news when all I can think about is Lucky, alone maybe, hungry, unwanted, unloved. ‘Yeah?’ I ask.
‘Yeah!’ Mum grins. ‘Julie’s been in talks with the council all week, and it looks like they’re going to fund some improvements on the Eden Estate …’
‘Improvements?’
‘General repairs, for starters,’ Mum explains. ‘Which has to be good, because let’s face it, most of the flats around here are in a pretty dismal state. It’s not just that, though. They’re going to build a children’s nursery, a youth club and a day centre for senior citizens, down where the Phoenix used to be. And they’re going to lease one of the new buildings to us, so that the Phoenix can carry on helping to fight back against the drug problems here on the estate. We’ll be back in business, Mouse! Isn’t that fantastic?’
‘Great,’ I say. ‘Really, Mum, it’s brilliant!’
‘We won’t just be a small-time charity, working alone,’ she tells me. ‘We’ll be working alongside the council, with proper support from the social services and the health authority. The Phoenix is going be bigger and better than ever!’
I force a smile. ‘I’m really glad,’ I tell her. ‘You’ve worked so hard on this project, you and Luke and Julie. It’s great the council can see that – that they’re prepared to help.’
‘There’s a scheme like this in Liverpool, apparently, where the council are working alongside an anti-drugs charity to clean up a troubled estate,’ Mum says. ‘So far, the results have been really positive. Julie thinks we should go up north, take a look at how that project is going – get an idea of how we can make
it work here.’
‘Great,’ I echo. Mum turns back to the fairy lights, singing under her breath. For the first time in weeks she looks really happy, her face alive with plans for the future.
‘We’ll still have a garden,’ she tells me. ‘The council loved that idea – they want to make it a big community garden, a focal point, with the buildings clustered around it. It’s all about creating a sense of identity and belonging for the people here on Eden – helping them to feel part of a community. I’ve got so many plans!’
I smile, and Mum doesn’t notice that it’s a thin, sad kind of a smile. Now isn’t the time to tell her what Mrs S. said about Scully’s temper, or ask about where Lucky can be. She’s had enough doom and gloom, lately. I don’t want to spoil her optimism.
‘Got homework,’ I say, dragging my rucksack through to my room. Mum doesn’t even raise an eyebrow, although it must be the first time in living memory I’ve admitted to having homework, let alone threatened to actually do it. I shut the door and flop down on the bed, looking at the ceiling of stars. I think of Mr Brown’s mural idea, of the banner with its gold-foil constellations. I think of the council’s plans to drag the Eden Estate out of trouble with a coat of paint, a new youth centre and a community garden, to turn it into a place where people can hope.
Then I think of Lucky, whimpering, lost, forgotten already by the bloke who thinks he owns him. If he’s not in Luton with Scully, where is he? Curled up in the corner of some lowlife’s flat, cringing, scared? He’s not OK, I know he’s not. I can feel it inside, a sad, sick feeling in the pit of my belly.
Mum’s dreaming of a brand-new Phoenix, a brand-new Eden. Me, I’m still stuck in the real world.
Next morning, Saturday, I’m washing cars for Jake to help pay him back for the firework display. I have a date with Cat for later, but even the thought of that can’t cheer me up. I barely slept last night, thinking about Lucky. I know – I just know – that he’s in trouble.
Fitz and Chan arrive. They know about Lucky and Scully now, so I fill them in on what Mrs S. said yesterday. I explain that Lucky is not with Scully, and how Mrs S. thinks Scully isn’t suited to keeping a dog. ‘That’s his own gran talking,’ I remind them. ‘If she thinks that, it must be bad.’
Lucky Star Page 11
