Paris Crush

by Melody James

  Barbara lifts her chin proudly. ‘Detention: The Punishment That Keeps on Giving.’

  Will grunts. ‘Giving what? Overtime to teachers?’

  Barbara doesn’t flinch. ‘Breathing space,’ she tells him. ‘A quiet time to reconsider and work on improving oneself.’

  ‘You’ve outdone yourself, Babs,’ Will snorts.

  I fight the urge to suggest he volunteers for a few weeks’ detention. He could do with improving and we all need the breathing space.

  ‘I think Barbara’s come up with an interesting point of view,’ David chips in. ‘I can’t wait to read it.’

  Barbara smiles at him, a soft blush pinking her cheeks.

  My romance detector starts flashing. Are there actually sparks flying in the storeroom that aren’t directed at Cindy? I quickly slide my notepad from my bag and scribble a note. Find out David’s star sign. Suddenly Jessica Jupiter has a new matchmaking project. And maybe – with a well-worded prediction or two – she can bring David and Barbara together.

  And who knows? With Barbara in love, her articles might start to heat up and bubble with interest. I’ll be doing the whole school a favour.

  ‘Dad!’ I shout for a referee. ‘Ben’s bugging me!’

  My nine-year-old brother is leaning over the dining room table pulling faces across my maths book while I’m grappling with vectors. Even though I’m squawking for Dad to haul him away, I’m trying hard not to laugh.

  Ben pulls the best faces. He says he gets lots of practice because he has to take so much icky medicine. He’s got cystic fibrosis so he has to swallow fistfuls of pills every day. He also needs heaps of physiotherapy to keep his lungs gunk-free, and spends ages every day puffing on his nebulizer to help him breathe more easily. So I’m happy he’s bugging me. It means he feels OK. Even if it is interfering with my vital mathematical education.

  ‘Ben!’ Dad yells from the kitchen. ‘Come and help me cook dinner.’

  ‘But then I can’t pull faces at Gemma.’ Ben turns round, eyes bright, as Dad appears in the doorway.

  ‘Let Gemma do her homework.’

  Ben shrieks with delight as Dad plucks him off his chair and helicopters him into the kitchen.

  I hunch tighter over my maths book and try to ignore the rumbling in my stomach. Dad’s fridge-surprise curry smells surprisingly good. Clearly, starvation can do funny things to your nose.

  ‘Hi, love.’ Mum comes in from the hall and stops behind my chair. She ruffles my hair. ‘How’s homework?’

  ‘Not bad.’ Despite Ben, I’ve nearly finished vectoring. I’ll have the rest of the evening to work on next week’s horoscopes for the webzine. Then I glance up at Mum. She’s looking tired. ‘Do you want me to do Ben’s physio tonight?’

  ‘Thanks, Gem, but I’ll do it.’ She plants a kiss on my head. ‘You look like you’ve had a busy day too, and I can put my feet up while Dad’s doing Ben’s bedtime story.’

  She heads into the kitchen, returning with fistfuls of cutlery. She starts laying the table around me.

  ‘I’m done.’ I slap my exercise book shut triumphantly and fetch the table mats from the dresser.

  Mum takes me by surprise by dropping a gossip bomb. ‘I hear the Moores are going to Turkey for Easter.’

  ‘The Moores?’ I slide a table mat between a knife and fork. ‘As in Sally Moore?’

  ‘I met her mum in Tesco and she said the tickets were booked.’

  This must be the rumour that Sal was looking forward to spreading at lunchtime. Mum’s looking wistful. We haven’t been on holiday for years. We were supposed to go to Spain last summer, but Ben got an infection and we had to cancel.

  ‘Are we going on holiday this year?’ I venture.

  ‘We’ll see.’ Mum reaches for the salt and pepper pots and clunks them onto the table.

  I know what we’ll see means. If Dad can work enough extra shifts to earn the airfare and if Ben stays well . . . I slap another table mat down. Never mind. Once I’m an international journalist, I can travel the world.

  I slip into a jet-set world, my mind conjuring up a Boeing 747 with an air steward welcoming me onboard.

  ‘I hope you enjoy your trip to New York, Ms Stone,’ he purrs. ‘We’re honoured to have you on our flight.’

  My Journalist of the Year Award is weighing down my hand luggage. I’m planning to put it on my mantelpiece as soon as I reach my apartment on Fifth Avenue. I’ve already decided that the solid gold globe would look far too garish in my London flat.

  ‘Champagne?’ the steward offers as I take my seat.

  ‘After we’ve taken off.’ I wave him away.

  ‘Are you Gemma Stone?’ A voice from the seat next to me takes me by surprise. It’s the editor of the Wall Street Journal.

  ‘Hello.’ I flash him a dazzling smile and shake the hand he offers across the armrest.

  ‘I hope you’re hungry,’ Dad’s voice breaks into my fantasy.

  He’s marching from the kitchen, carrying a steaming saucepan of curry. Ben totters after him, wobbling under the weight of four dinner plates. He clanks them one at a time between the knives and forks. Ben likes to prove he can help around the house and, to be fair, he breaks less crockery than Dad.

  We settle into our seats as Dad heads back to the kitchen for the rice pan.

  ‘How hungry are you?’ he asks, slopping half a tonne of rice onto my plate.

  ‘Starving.’ The steamy smell fills my nose and I reach for the curry. Mum’s leaning towards Ben, passing him pills. He’s swallowing them down with great gulps of water. His body doesn’t make the enzymes he needs to process food so they’ll help him digest his dinner.

  I spoon curry onto my plate and some onto Ben’s and wait for him to finish his pill routine before digging in. ‘How was school today, monkey-face?’ I ask him.

  Ben stuffs a forkful of rice into his mouth, then answers. ‘Jake let the mouse out and Megan had to catch it because Miss Eagan was standing on a chair.’ A barrage of rice missiles fires across the table.

  I swallow back a giggle. ‘Spray that again?’

  Ben takes me literally. ‘Miss Eagan was standing on a chair.’

  A second wave of rice strafes the table.

  ‘Gemma.’ Mum gives me her Look.

  ‘What?’ I ask innocently. ‘I was only—’

  Dad butts in. ‘Why did Miss Eagan have to stand on a chair?’

  Mum grabs Ben’s fork-wielding hand before he shoves in more ammunition. ‘Answer, then eat,’ she orders.

  ‘She’s allergic to mice,’ Ben explains. ‘They make her scream.’

  Dad grins. ‘Did she scream this time?’

  Mum’s too late to catch Ben’s next forkful. He gives another ricey reply. ‘Yeah. Really loudly.’

  Mum fetches a cloth.

  Dad’s still digging for facts. ‘How did Megan catch the mouse?’

  ‘In her pencil case.’ Ben looks proud. ‘Then she showed it to Miss Eagan to prove it was caught. But Miss Eagan just screamed more and Mr Musgrove came in.’

  ‘Did he have to give her mouse-to-mouse resuscitation?’ Dad asks.

  Ben’s cheeks pop and he explodes with laughter. I duck the rice storm.

  Dad takes the cloth from Mum. ‘Let me clear it up.’ He starts mopping up dinner debris.

  Mum sits down. ‘Poor Miss Eagan.’

  ‘I don’t know why she was screaming,’ Ben reasons. ‘It didn’t bite her or anything.’

  I write the article in my head.

  Rodent Terrorizes Teacher

  A Year Three teacher was driven to hysteria after an escaped rodent chased her onto a chair. She was saved from total panic when a brave nine-year-old rushed to the rescue and captured the out-of-control vermin in a pencil case. Three firemen and a policeman took four hours to talk the petrified professor down from her chair, and she was offered tea and counselling while the rodent was returned safely to its cage, where it feasted on a carrot and a handful of sunflower seeds.

&n
bsp; ‘How was your day, Gem?’ Mum interrupts my thoughts.

  ‘Fine.’

  Dad sniffs. ‘Have you persuaded that lot on the webzine to let you write a serious piece yet?’

  ‘Not yet,’ I answer brightly, so no one sees how disappointed I am to be stuck handing out fake psychic advice.

  ‘You’ll get there soon,’ Mum encourages.

  ‘Get where?’ Ben wrinkles his forehead. ‘Gemma, are you going somewhere?’

  I wish. ‘No, Ben.’ I think of Sal’s trip to Turkey and take another mouthful of curry.

  ‘Sal’s mum said there was a new boy in your class,’ Mum prompts. ‘Robert someone—’

  ‘Rupert,’ I correct her. ‘Rupert Briggs.’

  ‘Is he nice?’ Mum asks.

  ‘It depends what you mean by “nice”,’ I huff. ‘He tells a lot of bad jokes.’

  Mum swipes a look at Dad. ‘Like someone else we know.’

  Dad puts up his hands. ‘I can’t help it if I’m funny.’

  Mum raises her eyebrows and points to the stray bits of rice circling Ben’s plate. ‘Next time, save the jokes for after dinner.’

  I’m glad the conversation’s wandered away from Rupert. He’s the last person I want to think about. I scrape my plate clean and start to get up. ‘I’m just going to do something on my laptop.’

  Dad catches my eye pleadingly. ‘Will you wash up first, honey?’

  ‘OK.’ I want to get on with my horoscopes, but I like to help out, and washing up isn’t exactly hard. Besides, I can write in my head while I’m scrubbing saucepans.

  Twenty minutes later, the draining board’s full and bubbles are spiralling away down the plughole. I’ve already got Treacle’s and Savannah’s horoscopes written in my head. I race up to my room and fire up my laptop.

  Pisces

  I start with Savannah, remembering Marcus’s promise to take Savannah to Disneyland Paris one day.

  Star-ling – rumours of a trip to France have already made your starry week more heavenly. This week the world is your oyster and you are its pearl. Now you have won the love of a true romantic, swim with the current, my fishy friend, and it will carry you towards a sea of love.

  Taurus

  Treacle knows I’m Jessica Jupiter, so I keep it simple.

  If the shoe fits, wear it. The unexpected gift that brightened last week will make you an expert in your field. Run with the ball, dear Taurean, and you will most definitely score.

  With my friends taken care of, it’s time for Jessica to set a new romance in motion. I log in to Facebook and find Barbara’s star sign. Aries. David’s is Gemini. Fingers itching with excitement, I start typing.

  Aries

  Star-ling, there is a time to be steady and dependable and a time to kick off your shoes and dance to the music of love. Don’t devote all your free time to your homework; pack away your pencils and unleash your inner goddess. You have hearts to conquer.

  Pleased, I move on to David’s prediction, sending my own private prayer to the stars that he’ll read my advice.

  Gemini

  Your stars make you one of the most inquisitive and intelligent signs in the zodiac. But there is another side to your personality – ignore it at your peril! You are fun-loving and adventurous. Nurture these qualities – why be a Geek God when you could be a Greek God? Step away from your keyboard and seek out romance.

  I can hear the TV downstairs and the sound of Dad pummelling Ben’s chest. It clears the gunk in his lungs. Dad’s singing calypso songs. Ben’s laughing between coughs. They must be playing Ben-bongos again.

  Capricorn

  Sam’s star sign.

  I wonder what to write. A queasy feeling pricks my stomach.

  Star-ling, what’s wrong with you? You’re acting like a bird-brain. Your magpie eye has been caught by a shiny, pretty thing. Beware! All that glitters is not gold. Steer clear of anyone born under the sign of Scorpio. Capricorn and Scorpio go together like honey and marmite. Watch your step, my capricious friend, or you may end up with a nasty taste in your mouth.

  I stare at my PC screen. My queasy feeling is fiercer.

  I didn’t realize how jealous I felt. Don’t be dumb. Did I really think Sam would look twice at me when Cindy was flashing her lashes in his direction? Besides, if Cindy is his dream girl, I shouldn’t start stirring with my star-spangled spoon. It’s not fair to spoil it for him.

  My heart sinks into Dad’s curry and I delete Sam’s horoscope and begin again.

  ‘The new webzine’s out!’ It’s Wednesday and Savannah’s checking her smartphone as we head for the dining hall.

  Treacle’s heavy on my arm. She’s dragging her feet, her thoughts miles away. She’s got a match after school; I know her well enough to guess that she’s planning goal-scoring tactics. I steer her past a gaggle of squabbling Year Eights.

  Savannah’s thumbs are skittering like squirrels over her phone screen. ‘I wonder what Jessica’s predicted for me today.’

  ‘Gemma!’ Cindy suddenly yoo-hoos me from behind.

  I unhook from Treacle and turn. ‘What?’

  Cindy sails sideways towards me through the ocean of kids. ‘Have you got a minute?’

  I glance at Treacle and Sav. ‘Go ahead,’ I tell them. ‘I’ll meet you there.’ If Cindy’s planning to give me her usual freezer treatment, I’d rather have no witnesses.

  ‘We’ll save you a seat.’ Sav takes custody of Treacle, who’s still lost in a world of goal kicks and defensive tackles, and steers her towards the dining hall.

  Cindy wafts to a halt beside me and the crowds flow like water around us.

  ‘Gemma.’ She’s smiling, blue eyes fixed on mine. ‘Jessica is so popular.’ She touches my arm with a beautifully manicured hand and lowers her voice. ‘I’ve decided to make the column bigger so Jessica—’ she mouths the word meaningfully as though sharp-eared spies are circling, ‘—can include personal star charts for students and a Reader-of-the-Week email, as well as the horoscopes.’ She stares at me expectantly. ‘What do you think?’

  She’s asking me what I think.

  I open my mouth and wait for words. I’m not used to Sugar Plum Cindy; I’m usually dodging ice bullets from the Queen of Freeze. ‘I-I-I think that’s great.’ But I’m not sure. She wants to take a dumb column and make it into a full-page spread. Is that good?

  ‘Great!’ Cindy beams at me.

  Then I spot a familiar mop of shaggy blond hair heading towards us.

  ‘What’s great?’ It’s Sam.

  Cindy gives a tiny gasp of surprise and glows at him. ‘Sam, I’m so glad to see you.’ She drops her lashes until they’re sweeping her cheeks. Then she slides him a look like she’s eight years old and too shy to ask for a lollipop. ‘There was something I wanted to ask you.’ A giggle slips out. She’s almost blushing.

  I watch, fascinated, and wonder how much of Cindy’s ultra-girliness is fake and how much is real. Sam’s staring at her like she’s pouring honey into his shoes and he’s not sure if he likes it or not.

  ‘I was wondering if you’d like to have lunch with me?’ Cindy lets a full blush flood her cheeks.

  Sam smiles. Clearly, he likes honey shoes. ‘Yeah.’ He pushes his hair from his eyes. ‘That’d be nice.’

  Cindy squeezes my arm. ‘So, you’re fine with that, Gem?’

  Is she asking my permission to have lunch with Sam? No! I’m totally NOT fine with that. I stare at her blankly.

  Cindy clarifies for me. ‘I mean fine with . . . what we were talking about before Sam arrived.’

  ‘The “great” thing?’ Sam probes.

  ‘Now, now,’ Cindy chides sweetly. ‘You must let us girls have our little secrets.’

  Oh, please. I try not to gag. ‘Yes, that’s great.’ She’s talking about the Jessica spread. I fix a smile as they head for the dining hall, then trudge after them.

  As Cindy and Sam walk towards the Year Ten tables, I spot Savannah waving at me. She’s squished at our usual t
able beside Marcus, who’s happily sipping from a can of Coke. Sally’s next to him and Ryan’s leaning back on his chair at the other end. Treacle’s arranging salt pots and drink cans in front of her to create a classic four-three-three sweeper formation as she plans tonight’s match. I reach the table and sit down. Moving her pepper-pot goalkeeper, I plonk my sandwich box down.

  Treacle stares at me indignantly. ‘You’ve just let the other team score.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I mumble. I can see Cindy practically sitting in Sam’s lap on the other side of the dining hall. Treacle lets it pass and adjusts her formation while I flip open my lunch box and start nibbling a sandwich.

  ‘Bonjour, bijou.’

  I nearly choke on a tomato slice as Rupert drags up a chair and pushes himself between me and Treacle.

  ‘Bijou?’ Savannah’s staring at him, eyebrows arched.

  ‘It’s French for gem.’ Rupert sweeps Treacle’s whole team aside and unpacks his lunch: two boxes, a smoothie and a selection of fruit.

  Treacle gives him a death-stare. ‘Excuse me!’

  Rupert blinks at her, confused. ‘Have I done something to upset you?’ he asks plummily.

  Savannah starts lining up Treacle’s pots and cans. ‘She’s working on tactics for tonight’s game.’

  Rupert picks up the salt pot and stares at it. ‘This is a player of some sort?’

  Treacle snatches it off him and slams it down onto the table. ‘It was my centre half,’ she snaps.

  Savannah soft-eyes her. ‘Take it easy, Treacle. He’s a newbie. How’s he meant to know?’ Her gaze slides towards me. I recognize the teasing spark flashing beneath her lashes. ‘He just wants to sit near Gemma. It’s tough being the new boy and Gemma’s so gentle and sweet.’ She swivels back to Rupert. ‘She’s lovely, isn’t she?’

  I glare at Savannah as Rupert nods enthusiastically.

  ‘She’s just about the nicest person I’ve met so far.’ He looks at me. His eager puppy stare is starting to get on my nerves. What can you do with it? I’m not a puppy-kicker, but I don’t want to spend the rest of Year Nine house-training Rupert.

  ‘Thanks,’ I mutter through gritted teeth.