by Melody James
While I’m wondering, boots are goose-stepping along the corridor outside.
‘Will.’ Cindy lifts her chin as the door wallops open. ‘I hope I haven’t interfered with your morning routine.’
He looks even more dishevelled than normal, his jacket unzipped. There’s stubble on his chin and his dark brown hair is a tousled mass that makes my curls seem well-behaved.
‘Would you like to borrow a brush, William?’ Cindy reaches for her bag.
‘Why?’ Will snorts. ‘Did you call us here for a fashion shoot?’
Cindy flicks him a tight smile then swings her monitor round so that we can all see the screen. ‘I wanted to show you this before I send out this week’s edition of the webzine.’
A garish pink webpage is lighting up the screen.
Green Park High Webzine
Zodiac signs are flashing between lumps of text.
Jessica Jupiter
The headline makes me blink. That’s my column! On the web! I’ve gone global.
‘I thought it would be a good idea for our email version of the webzine to link to a webpage.’ Cindy examines our expressions hopefully. ‘This isn’t live yet, it’s just a mock-up,’ she explains. ‘I thought Jessica’s page would make a good example.’
Jeff nods thoughtfully. ‘Looks good, Cindy. Did you make this yourself?’
Cindy tucks her hair behind her ear. ‘It’s pretty straightforward with the software.’
‘Won’t updating it every week be a hassle?’ Jeff asks.
Phil is chewing his thumbnail. He takes it out of his mouth. ‘We could help with that.’ He glances at David.
David scratches his head. ‘If we base it in a preformatted blog, we could set it up so we can just email our stories straight into the page.’
Cindy smiles indulgently. ‘I knew you boys would make this work.’ She starts clicking on links. ‘You can jump to the Reader’s Email-of-the-Week feature here.’ The page reloads. David’s lovelorn letter is suddenly plastered over the screen. I glance at him, alarmed, but he doesn’t blink.
Will, on the other hand, stares like a shocked cat. ‘Doesn’t this publication have ethics? Who on earth wants their personal email plastered over a webpage?’
He leans forward and starts reading off the screen. ‘I’ve fallen for a girl who works on the webzine.’ He does a double-take. ‘Whoa!’ His gaze dismisses me and Barbara in a flash and moves on to Cindy. ‘You’ve got mail, honey,’ he says sarcastically, then turns back to the screen and reads on, his voice dripping with scorn. ‘I’m hoping you can give me a few tips on how to woo this most wonderful girl.’ Suddenly he grins and jerks round to Sam. ‘Aww, Sammy.’ He shakes Sam’s shoulder. ‘That’s sweet, but wooing Cindy is easy.’ He glances back at the Ice Queen. ‘Just buy her a mirror.’
Sam shakes Will off. ‘That’s not my email.’
‘And it’s not about me!’ Cindy adds. ‘I don’t work on the webzine. I run it!’
Will turns on her. ‘Forgive me, your majesty.’
‘Leave her alone, Will,’ Sam growls.
‘Prince Charming to the rescue, eh?’
Sam’s eyes harden. For a moment I think he’s going to hit Will, but Will breaks the tension by grinning. ‘Nice one, Sam.’ He laughs and lands a soft punch on Sam’s shoulder. ‘You always were a cool one with chicks.’ Without missing a beat, he grabs his book bag and leaves.
Cindy’s at Sam’s side in a second. ‘He’s such an ape.’
I’m watching David. Why isn’t he blushing? His deepest yearning has just been blasted from a PC screen.
‘Wordpress offers more options.’ He’s deep in blog-related conversation with Phil. He looks at his watch. ‘Let’s use one of the PCs in the library,’ he suggests to his brother. ‘We can compare blog sites and see how flexible their templates are.’
I admire his coolness.
Barbara looks like she’s admiring it too. She’s got one eye on David as she fumbles the mouse towards the Shut Down option. ‘Cindy?’ she calls. ‘Have we finished with this?’
Cindy’s busy cooing over Sam. ‘Whatever.’
Barbara stares at the email on-screen. Is she wondering if Jessica’s feature email is about her? I wish I could tell her that she is the girl who works on the webzine, but I’ll leave it to Jessica to spread the love. After all, Barbara still has to read her horoscope. When today’s edition of the webzine lands in her inbox, a quick peek should prod our little duckling closer to swanhood.
David follows Phil out of the room. I pick up my book bag and head after them. I need to know if seeing his email displayed, in 14 point bright pink Helvetica, has impacted at all. I shadow the twins to the library, acting casual as I push through the door after them. The fluorescent lights, hanging high over the two-storey space, make me wince. It’s still early, so when I see Treacle and Savannah leaning over the railing above, waving at me from the Young Adult section, I’m stunned.
‘Gemma!’ Arms flailing, bags billowing out behind them, they race for the stairs. They’re beside me in a flash.
‘Guess what!’ Savannah’s panting, her cheeks flushed. Treacle’s bouncing up and down beside her.
‘What?’ I join in the bounce, caught up in their whirlwind of joy, even though I have no idea what’s making them so happy.
‘It worked!’ Treacle squeaks. ‘We totally convinced Savannah’s dad to let her go!’
‘We did?’ I’m stunned.
‘He signed the form this morning!’ Savannah’s eyes are shining. ‘I came in early to make sure I handed it in before the deadline!’
‘Oh, Savannah!’ I throw my arms round her and hug her tight. ‘This is going to be the best trip ever!’
Treacle drags me and Savannah over to a desk and we drop our bags and sit. Huddling like military advisors, we start to plan.
‘How am I going to fit eight outfits into one bag?’ Savannah looks imploringly at me. ‘Can you spare a bit of shoe space in your luggage, Gem?’ Horror freezes her face. ‘Where am I going to pack all the stuff I buy when I’m there?’
Treacle’s gaze flicks past her and brightens. I turn round, checking what she’s seen. My stomach flips. And not in a good way.
Rupert’s heading towards us.
‘Hi, Rupert,’ Treacle greets him brightly.
Sav spins round. ‘Rupert!’ She grabs Treacle’s wrist. ‘Come on, Treac.’ She stands up. ‘Let’s go and check Mrs West has definitely filed my form.’
‘Yeah.’ Treacle’s on her feet and following Savannah. ‘We could get a receipt for it or something. Just to make sure.’
I leap to my feet and start to follow, but Rupert’s staring at me expectantly.
‘You don’t have to go, do you?’ he says.
I sink wearily back into my chair. ‘I guess not.’
He sits down beside me, dragging his chair close. ‘You’re in early. Couldn’t you sleep?’
‘Early meeting.’ I remember my promise to Treacle and Savannah to give the guy a break. ‘I work on the school webzine.’
‘I know.’ Rupert shifts closer. ‘I guess I should watch what I say. I don’t want to end up as next week’s headline.’
Yeah, like that’s going to happen. ‘I’m just an assistant really.’
‘Have you had anything published?’
I shake my head. ‘I kinda helped out with a story.’
‘That’s news to me.’
I dig my nails into my palm as he starts punning. ‘It was a pretty big scoop.’
‘You discovered a new ice cream?’ He’s leaning so close I can smell the Cheerios on his breath.
‘No,’ I mutter. ‘It was about a nightclub.’
‘Two peanuts walk into a nightclub . . .’ Rupert ignores me and shifts into joke gear. ‘One was a-salted.’ He starts laughing and slaps the table.
‘You’re a real fun guy.’ I regret it the moment I speak.
‘Fungi? Not mush-room for improvement, eh?’ He laughs again and I try to jo
in in. If Rupert is covering up his shyness like Treacle said, he must be very shy.
‘Hey, Rupert.’ I touch his arm and he freezes. ‘You don’t have to try so hard.’
‘Really?’ Hope sparks in his eyes.
‘You don’t have to try and be funny all the time . . .’ My voice trails away as I spot a pair of Converse high-tops heading towards me. I look up and see Sam. Cindy’s padding along beside him, Barbara at her heels. Sam glances at me as they pass. His gaze flits towards my hand, which is still resting on Rupert’s arm. He raises an eyebrow.
No!
Alarm bells clang in my head.
He thinks we’re an item!
I let go of Rupert as though he’s caught fire. Too late.
Cindy glances back at me, then at Rupert, and smiles knowingly. Then she whispers something to Sam and he shrugs without looking back, as they stop at the PC section where David and Phil are huddled round a screen.
I fight the urge to pick Rupert up and throw him at the Ice Queen. Then I spot Barbara. She’s stopped short, staring at her smartphone.
The webzine! It must have hit her inbox. She’s reading something. Her horoscope? I cross my fingers.
Will David read his?
‘Gemma?’ Rupert waggles his hand in front of my face. ‘Earth to Gemma. Come in, Gemma.’ He cups his hands round his mouth as though he’s loud-hailing me. ‘Calling Gemma. Calling Gemma.’
But I’m too busy wishing. Please let Barbara and David follow Jessica’s starry advice and realize they’re made for each other!
Mum pops her head round my bedroom door. ‘Don’t chat too long, girls. You’ve got an early start in the morning.’
Treacle salutes. ‘OK, Jane.’ She’s sitting on my bed while I lounge on the floor. Savannah’s preening in front of my mirror. They’re sleeping over. We leave for Paris before dawn, so it makes sense to travel to the coach together. Mum’s volunteered to drive us to school at 5.30 am. ‘Are you all packed?’ She glances at my bedroom floor. The usual landscape of books and clothes has been replaced with bedrolls and sleeping bags. Rucksacks crowd the gaps in between.
‘Everything but our toothbrushes,’ I reassure her.
We’re already in our pyjamas, washed and ready for bed. Stars are showing through the gap in the curtains, but I wonder how we’ll ever get to sleep. Butterflies whirl in my stomach.
‘I’ll see you for breakfast at five.’ Mum clicks the door shut.
Savannah steps across her sleeping bag and reaches for her rucksack. ‘I don’t know why we couldn’t bring proper suitcases,’ she sniffs as she unzips it. ‘Creases are going to be a nightmare. I just hope there’s somewhere to plug in my travel iron.’ She pulls out a pale blue sweater, followed by a red checked miniskirt. ‘This is my daywear for Saturday.’ She holds the sweater and skirt against her. The soft baby blue of the sweater transforms her into an angel while the red mini hints at wickedness. ‘And this—’ she hooks out something black and silky and drapes it against her, ‘—is for eveningwear.’ The sheen of the slinky dress makes her hair look like spun gold.
Treacle lets out a long whistle. ‘I hope you didn’t show that to your dad,’ she says.
‘Yeah, right,’ Savannah scoffs. ‘If he knew I was wearing this, he’d freak.’ She drags a sad-looking pair of jeans from her bag and a sweatshirt that’s seen better days. ‘This is what I modelled for him. He actually thinks I’m going to visit the most glamorous city in the world dressed as Homer Simpson.’ She drifts into an indulgent smile. ‘Poor Dad. He’s such a worrier.’
I glance at the black dress. ‘He may be right to worry.’
‘Oh, per-leeease.’ Savannah rolls her eyes. ‘I can take care of myself.’
Treacle nudges my shoulder with her foot. ‘She’s got us looking out for her, don’t forget.’
Savannah’s dragging more clothes from her rucksack. It’s a shame packing’s not an Olympic sport. Savannah would be a gold medallist. ‘If it’s windy, I’ve got a selection of scarves. That billowy look is always so flattering. And if it rains—’ She shakes out a shiny blue mac. ‘I’ve got this.’ She slides it over her pyjamas. Its short, full skirt and cinched waist turn her into a bright blue egg timer. Then she slides a pair of shades from the pocket, slips them on and she becomes a glamorous spy.
‘I hope it’s not too much. Neutrals are absolutely key in Paris, so I’m not going heavy on make-up. A glowing complexion is an absolute necessity.’
I run my fingers over my forehead, checking for spots. It’s fairly clear. Just a cluster above my right eye. With any luck, my freckles will distract passers-by from the danger zone.
‘I hope you’ve done your fashion homework.’ Savannah’s staring at us, serious as a bishop. Here comes a sermon on style. By the intense look on her face, I can tell she’s three commandments away from a PowerPoint presentation. ‘No trainers; no bling; no hair gel,’ she orders. ‘Always accessorize, but remember – quality over quantity, and always, always keep your ensemble understated. When it comes to make-up, simplicity is key. Choose either strong eyeshadow or killer lipstick. Absolutely never both at the same time.’
Treacle puts her hands behind her head. ‘How do Parisians feel about blusher?’ I can tell she’s teasing, but Savannah stays solemn.
‘On a young face like yours, it’s best to let your natural freshness make the statement.’ She whisks round and takes another look at herself in the mirror. ‘I hope I can pull it off.’
‘You’re going to look great, Savannah,’ I tell her, wondering if it’s too late to stuff just one dress into my luggage.
She lifts her shades and peeks out. ‘Do you really think so?’ Her eyes are round with worry.
Treacle sits up and crosses her legs. ‘You’ll be the most gorgeous tourist there.’
‘Good.’ Savannah slips off her mac and starts repacking her rucksack. ‘Parisian women are the most stylish in the world.’ She looks up. ‘You’ve both packed your best outfits, right?’
I draw my knees up. ‘I didn’t want to be too glam,’ I tell her. ‘I thought if we’re doing a lot of sightseeing, it’s best to be comfortable.’
Savannah stares at me like I’m a squirrel-strangler. ‘Comfortable?’ I can see her mind whirling. ‘What’s comfort got to do with it?’ She appeals to Treacle. ‘You’ve bought your wow clothes, right? I mean Jeff’s going to be there. You don’t want to look like a hobo in Paris, do you?’
‘I’m wearing my tracksuit,’ Treacle says.
Savannah drops her rucksack. ‘Tracksuit?’ The word hardly makes a noise as it comes out of her mouth. ‘In Paris?’
Before she can launch into a protest speech, Ben bursts in, his Spiderman dressing gown flapping behind him.
‘Gem!’ He leaps the sleeping bags and snuggles down beside me. ‘Will you bring me back chocolates? Miss Eagan said there are more chocolate shops in Paris than shoe shops.’
Savannah huffs. ‘Don’t be silly.’
But Ben’s busy unfolding a piece of paper from his dressing gown pocket. ‘I’ve printed this map from the internet. It’s got all the chocolate shops on it.’ He shows me a spider web picture dotted with heart shapes. ‘You don’t have to go to them all, but I want as many chocolates as you can buy with this . . .’ He rootles in his pocket again and drags out a fistful of coins. He drops them into my hands. It’s about eighty-seven pence. Mostly in pennies. He must have bled his piggy bank dry.
I put my arm round him and hug him close. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ I wonder if I have enough euros in my purse to bring him back a chocolate Eiffel Tower.
He suddenly straightens, his eyes filled with warning. ‘Watch out for dog poo,’ he tells us solemnly. ‘Paris is meant to be the dog poo capital of the world.’
Treacle laughs. ‘I wonder if there’s a Poo Museum.’
‘A poo-seum!’ Ben shouts gleefully.
Savannah turns up her nose. ‘Dog poo in Paris is so last year,’ she informs us. ‘They’ve totally cleane
d up their act.’
‘It’s not their act I care about,’ Treacle mutters. ‘It’s their pavements.’
Savannah frowns at her. ‘I meant their pavements.’ She’s got tight, crosspatch lips. ‘Tracksuits and dog poo! I really don’t think you are taking this trip seriously enough.’
Treacle tips her head. ‘Of course we are,’ she says reassuringly. ‘It’s totally the most exciting thing we’ve ever done.’
Savannah snaps the zip shut on her rucksack. ‘Good.’ She pulls a notepad from its front pocket. ‘I’ve made a list of absolutely must-see boutiques.’
I picture Madame Papillon’s schedule. ‘I don’t know if there’s going to be much time for shopping.’
‘Then we’ll make time.’ Savannah flips open her notepad. ‘I’m sure I can negotiate with Madame Papillon. The trip to Parc Astérix, for example. Surely that’s not compulsory?’
Treacle stares at her, mouth open. ‘You don’t want to go to a theme park?’
I’m with Treacle on this one. I’ve been looking forward to riding the rapids and rolling on the coasters. ‘That’s not until Sunday. We’ve got all Saturday afternoon for “Paris Life and Culture’’.’ I’m quoting from the schedule. ‘That doesn’t have to mean the Louvre. Boutiques count as life and culture, I’m sure.’
Savannah sighs. ‘I guess.’ Her gaze drifts and she shuts her notebook. ‘Perhaps I should varnish my nails.’ She holds up a hand and stares at it. ‘Just a little gloss. Nothing tacky.’
‘There isn’t time,’ I warn her. ‘We should try and get some sleep.’ I nudge Ben. ‘You too, Spiderboy.’
Ben looks thoughtful. ‘If you do tread in dog poo, can you put it in a bag and bring it home? I bet no one at school’s seen French dog poo.’
Savannah grabs a pillow and hurls it at him. ‘Go away, you revolting boy!’
Laughing, Ben scrambles for the door. ‘You could just take a photo of some.’
‘No!’ Savannah hurls another pillow. It hits the door as Ben closes it behind him.
