Rebel with a Cupcake Page 18

  It keeps me busy for an hour or so. And then the decoration. All the time, people come and chat to me. It’s nice. And yes, I do let my eyes drift around the room from time to time. And yes, I can’t help but notice that Izzie is still with Alex, though Hannah and Dom have joined them. It doesn’t make me feel any better.

  I concentrate on making the cake look lovely. And by the time I’ve finished, it does. I mean, I’ve had limited time and resources, so I couldn’t make it quite the way I would normally, but I’ve iced the words to his favorite song over the top.

  The time has come. I tell Hannah to put the right track on the iPod. The lights go off, the candles are lit. We sing “Happy Birthday” and Dom looks really, really happy. Looking round the circle of faces, everyone looks really happy. I’m not saying that I did all of that, but I did something that brought a smile to quite a few faces. And that’s not a bad thing. I’ll tell Cat about this when we have our next argument about food.

  When the moment is over, I’m not quite sure what to do next.

  Eventually, I wander out into the garden.

  I like being outside on a warm, early summer evening. It feels like you’re on holiday. I’d quite like to be on holiday from myself for a while.

  Just then, the sound of gently plucked guitar strings strums through the air. It’s melancholy but beautiful. It fits my mood perfectly. I find myself sighing, sinking deeper into my seat and deeper into the music.

  Then a deep voice reaches out from inside. It is rich and full of emotion. Who do I know who sings like this? I rack my brain but can’t come up with an answer. I get up and drift to the open doors so that I can see who’s singing.

  Alex. Perched on a stool, eyes closed, he’s singing as if his life depended on it. It’s not a song I recognize. He must have written it. It’s all about seeing someone’s beautiful soul. I feel tears pricking my eyes. He’s so talented, so good with words. Then he opens his eyes and he and Izzie look at each other for a moment and all I can think of is how it must feel for him to sing and look at you and know that he’s singing just for you.

  Now I’m about to sob. I slip back out into the garden and open the gate. I just want to go home and be alone now. The air wobbles in front of me as big tears distort my sight.

  “Jess?”

  I turn. Haloed by the streetlight, Alex stands there.

  I stop. What is there to say?

  He walks toward me, his face soft with emotion. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” It’s all I can manage.

  “Is my singing really that bad?”

  I shake my head. “It was good. Really, really good. Whatever it is, you’ve got it.”

  He steps closer. “So why run off in the dark? I was going to do an encore.”

  I wipe the rebel tears away. “I just felt … it was better if I went.”

  His face crinkles with confusion. “Why would you think that?”

  I’m tired of secrets. “You and Izzie.”

  “Why are you talking in riddles?”

  Okay, now I’m getting angry. “You and Izzie. I saw you together after rehearsal this week.”

  Something like realization dawns on him. “Rehearsal? Yeah, I hugged her once for … oh … you thought?”

  “Yes, I thought …”

  He takes my face between his long-fingered, guitar-playing hands. “Jesobel. You gave me the confidence to sing. I was singing for you.” There’s a pause.

  “Oh.” I manage. “Not Izzie?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s all for you. That song was for you.”

  I breathe out the longest sigh ever and find myself resting on his shoulder. His arms wrap round me and I feel safer than I’ve ever felt before. His heart beats on mine. Our fingers entwine.

  “How does it go again, my song?” In the dark, he sings softly to me again until I stop him with a kiss. And then we kiss forever.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-TWO

  Observation #10:

  Sometimes rules are useful. Sometimes they are there to be broken. You just need to pick and choose. Like a pick ’n’ mix. Only less calorific.

  So, we’re getting ready. Again. Haven’t we all been here before …?

  But the big change is that I’m standing as still as I can as my mum is attempting to make some last-minute alterations to my dress. Currently I feel like the world’s biggest voodoo doll.

  “Mum, that hurt!”

  “Stop moaning. This is couture.” Or at least that’s what I think she says as her mouth is full of pins.

  “Couture or torture?”

  Mum stares up at me. “When I was a model, we knew that looking good would take time and some pain. Now, do you want this dress to fit or not?”

  The answer is, of course, yes. I check myself out in the mirror. Looking good. I didn’t know what I wanted to wear. For a while I didn’t even want to go to the Leavers' Ball. But then Cat and Mum came to the rescue. Standing still while I’m being sewn into a dress seems a small price to pay.

  Eventually, Mum seems happy with what she sees. “Right, go and show your gran and then I think you’re about ready.”

  “Thanks, Mum.” She just nods. “You did a great job.”

  “I enjoyed it.” She seems surprised at what she’s saying. “Maybe I should do this more often.” It turns out that Mum can not only wear clothes very well but she can alter and make them, too. Years on the catwalk were not the waste of time that I had thought.

  I swish in front of her so she can see how the dress twirls and spins. “I just love it.” We hug. It’s awkward so we stop.

  “Go on. Show Gran.”

  I head for the front room, and as a mark of thanks to Mum, I try to glide gracefully for a change. That goes well until I trip over my hem and fall over in the doorway.

  “Jesobel!” Mum yells as I smile. Perhaps gliding gracefully is a step too far for me at the moment. I’ll stick to flats and my normal walk.

  “Hey, Gran.” Yes, Gran is in the front room, watching TV with Lauren and Alice. I peer nervously in her direction.

  “My, you look fabulous.” She takes another look. “I know I’m getting old but that looks like …”

  “It’s one of your dresses. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Mind? I’m flattered. Now come here so I can get a better look at you.” She rubs the fabric between her fingers. “My twenty-first. 1959. Lord, my parents made me hold it at the Conservative Club. Wouldn’t be seen dead there nowadays.”

  It’s such a beautiful dress — cinched in the waist, full skirt and off the shoulder in apparently “dove gray.” Mum had to let it out a bit and put some ribbons at the back so that it would fit me but I love it. All my curves are in the right places and it skims over all the things I’m not so in love with. I’ve never really liked dresses before. I’ve always felt that nice clothes weren’t for someone like me. But this dress — it connects me to Gran and even my mum. If I were the sentimental type, I might wipe a tear from my eye, but that would smudge my mascara so that’s out.

  Anyway, there’s a blaring of horns from outside. Lauren peeks out and looks back confused. “There’s a rainbow car outside.”

  Mum sees us off. “It’s such a shame that Alex can’t go with you.”

  My heart aches just a bit. In my head, I had it all planned out — Alex would pick me up, we’d wear color-coordinated clothes and turn up just as Zara turned up on her own. But it’s not to be. I know I shouldn’t be sad about it because I do know I’ll have just as good a time with my friends.

  And on the subject of friends, it turns out that whole Izzie and Alex thing was just one misunderstanding after another. She was just cross with me for trying to drop our study session for a boy, not cos she liked him. I was just being an idiot. Not for the first or last time.

  But tonight is not about feeling down
. Tonight is all about having fun. Outside, the car horn blares again. Sana’s dad is here in his massive Range Rover, all decorated with rainbow ribbons the way we wanted — not just girly pink for us. Izzie, Hannah, Sana and Bex are hanging out the windows, trailing balloons, yelling, “Jeessssssss.” Time for a quick selfie with Gran and then I’m off with my friends. Music blaring, we’re driven up the hill to school for our final party. Our last night as proper Year Elevens of St. Ethelreda’s School. Once we, too, were little Year Sevens with backpacks bigger than we were. And yet here we are, older but not necessarily wiser.

  And school is the same, and yet all so different at the same time. The cars line up — yep, someone got a limo, there’s a few Rolls Royces, about three Jeeps. Rumor has it that Catamaran Caroline is going to arrive in a helicopter but who knows? We get out, wave goodbye to Sana’s dad and make our way into the gym.

  It’s been transformed. Instead of a dull, sweaty hall, where generations of students have been tortured, it’s full of lights, music and balloons, and every possible surface is swagged and festooned with material, like it’s been dressed for a wedding reception by a rather overenthusiastic bride.

  And we’re transformed, too. Freed from our blazers, regimented skirts, blouses and jumpers, we’re a glorious rainbow of colors. While most of us have gone down the conventional dress route, one or two girls have turned up in full goth outfit. Which is cool. I mean, if you can’t please yourself tonight, then when can you?

  One thing that hasn’t changed is the teachers. Mr. Ambrose and Mrs. Brown stand like birds of prey, raking us with their eyes. But tonight is not their night. I look at Mrs. Brown’s hard, bitter face. I think back to what she said to me a few weeks ago and how I thought I’d burst from the injustice of it all.

  Now … now … I’m just not that bothered what she thinks of me. I’m off to a new college and a new set of teachers. And what sort of life does she have if her only pleasure is tormenting girls? But tonight is not a night to think about teachers. Tonight is all about FUN with my friends.

  We drift outside.

  “It’s beautiful.” Hannah sighs. And it is. Underneath a resplendent summer sky, the green lawn is dotted with tents and gazebos, all linked with fairy lights and bunting in jewel-bright colors, fluttering in the wind. Groups of giddy girls and boys flit around, watching a magician here, trying different foods there, posing for a photo from time to time. Everyone is smiling.

  “Come on.” Izzie pulls me by the hand. “They’re about to start.” And I don’t know what she’s going on about until we reach the massive beanbags outside, all in front of a band who are about to play. It’s like being at a mini-festival. (Though I don’t think big hair, fake tans and posh frocks are generally the thing at festivals.)

  But there’s someone I can’t help noticing. Zara. She’s the color of mahogany, with nails like talons and eyelashes so long they keep getting stuck to her cheeks. She’s all alone. This was supposed to be her big night, the big entrance with Matt on her arm so she could look down on us lesser mortals who hadn’t managed to get a hot date. And now, for all her glamour, she’s just the same as us. But really, she’s worse off. Cos we’re happy and she’s clearly not. She rakes around, looking for somebody worth talking to. Her eyes pass over us and move on.

  “The band is starting, let’s make a move,” Sana says. She gives my arm a quick squeeze but I just smile back.

  In the main hall, they’ve turned off the house lights so it’s pitch black inside. The air is full of chat, giggles and a sense of growing anticipation.

  The stage lights blaze on. I’ve not felt like this since waiting to watch Dad play. Then the sound hits us, that glorious jangled mess of guitar and drums.

  In the spotlight is the lead singer, with his hair glowing red in the white light and his long fingers teasing the most glorious sounds out of his beloved guitar.

  Alex. Looking at me. Singing for me.

  He might not be able to take me to the ball but at least I can say, “I’m with the band.” They play; it’s huge, loud music you can dance to, shout and sing to, lose yourself to. I’m dancing with my friends but making eye contact with a boy who really gets me.

  “Now a slow one for all you lovers out there.” Catcalls ring out and girls and boys begin to pair off. I’ve no one to dance with and I look at Alex sadly.

  They start to play the intro and Alex says, “I wrote this song for someone special. I hope she knows how cool she is.” And he’s smiling at me. Then he starts to sing. My song. Our song. I tingle with embarrassment but also happiness. He’s just publicly said I’m okay. Izzie hugs me while Hannah just rolls her eyes, but I think it’s funny. The song is tender and lyrical and just the BEST THING EVER.

  After a great set, the guys call it quits. We whoop, yell and shout for more songs. They’ll be back later, but now it’s time to dance.

  A tap on the shoulder. It’s Alex and I pull him into me. “Thank you,” I whisper into his hair.

  Perhaps we kiss. Perhaps we’re told to get a room. Perhaps Hannah yells, “This is too weird.” But I don’t care. Then we dance to cheesy pop until our feet are sore.

  I notice Tilly and Tiff, Lara and Tara all around, all mingling with other people, all having fun. I smile. I’m glad, cos that’s what I’m having. I mean, I’m with my friends — what more could a girl want? I break away from Alex, who’s reluctant to let me go. “Give me a moment.”

  I can’t help but look at Zara.

  I take a deep breath and walk up to her.

  “Come and dance, Zara,” I find myself saying. She looks amazed.

  “Why? So you can push me over?”

  “Don’t start, Zara. Look, it’s our last Year Eleven night. Come and enjoy yourself.”

  Zara doesn’t know what to say. She just pouts and says nothing. I shrug and leave her. I tried.

  But later, I see she’s dancing. And that’s good. Cos now’s the time for the year photo.

  “Get in! Everyone together.” Everyone on the dance floor crowds together and smiles for the camera.

  And I think I’m smiling the most. Cos I know that when I see the photo, I’m going to see a girl smiling at me. And I think she looks just right.

  And I’m her and she’s me.

  And that’s just tickety-boo.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I used to think that writing was a solitary activity and didn’t require the input of others. How very wrong I was!

  I am indebted to all whom I’ve met at the Manchester Writing School at Manchester Metropolitan University: firstly, to Sherry Ashworth for offering me a place and setting the writing exercise that gave birth to Jesobel; and secondly, to my cohort, Chrissy Dentan, Jason Hill, Kim Hutson, Matt Killeen, Luci Nettleton, Alison Padley-Woods, Katy Simmonds and Paula Warrington — the most talented and supportive of writers. The North West Scooby Group were also hugely helpful when I was redrafting the middle section and they are just generally the best critique group around.

  Next, I have to thank my husband, Dave, for bringing wine to the study and helping me in my many hours of technical need. My children did occasionally get in the way of writing. My younger daughter once said, “I want to help you to be a better writer.” I replied, “Half an hour of peace would help.” She snorted and said, “Well, that’s never going to happen.” Thank you also to my mother, Anne, and sister, Sarah, who have always been the most faithful of cheerleaders.

  This novel would never have seen the light of day without the support of my agent, Anne Clark. She saw the potential in Jesobel and helped me find the heart of the story. Without her and Margot Edwards championing me, I would never have been published.

  Similarly, huge thanks are due to Kate Egan, Lisa Lyons and all at KCP — the Loft imprint in particular — with a special mention to Emma Dolan for her cover. Kate, like Anne, saw some something in Jesobel she liked. It too
k a while to find the current story arc, but I learned so much about craft from her: she is the queen of the editing process!

  Finally, my thanks go to all the students I’ve taught over the years, in particular 11–5 (my 29 extra ‘daughters’ — we never did quite get that family ticket to Alton Towers). I would never have been able to write this without you.

  Anna Mainwaring