Chocolate Box Girls: Coco Caramel (13 page)

‘How’s the day clinic thing
going?’ I ask.

Summer blinks. ‘It’s OK, I
suppose – I like the doctor running it. I just don’t know if I need to be there. I
know I was a little bit stressed a while back, but I’m fine now,
really.’

‘Eating normally?’ I dare to
ask, and Skye shoots me a warning glance.

‘Well, not like before,’ Summer
admits. ‘But normal for me now. The doctor says that something like this
can’t be fixed overnight, but … I put on another kilo this week –
that’s good, isn’t it?’

‘Brilliant,’ I say, although to me
Summer still looks almost as skinny and fragile as she did back in August. Still, at
least she is eating with us these days, even if she has the kind of portions that would
leave a mouse asking for more.

‘Oh – I know someone whose little
sister goes to the dance school in Minehead,’ I say, thinking of Lawrie.
‘She’s eight. I don’t know her name, though …’

‘I probably know her,’ Summer
shrugs. ‘I worked with a lot of the little ones at the summer dance classes.
It’s the best age, really. Everything seems so easy when you’re
eight …’

She looks wistful, thinking back to a time
when Dad still lived here, when baking was all about scraping the mixing bowl clean and
sampling the cakes while they were still warm from the oven. She wasn’t scared of
anything back then.

I hate the way things change.

While the twins pack the cakes into tins for
me, Cherry helps me to chop up an old sheet (a new sheet, actually, but Mum will never
notice) and paint
Exmoor Pony Sanctuary
on it in giant rainbow-coloured
letters.

‘Where’s it based, this Exmoor
Pony Sanctuary?’ Skye asks, running a finger round the bowl that had held the
buttercream icing and licking it before dumping the bowl into the sink. ‘Is it
new?’

‘Quite new,’ I say vaguely,
exchanging glances with Cherry. ‘It’s up on the moors somewhere, I think.
They’re just a small set-up, but they do some amazing work, and they really need
the money.’

‘Good luck to them,’ Summer
says. ‘They should be careful, though. My French teacher Miss Craven said two
horses were stolen from a new trekking centre near Hartshill at the weekend. Some people
will do anything for money!’

‘A trekking centre?’ Cherry
asks, puzzled. ‘I heard it was just a farm.’

‘No, the horses were valuable,
apparently,’ Summer says. ‘The owner is really upset. Who would steal
animals, seriously?’

‘No idea,’ I say, but my voice
seems to wobble as I speak. ‘Awful.’

‘By the way,’ Skye chips in.
‘Miss Craven gave me some worksheets for Honey too. She asked if she was feeling
any better – I didn’t know what to say. Something very
dodgy is
going on, I’m sure of it – no matter what Honey’s school report
says.’

Dismay curdles in my stomach, cold and
uncomfortable. What is going on?

‘She’s skipping school again, or
French lessons at least,’ I say. ‘Did you confront her?’

‘She was on the bus as usual, so I
just handed over the work,’ Skye shrugged. ‘I told her Miss Craven was
asking after her. She laughed and said the teacher must be mixing her up with someone
else. I don’t believe her, though. That school report was perfect, but does Honey
strike you as a reformed character?’

‘No way,’ Cherry says.
‘Something fishy’s going on.’

‘Have the teachers said anything to
you?’ I ask.

My stepsister shrugs. ‘Not exactly.
But I did overhear a couple of them talking about Honey the other day. How she’d
clearly given up, and how Dad and Charlotte don’t seem to be bothered.’

‘Not bothered?’ I say, outraged.
‘They’ve done everything possible to support Honey! And if her school report
says everything is fine, then why should they be worried anyway?’

Summer frowns. ‘I don’t know.
Something’s wrong, isn’t it?’

‘Definitely,’ Skye agrees.
‘I haven’t seen Honey in school for ages. Should we say something? Forget
that pact we made when we were little – some things shouldn’t stay
secret.’

Cherry shoots me a knowing look, and I avoid
her gaze.

‘We can’t tell,’ I argue.
‘What would we say? After that report, it would just look like we were stirring up
trouble.’

‘But if we’re right, and we
don’t speak out, isn’t that worse?’ Summer worries.

‘Could we talk to Honey?’ Cherry
suggests sensibly. ‘She’s not going to listen to me, obviously, but perhaps
one of you could speak to her?’

The twins exchange anxious looks.

‘It’ll look like we don’t
trust her,’ Summer says.

‘Like we’re calling her a
liar,’ Skye echoes. ‘Could you do it, Coco? You’re the youngest, she
won’t get so cross with you.’

‘Maybe,’ I say, chewing my lip.
‘If I get the chance …’

But digging up Honey’s secrets is not
top of my to-do
list right now; it would feel kind of hypocritical,
when I am keeping so many of my own.

By midnight, I am alone in the kitchen. My
sisters have gone to bed, the evening chocolate factory shift has long since finished
and Mum and Paddy have headed upstairs with hot chocolates and bleary smiles. I am
sitting at the kitchen table, a riot of felt pens all around me, drawing posters for the
imaginary Exmoor Pony Sanctuary and eating one of the reject cupcakes, with Fred curled
up at my feet, when the back door creaks open and Honey sneaks in. If she is startled to
see me, she doesn’t show it.

‘Colouring in, little sister?’
she asks, kicking her shoes off beside the door. ‘Cute.’

‘Fund-raising,’ I correct her.
‘How about you? Late night with the long division? Or was Anthony explaining some
fascinating chemical equations? You’re such a geek-girl these days, Honey.
Not.’

‘Funny,’ she says. ‘I
was
studying – sort of – to begin with, at least. But … not with
Anthony.’

I sigh, taking in the slightly smudged
lipstick, the rumpled hair. ‘I don’t think I’ll ask
what
you
were studying …’

‘Don’t,’ Honey advises.
‘And don’t tell on me, OK?’

This is the perfect moment to challenge Honey
about her school attendance, ask whether she’s hiding something. Who knows, she
might even tell me – but what then? I don’t want to betray Honey’s trust any
more than I want Cherry to betray mine. Perhaps it’s better not to know.

‘I won’t give you away,’ I
promise, although I think that someone probably needs to tell on Honey, for her own
sake. And soon.

It just won’t be me.

Some days I feel so full of energy I think I
could conquer the world. My sisters would say it’s sugar overload, but I disagree.
I spring out of bed after just six hours’ sleep, feeling like anything is
possible; I have a list, I have cakes, I have bucketloads of determination –
what’s to stop me?

Mum and Paddy are sitting at the kitchen
table eating porridge with raisins and cinnamon, and I help myself to a bowlful as I
come in. My sisters are already there, talking about the bonfire party down in the
village – Mum and Paddy are planning to work through the weekend, so we won’t be
having our usual beach bonfire party.

‘I’ve been invited by some
friends,’ Honey says sweetly. ‘If I’m allowed to go, that is?
It’s the girls from my
lunchtime history club. We were going to
look at the origins of Guy Fawkes night, have some food …’

Mum and Paddy exchange glances.
‘Don’t forget you’re still grounded, Honey,’ Mum points out.
‘I know this is a study group, but …’

‘Maybe we can bend the rules, just
this once,’ Paddy says. ‘I think you should go, Honey. It sounds quite
educational.’

It sounds quite unlikely to me, but who am I
to say?

‘Thank you, Paddy,’ Honey says
through gritted teeth.

‘We’re going to the village
bonfire too,’ Skye chips in. ‘Want to tag along, Coco?’

That stings. Why am I never included
properly? Why am I the tag-along, the one nobody ever takes seriously?

‘I’m already going out,’ I
say coldly. ‘With Jayde and Amy and Sarah. We are having an important fund-raising
meeting for the pony sanctuary first, and planning a protest, because fireworks are
actually quite distressing for pets, and there’s really no need to have rockets
and the ones that make those shrieking noises …’

‘Saint Coco,’ Honey says.
‘Are you going to ban fun too?’

I stick my tongue out at my big sister. I am
about to tell her that Saturday is Sarah’s birthday and that we are all going to
the big firework display in Minehead and then on to the funfair, when there is a loud
knock on the door. Paddy answers; there are two policemen on the doorstep.

I drop my spoon, splattering porridge all
over my school trousers.

‘Just a courtesy call, sir,’ one
of the officers says. ‘We’re asking locals to keep an eye out for any
suspicious characters, especially where there are horses close by. We’re
investigating the theft of two ponies at the weekend, and it’s possible there may
be more incidents if the thieves are still in the area. We’ll catch them,
it’s just a matter of time, but until we do …’

My face is so warm I am pretty sure you
could toast a bagel on it, but Cherry is the only one looking at me. Her eyes are wide,
terrified, as if she expects the policemen to snap handcuffs on me and bundle me into a
nearby prison cell. I suppose it could happen.

‘We’ll let you know if we see or
hear of anything unusual,’ Paddy says. ‘It’s actually a very friendly
community, so if anything happens we’ll probably hear of it. We don’t have
horses ourselves, though – just ducks, a dog and a very badly
behaved sheep …’

As he trails away into silence, Humbug the
sheep trots in from outside and helps herself to a reject scone from last night that has
found its way into Fred’s feeding dish. The policemen laugh and ask us all to be
vigilant, and then they’re gone.

The five of us walk down to the village bus
stop together, my sisters helping to carry the bags and tins of cupcakes and traybakes.
My conquer-the-world feeling has evaporated, replaced by a heavy, guilty heart.
It’s not like I have actually done anything wrong, of course; not
morally
wrong. I am pretty sure any judge in the land would understand that.

Maybe.

‘Will you visit me in prison?’ I
ask Cherry in a whisper.

‘You betcha,’ she says.

‘Another cake sale?’ Mr Wolfe
asks at break, raising an eyebrow. ‘That’s the fourth one since September,
Coco. First it was to save the tiger, then the elephant, then the giant
panda … now you’re raising cash for some local
pony
sanctuary? The dinner ladies have been complaining that nobody buys puddings on the days
you sell cakes, and the food science department is grumbling about healthy eating.
It’s wonderful that you try so hard to help, but I would make this one the last
cake sale for now if I were you. Mrs Gregg is not happy.’

Mrs Gregg is the head teacher, and she is
actually never happy. As far as I can see, this has nothing to do with cakes and more to
do with the stresses of running a large middle school, but I don’t say this. Cakes
make people happy, not unhappy – it’s a well-known fact. As for healthy eating,
surely a home-made caramel cupcake is better than the crisps, fizzy pop and chocolate
bars on sale in the canteen vending machines? And the reason people don’t buy
school puddings is because they are always pure stodge, like treacle tart or
bread-and-butter pudding or rhubarb pie, and come with generous helpings of lukewarm,
lumpy custard. If I were the food science department, I would focus my attentions on the
dinner ladies, seriously.

I am lucky that Mr Wolfe is so used to my
animal charity fund-raising that he doesn’t question the imaginary pony sanctuary,
though.

‘I probably won’t be doing too
many more sales before Christmas,’ I explain, waving politely at Lawrie who is
glaring at me from across the lobby. ‘It’s just that there are so many
endangered species out there – they need our help. And this time I wanted to raise money
for a new pony sanctuary. It’s important, Sir, life and death
really …’