Chocolate Box Girls: Coco Caramel (2 page)

My stepsister Cherry is cool, but when she
first arrived last year, she had a few problems sorting fact from fiction. She also had
a problem staying away from Honey’s boyfriend, and now the two of them are an
item. This is great for Cherry, but not so great for Honey – since Shay ditched Honey
she has dated practically every boy in Somerset, the more unsuitable the better. Cherry
and Shay broke up recently for a week, and rumour had it that Honey was
responsible … but they’re back together now and stronger than ever.
Don’t get me wrong, I like Cherry a lot, but still, I can’t help wishing she
hadn’t fallen for Shay Fletcher.

So. My sister Skye likes to dress in dead
girls’ dresses, or ‘vintage’ as she calls it. Last year she had a
crush on some imaginary ghost boy; this year she has a long-distance boyfriend up in
London, and they are always
writing and texting and emailing. If you
want my opinion, I think she should have stuck with the ghost boy.

As for Summer, Skye’s twin – I used to
think she had it all; looks, talent, popularity, big dreams, determination. She had a
scholarship for a boarding ballet school this term … but she threw it all
away, cracked under the pressure. Her dream turned into a nightmare, and she is still
struggling to break free of it. These days, Summer is like a shadow girl, frail,
fragile, lost. She picks at her food as if she thinks it could be poisoned, and we have
to creep around her pretending nothing is wrong when we all know that things are very
wrong indeed.

Summer hangs out the whole time with Alfie
Anderson, who is a million miles from cool, the kind of boy who puts salt instead of
sugar in your hot chocolate and thinks it’s funny. I really don’t, and I
have no idea what Summer sees in him.

Boys are nothing but trouble – if they
vanished off the face of the earth right now, Honey, Cherry, Skye and Summer would
probably be a whole lot happier and much more fun. Personally, I think animals are far
more reliable and rewarding.

I peer down through the leaves at Fred the dog,
who is waiting patiently at the foot of the tree, while Humbug my pet sheep munches
grass nearby. You see? Animals are loyal. They don’t care if you play a few dud
notes when practising the violin. They never judge you, and they don’t let you
down.

People can learn a lot from animals. I know
that my sisters are not perfect, but I love them and I am loyal to them. If someone else
says anything at all against them, I will defend them to my last breath.

The problem with being the youngest is that
people don’t take you seriously. You are stuck forever as the baby of the family,
which can be very annoying indeed. I’ll show them, though. I have my life all
planned out and I am pretty sure it’s going to be
amazing
.

I want to work with animals – I will do
voluntary work and save endangered species. I have started on this task already because
let’s face it, time is running out. I am having a cake sale at school on Monday,
in aid of endangered pandas, and before half-term I started a petition to save the white
rhino. I collected 233 signatures, and sent them all off to the government with a
first-class stamp.

Once I have saved the panda, the white rhino and
a bunch of other threatened animals, I will train to be a vet and eventually I will live
in a big house by the sea (a bit like Tanglewood) and have my own horses and play the
violin whenever I like. Indoors and out.

I know what I want, and it doesn’t
seem too much to ask.

If life is a box of chocolates, I will just
make sure that I pick carefully. Why waste time on nougat and jaw-breaking toffee
brittle when you can have something you really love instead? I like most of the truffles
that my stepdad Paddy makes for his business, The Chocolate Box, but the caramel truffle
he invented for me back on my twelfth birthday a while ago is without a doubt the best
of all.

If my life is going to be a box of
chocolates, I will plan ahead and make sure I choose caramel, rich and smooth and sweet,
every time.

I set up a table in the foyer of Exmoor Park
Middle School, cover it with a red and white checked cloth and drape my handpainted
banner,
Save the Giant Panda
, across the front of it. Then I set out the plates
and arrange my home-baked cupcakes, which I have iced with little black and white panda
faces. Who could resist?

‘They look better than the whale ones
you made last time,’ my friend Sarah comments. ‘These ones are actually
quite cute. What are we charging? Ten pence? Twenty pence?’

‘Thirty pence, or two for fifty
pence,’ I decide. ‘It’s for charity, isn’t it?’

It is the first day back after the October
holiday and Sarah and I have been allowed out of history ten minutes
early to set up our stall, so that we can make the most of the breaktime rush once the
bell goes.

Sarah unpacks a plastic box of chocolate
fridge cake and I set out a slightly dented Victoria sponge, a tin of chocolate crispy
cakes and a tub of rock buns that are a little too rock-like for comfort. My friends
always rally round at times like this and manage to contribute something. I arrange my
handmade leaflets, explaining why the giant panda is endangered and needs our help. I
have learnt the hard way that my fellow pupils are rarely impressed by my efforts to
raise funds with sponsored walks or silences. They are much more likely to part with
their cash if cake is involved.

‘OK,’ Sarah says. ‘Thirty
seconds and counting. Watch out for those Year Six boys, I’m sure they nicked my
flapjacks last time!’

‘Nobody will dare swipe so much as a
crumb while I’m watching,’ I promise.

I pull on my fake-fur panda hat with the
sticky-up ears and square my shoulders, ready to do battle.

‘Here we go,’ I say to Sarah.
‘For the pandas!’

The bell rings and the foyer floods with
kids. They can scent cake, and they swarm round the stall, grabbing
panda cupcakes and wedges of Victoria sponge, shoving warm, sticky coins into the
collection tin.

One cute little Year Five girl buys up the
whole tin of chocolate crispy cakes for £5 because it’s her mum’s birthday.
Then I spot a weaselly Year Six boy trying to pocket a couple of chunks of chocolate
fridge cake and grab his wrist firmly. ‘Fifty pence, please,’ I say sweetly.
‘All proceeds go to help the giant panda!’

‘Help it do what?’ he asks,
reluctantly handing over his cash.

‘Survive,’ I explain patiently.
‘They are almost extinct because bamboo forests are being cut down and pandas eat
mainly bamboo shoots.’

‘Why don’t they eat something
different then?’ the kid asks. ‘Fish ’n’ chips. Big Macs.
Chocolate fridge cake.’

I roll my eyes. ‘They
can’t,’ I explain. ‘They are
pandas
, not people. They are
supposed to eat bamboo shoots, and people are destroying their habitat. It’s up to
us to save them!’

The boy’s face hardens. ‘If
that’s true, you really shouldn’t wear a panda hat,’ he says.
‘That’s just sick.’ He walks away, scoffing fridge cake.

Boys really are infuriating and dim, especially
Year Six boys.

And Year Eight boys are not much better.
Lawrie Marshall has edged his way to the front of the crowd and is reading my panda
leaflet with a sneery, disgusted look on his face.

Lawrie is the scratchiest, surliest boy
I’ve ever met. He’s a loner, radiating waves of simmering anger that keep
both kids and teachers at arm’s length. If he were a chocolate truffle, he’d
be one of Paddy’s disastrous experiments – dark chocolate filled with gherkins and
liquorice, or something equally horrific.

He must have a sweet tooth, though, because
he always turns up at my cake sales.

‘How come you think you can change the
world with cake?’ he snarls, bundling four cupcakes into a paper bag and handing
over a pound coin.

‘I just do,’ I say. ‘I
care about the pandas, and anything I can do to raise awareness and raise money has got
to help.’

‘Huh,’ Lawrie says.
‘What’s the black and white icing supposed to be, anyway?
Badgers?’

‘Panda faces,’ I say through
gritted teeth. ‘Obviously.’

‘Right,’ he grunts.
‘Don’t give up the day job, OK?’

I roll my eyes.

‘Like the hat,’ Lawrie sneers,
stalking away. I resist the temptation to throw a rock bun at the back of his head – but
only just.

‘Ignore him,’ Sarah says.
‘He has a chip on his shoulder.’

‘A what?’

‘You know,’ she shrugs.
‘It’s just one of those things that people say. He’s angry at the
world. Snippy with everyone. Don’t take it personally.’

The teachers drift over, buying the last few
cakes for the staffroom, and I hand out the remaining leaflets to anyone who will take
one.

‘There has to be twenty quid in there,
at least,’ Sarah says, grinning at the collection tin, and suddenly I feel
doubtful, disappointed. Twenty quid isn’t a whole lot really, especially
considering all the flour and eggs and sugar and food colouring I’ve forked out
for to make my cupcakes. It’s not enough to save the giant panda, I am pretty
sure. Looking around the table, I notice half a
dozen discarded panda
leaflets lying on the ground, and my spirits dip still further.

Saving the world with cake may actually be
harder than I thought.

I glare at Lawrie Marshall as he stomps away
along the corridor. I don’t think he has a chip on his shoulder so much as a whole
plateful of the things, drenched in vinegar.

Once we’ve counted it up properly it
turns out that we have made almost £30 from the cake sale, so my mood has recovered a
little by the time the last bell rings. When I get home, I will ask Mum to make a cheque
out to the panda charity, and it will make a difference, I know it will. I expect £30
could plant a whole load of bamboo.

There’s a steady drizzle falling as I
walk down to the bus stop, but when I reach into my rucksack for my panda hat it
isn’t there. Maybe I left it in my locker? Once I get off the school bus in
Kitnor, it’s quite a long walk up to Tanglewood, and without my hat I will get
wet.