Kitten Cupid (3 page)

‘Er, yes. That’s more or less it,’ I said grumpily.

‘So what is the problem?’ Jaffa asked, leaping on to my desk, where I had been setting out my
new
stationery before packing it in my
new
bag. ‘Why does Bertie sound so sad?’

‘I thought
you’d
be sad, what with me leaving you all day,’ I muttered.

‘Oh no, Jaffsie won’t be sad. Jaffsie not alone. Me has got Bertie’s dad and the lovely Bexy lady,’ she chattered, walking over my notebooks and batting my pencils about with her small paws.

I whisked her into the air with one hand and held her close to my face. ‘Well, just so you are clear about this,’ I said softly, ‘
Bertie
is sad about leaving Jaffsie. So you’d better not get any ideas into your head about going off to live anywhere else. It was bad enough the first time,’ I said meaningfully.

If a cat could blush, I would have said that’s what Jaffa did in response. She flicked her ears back and turned her head away from me, squeaking indignantly. ‘Me was a tiny very young kitten then. Me didn’t know Bertie was my owner. Me has learned my lessons now me is all growed up,’ she said in a hurt tone.

‘Pleased to hear it,’ I whispered, stroking her head with my free hand. ‘Cos you know what? I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

Jazz had already texted me before I’d opened my eyes the next morning. I could see the red light flashing on my phone when I staggered over to where it had been plugged in to charge overnight.

I flicked open the screen and scrolled through to the messages while I stepped out of my pyjamas and fished a clean pair of pants out of my top drawer.

Hey! r u up yet? e u at bus
x

Just reading that little text had sent a wave of relief gushing through me. Thank goodness for Jazz. How could I feel nervous when I had my best mate to look out for me?

Then I noticed the time in the top right-hand corner of the small screen – seven thirty! Why hadn’t Dad knocked on my door? I was going to miss the bus altogether! Then what would I do? Jazz would get there before me and would have memorized the names of everyone in our class; she would have sussed out (in her words) ‘who was hot and who was not’, and I would arrive late, sweaty and flustered . . .

I scrambled into my new uniform, trying to get my feet into the gross tights we had to wear without laddering them. At my old school we’d been allowed to wear trousers, but this one made the lower-school girls wear skirts. I was going to look so
sad and
so . . .
new.
My heart plummeted into my squeaky shiny
new
shoes.

I was sure Jazz would already have found a way to make the uniform look cool, but personally I couldn’t imagine how she would do it. But then I’ve never had much imagination when it comes to clothes. Just a jeans and T-shirt girl, that’s me.

‘Dad,’ I yelled, bowling into the kitchen at top speed, still raking a brush through my hair, ‘why didn’t you wake me? It’s my first day!’

Dad looked up from his newspaper and frowned over the top of his glasses. ‘I
did
wake you – about twenty minutes ago!’ he said sternly. ‘I thought you were in the shower. Blimey, Bertie. Your hair looks like a half-built birds’ nest. You can’t start your new school looking like that! And the bus leaves in—’

‘I know, I KNOW, all right?’ I cried, pulling even harder on my hairbrush. My hair was always a nightmare. It was supposed to be curly, but more often than not it was just a mess: it was the kind of hair that reacted to outside influences beyond my control, like the weather or how hot the central heating was. It was my own personal barometer. Lucky me. ‘I haven’t got time for a lecture!’ I shrieked as I tugged too hard and pulled a clump of hair out by the roots.

Dad immediately looked as though he regretted laying into me and got up to give me a hug. ‘Come and have a piece of toast at least,’ he said. ‘You need something for breakfast.’

I took a deep breath and sat down at the table. I rummaged through my new school bag, checking for the millionth time to see that I had packed enough pencils, rubbers, notebooks, rulers . . .

‘You’ll be fine,’ Dad said completely unconvincingly. He sounded even more anxious than I felt, if that was possible.

He eyed me cautiously, handing me a plate with a slice of toast and jam on it. Then, pouring me a cup of tea and stirring in some sugar, he said, ‘I remember feeling nervous on my first day at senior school, you know.’ He grinned and stared into the middle distance. ‘Course, we didn’t have girls at our school. That would have made life a whole lot more complicated.’

‘Cheers,’ I said sarcastically through a mouthful of toast. I took a huge gulp of tea and then pushed back my chair, wiping my mouth on the sleeve of my new jumper.

‘Bertie!’ Dad admonished.

‘Sorry, gotta go!’ I cried, grabbing my bag and making for the door. ‘Bus leaves in two minutes and I said I’d meet Jazz.’

‘Teeth!’ Dad yelled.

‘Done them already!’ I yelled back, slamming the door behind me. I hadn’t, of course, but which was more important: the faint chance that one missed brushing session might cause instant tooth decay, or the much bigger chance that one missed bus would cause instant humiliation and a detention on my first day?

I could see Jazz waiting on the corner, jumping up and down and waving at me manically. Luckily the bus wasn’t there yet, but there was a small huddle of kids from the neighbourhood, wearing the same rank grey skirt/trousers/green jumper combo as I was. Jazz, even from a distance, looked a little different from all the others.

I broke into a run, my new shoes pinching my toes, my new shirt rubbing uncomfortably against my skin . . . and my new skirt riding up my legs, I noted with embarrassment. I tugged it back down only to have it ride back up again. It was clinging to those gross nylon tights. My bag banged against my back and the strap cut into my shoulders.

It wasn’t until I was within earshot of Jazz that I realized I hadn’t said goodbye to Jaffa. In fact, I hadn’t seen her at all that morning. Maybe she had freaked out during the night about me leaving her. Maybe she’d run away after all. Maybe—

‘Hey, whassup?’ Jazz was shrieking, flinging her arms around me as if the last time she’d seen me had been years, rather than hours, ago. The beads in her hair whipped against my cheeks. ‘You look kinda –
stressy!’
She laughed. It was the word she always used to describe me. At least some things never change, I thought, relaxing enough to smile back at my overexcited friend. ‘Did you get my text? You didn’t reply!’

She let me go and I straightened myself up a bit. ‘Yeah, well, you know. Nervous,’ I said, shrugging. ‘Oh, and I overslept.’

‘Just
chillax!’
Jazz said brightly. ‘I told you, it’ll be fine! It’s not like you wanted to go back to that old dump of a junior school, is it? Imagine, Mr Grebe will be doing his usual ‘And if I have to say that one more time, young lady,’ routine, only it’ll be someone else getting it in the neck this term, NOT ME!’ she shouted, punching the air triumphantly. It was then that I noticed the first thing that made her stand out from all the other newbies. She was wearing a ton of purple bangles on one wrist. I took a good long look at her then, as the bus came into view. The bangles were not the only addition to her outfit. My funky friend had already customized her school bag with stickers and key rings, she had a new set of beads in her hair – purple, of course, but also black, blue and white – and she’d had her ears pierced!

‘Like the earrings,’ I said, as I followed her on to the bus.

‘Thanks.’ Jazz beamed. ‘Mum
finally
relented yesterday afternoon when I pointed out that she and Leesh have their ears done, so would she care to elaborate on what
exactly
the huge deal was about
me
having them done?’

I raised my eyebrows. I couldn’t quite imagine Jazz putting it like that and getting away with it. Mrs Brown, Jazz’s mum, was just as much a force to be reckoned with as her feisty younger daughter. It was more likely that Jazz had nagged and nagged so long and hard that in the end her mum had given in out of sheer exhaustion.

We showed the driver our stiff, shiny new passes and filed down the central aisle, looking for a couple of empty seats so that we could sit together. The bus was already heaving with kids.

I’d taken the bus to our old school enough times when Dad hadn’t been able to drive me, so I shouldn’t have been freaked out by anything. But somehow when I was one of the ‘big girls’ in our last school, I at least felt I knew where I belonged. Now, on this crowded bus full of teenagers, I felt small and shy, just as I’d feared I would.

Jazz grabbed my hand and dragged me along behind her.

‘Here,’ she said. She flung her bag on to the floor and slid across to a window seat.

I plonked myself down next to her and let out the breath I realized I’d been holding. I was sure everyone had been staring at us, checking us out when we’d boarded the bus. Oh great – I was gripped by a sudden panic – had my skirt been hitched into the back of those gross tights? I pulled madly at the fabric just as a voice screeched out:

‘Hey, look, guys!’ Whoever was speaking was sitting in a seat somewhere behind us. ‘It’s Jasmeena and her mate whatshername . . .
Bertie.
You know, they were on the
telly.
At least, they were in the background in that lame
Pets with Whatever
thing . . .’

My heart fluttered. It hadn’t occurred to me that people I didn’t know would have watched the talent show Jaffa had won. I mean, obviously there would have been thousands of people I didn’t know watching it – we knew that from the votes that had poured in – but I hadn’t given a moment’s thought to anyone from
this
area actually recognizing us.

Jazz beamed with delight and bobbed up over the top of her seat, scanning the bus to see who had shouted out her name.

‘Yeaaaah!’ said another voice. ‘It
is
her.’

I glanced up at my best mate anxiously, but Jazz was still beaming. She caught my eye. ‘It’s Kezia,’ she said. ‘You know, Leanne’s sister? She’s in Year Nine – she might be in Fergus’s class. Hey, Kez!’ she called, waving her bangle-festooned arm.

I slid further down my seat, cringing. I couldn’t help feeling a Year 9 would not think it was cool to be waved at like a loony by a Year 7.

But Jazz was still grinning when she slid back down next to me. ‘This is going to be mega,’ she said, eyes shining. ‘People know who I am! People in
Year Nine
know who I am! Do you reckon this is what it feels like to be famous?’

I pursed my lips. ‘Dunno.’

‘Hey, jasmeeeeeeena!’ someone else was calling out now. ‘Can I have your autograph?’

Jazz popped up out of her seat again and said, laughing. ‘Autographs in the foyer after the show!’

She was lapping it up, and all my fears of her leaving me for a cooler bunch of friends came surging back. But I was distracted out of my depressing thoughts by the welcome sight of a familiar face. Fergus was coming down the aisle, puffing and panting, his blazer falling off one shoulder. I waved and he saw me.

‘Hey!’ He came closer, beaming. ‘Like the hair, – it’s wild!’