Kitten Smitten (11 page)

‘The Meerleys know Pinkella from, like, ages ago? From when Pinkella was on TV all the time,’ Jazz was saying in that know-it-all voice she’d used the day before when
she’d told me their names.

‘Pinkella? On telly?’ I butted in. This was news to me, I thought irritably. She’d told us she’d been in films and plays and stuff, but on telly? ‘Since when?
I’ve never seen her in anything.’

‘Yeah, well, it was, like,
way
before we were born, wasn’t it?’ Jazz said impatiently. ‘Anyway, when Pinkella’s house came up for rent the Meerleys were the
first people she thought of. And this is where the REALLY cool stuff comes in,’ Jazz finished. She bounced up, grabbed a newspaper from her desk and opened it in front of me with a
flourish.

‘Da-daaah!’ she sang, beaming such an exaggerated smile I thought her face might actually split in two.

‘What?’ I asked. I was looking at a copy of the
Daily Ranter
, the paper that Dad used to write for. There had not been anything interesting to read in it when he had been
responsible for most of the articles and I could not imagine that there would be anything interesting to read in it now that he wasn’t.

‘Since when have you been a loyal reader of the
Ranter
?’ I asked, trying to sound cool while a wobbly feeling of unease seized my guts.

‘Fiona showed it to me. Read it!’ Jazz insisted, jabbing at the paper and thrusting it nearer.

the bold black type shouted.

Already I was not liking the sound of this.

Jazz pulled the paper impatiently out of my hands with a huff of exasperation and started to read out loud. I peered over her shoulder at the words.

‘Can you
believe
it?’ Jazz finished in a squeak. She had not drawn breath once, and now she was clutching her hands to her chest and gazing at the ceiling in
a dream-like stance, as if Prince Charming had just snogged her and made all her wishes come true. I shuddered.

‘Oh. My. Goodness!’ Jazz continued. ‘This has
so
got to be the most exciting thing that has ever happened to me. In My. Whole. Boring. Life! They’ll be here! In
our dumb old town where nothing ever happens to anyone. And Fiona is the producer! She knows Simon and Danni and . . . and oh, everyone!’ she finished in an exaggerated sigh, still gazing
upwards as if a host of heavenly celebrities were about to be lowered down through the ceiling on a glittery pedestal right in front of us.

‘Erm, yeah. It’s cool,’ I said quietly. Jazz always had this effect on me when she got overexcited about something. The louder she got, the quieter I became.

Jazz still hadn’t noticed my reaction. She was now jabbing her finger at the newspaper and saying, ‘So, what are we going to wear?’

What? Since when did
we
become involved?

‘Er, sorry?’ I stammered, playing for time.

‘What are we going to wear?’ Jazz repeated, suddenly sounding touchy. ‘Come
on
, Bertie. Get with the programme! Haven’t you worked it out yet? Fiona’s the
producer; I’ve met her; she likes me. I told her I was into the performing arts . . . Duh! It’s obvious, isn’t it?’

Oh dearie, dearie me with knobs on! Jazz was on a roll. And as usual it was all based on the assumption that, as ever, I would be happy to go along with her plans. It was always the same: Jazz
snapped her fingers and I was supposed to jump to it and do what she said. I was getting pretty fed up with it all, to be honest.

But of course Jazz had not noticed my total lack of excitement. ‘Tell you what, let’s make a list, right? You like lists, don’t you, Bertie?’ I flinched. She was talking
to me like I was her baby sister all of a sudden. ‘Here.’ She snatched a pad and pen from her desk and started scribbling and reading aloud as she wrote: ‘What – I –
Need – to – Dress – to – Impress . . .’ What was it with these false nails? A sudden rush of anger welled in my throat.

‘Sorry, Jazz, but I don’t see what this show has got to do with you – or me – or the – what’s their name? –
Meerleys
,’ I said.

Jazz’s face clouded dangerously. I stared back at her while a dizzying sensation in the pit of my stomach gathered momentum like a distant thunderstorm.

‘What are you talking about?’ Jazz asked, her eyes narrowed. ‘It’s got EVERYTHING to do with us!’

I waited.

Jazz waggled her head at me as though I was the slowest train on the tracks and said slowly, for the benefit of my idiot-loony brain: ‘I told you; Fiona is the producer. She can get us to
the front of the queue.’

‘How do you know
Fiona
can get us in? Have you asked her?’ I felt myself squaring up to Jazz, even though part of my brain was telling me to stop, to slow down and let her
have her moment in the sun.

Jazz faltered. ‘I – I – it’s just obvious. She’s soooo lovely and I bet if I asked her it would be cool. Anyway, I am going to audition,’ she ended
abruptly.

I knew it. I tried to keep my voice level.

‘So you haven’t actually asked her yet? I mean, you haven’t had a proper conversation about it?’

Jazz’s face was growing bleaker by the minute. I watched it dawn on her that she hadn’t thought this thing through.

‘Why don’t we just go and watch?’ I tried to sound reasonable. I didn’t want to upset my best mate, I told myself. ‘Dad used to work for the
Ranter
,
don’t forget. Maybe he could sort us some good seats.’

Jazz flicked her braids out of her face and shot me a look of utter horror. ‘
He
can’t come with us!’ she gasped.

Admittedly, the idea of Dad rocking up to
Who’s Got Talent?
in his naff jeans and faded sludge-coloured T-shirt was pretty horrific – even
I
knew that. But that
didn’t mean I was happy with Jazz’s reaction. What had this Fiona got that my dad hadn’t? (Apart from contacts in TV and the music business, I thought glumly.)

I squinted at the tiny writing in the newspaper that outlined the rules for the auditions, while a rollercoaster rocketed around somewhere inside me. I couldn’t deal with all the different
feelings this conversation was stirring up. On the one hand I wanted to scream at Jazz to shut up about this new family and the auditions, and to get a grip. On the other I wanted her to give me a
hug and tell me nothing had changed and we were still best mates and by the way, here was a poster she’d been working on to help find Jaffa, and did I want to go out right now and stick
copies up everywhere?

But soon Jazz was off on one again, conveniently sidestepping all my practical questions.

‘So, like I said, what are
you
going to wear? I’m going to practise that new routine I’m learning in my Street Dance class, hence the jeans cos I’m doing the
splits – not that great a look in a skirt and quite tricky to do too. Then again, maybe my white jeans will be too tight—’

‘You can’t,’ I said quietly.

‘What now?’ Jazz said, one eyebrow arched.

‘Jazz,’ I said, taking her cue and adopting her you-are-not-on-Planet-Normal approach. ‘You’re eleven—’

‘Twelve in three months!’ she cut in defiantly.

‘You’re eleven,’ I repeated. ‘And you can’t audition for
Who’s Got Talent?
until you’re sixteen.’

‘Says who?’ Jazz’s confident expression wavered.

‘Look.’ I pointed at the small print which laid down the terms and conditions. ‘It says here you have to be sixteen.’

‘So? I could
look
sixteen if I got Aleisha to lend me some make-up,’ she said airily.

I could not keep a lid on my emotions any longer. ‘Yeah, like she’s going to do that!’ I rapped out, my voice laced with sarcasm and anger. Putting my head on one side, I
talked up in a baby voice to an imaginary older sister: ‘Oh, hi, Leesh. Can I have some of your make-up, please?’ I looked down as if talking to a smaller person. ‘Sure, Jazz.
What for?’ ‘Well, I’m entering the auditions for
Who’s Got Talent?
and I need to dress to impress.’ ‘Of course, darling little sister. Here, take the
whole shebang, why don’t you, and while you’re at it why not borrow my favourite designer jeans?’

Jazz had her hands on her hips and her face was hardening into a fierce mask of fury.

I threw my hands up. ‘OK! OK! But you know what I mean!’ I shouted. ‘She’d have a fit if she knew what you were planning – and she’d definitely tell your
mum.’

Jazz sucked her cheeks in and wobbled her head at me. ‘You just don’t want me to have a chance of winning,’ she said through clenched teeth. I didn’t think I’d ever
seen her look so scary. I should have known then to back down.

But instead I did something really stupid. I couldn’t help it. I don’t even know where it came from – it burst out of me like bubblegum popping in my mouth.

I laughed.

It was just the idea that Jazz could actually believe that an eleven-year-old who sang like a strangled canary had the slightest chance of winning ‘the nation’s favourite talent
show’ and be on television – and get a recording contract!

Jazz, predictably, did not find the idea as amusing as I did.

‘You, Bertie Fletcher, need to seriously get a life. And I mean
seriously
. You need to grow up. All this bonkers utter RUBBISH about pets and kittens and fluffy little
hamster-wamsters. I mean how old ARE you exactly? We’re not at Junior School any more, Bertie. We’ll be nearly teenagers this time next year. You need to shape up your act, girl, or you
are going to be doing time with the Losers of Loserville from here to the end of eternity. And I for one will not be hanging around to watch
that
happen.’

And she spun on her heel, her beads thwacking against her flushed cheeks, and marched out, slamming her door behind her, leaving me staring at the newspaper article and feeling as though she had
just knocked all the life out of me.