Paris Crush (6 page)

‘Come
on
, Gem!’ Treacle hauls me to my feet. ‘We’ve got to do something.’

It’s Sunday afternoon, just starting to turn dark outside. Treacle has been pacing my room for five minutes working out how to persuade Savannah’s dad to sign the Paris form.
Wednesday’s the deadline. If Savannah doesn’t hand it in, she’ll miss the trip.

Treacle shows me Sav’s text again.

Dad’s still not signed form

‘Won’t it be a bit obvious if we just turn up at her door and start begging him to sign?’ I reason. What if Savannah’s on the verge of persuading her dad that she
won’t choke on garlic butter or be seduced by the Three Musketeers while she’s in Paris? Persuading parents is a delicate business. Like herding goats. Too much pressure and they panic
and turn stubborn just to prove they’re in charge.

Treacle picks up her book bag. It’s heavy with the history assignment we’ve been working on all afternoon. ‘We’ll just say we’ve come round to swap notes and see
how it’s going.’

I give in. Treacle’s got her penalty-scoring face on – the one that tells me she’s determined to get the ball in the back of the net. ‘Come on then.’ I slide
Twentieth-century Europe
into my bag and heft it onto my shoulder. Treacle’s already out the door and hammering downstairs.

‘Mum, we’re going to Savannah’s!’ I yell from the hallway.

Mum hoots from the study, ‘Be back in time for tea. It’s a school night, remember?’ She must think I have the memory of a goldfish.

‘OK.’ I swing open the front door and follow Treacle out.

The pavement’s wet and the street lights are just starting to flicker on. Treacle’s hair reflects an orange halo as she passes under them.

I wonder about my own. ‘Do you know anything about the Pre-Raphaelites?’ I ask Treacle.

‘Weren’t they that droopy bunch who were into knights in shining armour and damsels in distress?’ She’s striding along, bag bumping on her back.

‘Did they have nice hair?’ I ask hopefully.

Treacle looks at me sideways. ‘Why?’

‘Someone said I had Pre-Raphaelite hair,’ I shrug. I’ve Googled Elizabeth Siddal of course. She
was
droopy. There’s a famous painting of her floating like seaweed
in a pond. ‘I’m not sure if that’s a good thing.’

The corners of Treacle’s mouth are wrinkling into a smile. ‘It’s a good thing, Gemma. Kinda romantic. Who said it?’

I shudder, thinking of Will. He’s not exactly the knight-in-shining-armour type. And definitely not romantic unless your idea of romance is being cornered by wolves. I decide he must have
been working the droopy angle. ‘No one special.’ I stare at the glistening pavement blurring beneath my feet.

Treacle gasps. ‘Was it Rupert?’

The thought fills me with horror. ‘No way!’ I prefer Will. At least his humour has wit, even though it’s so razor-sharp you could shave with it.

Treacle narrows her eyes, but doesn’t push. She knows I‘ll spill eventually; I always do. Besides, we’re three strides from Savannah’s driveway. Treacle cuts across the
grass and crunches over the gravel. The porch light flashes on as she reaches for the bell.

‘Hello, Mr Smith.’

Savannah’s dad has answered the door by the time I catch up.

He’s a tall man, his hair greying at the edges, a pale yellow golfing sweater gently hugging his belly. He beams as he recognizes us. We’ve known him forever. He used to buy us ice
cream on the way home from playschool. ‘Hello, Tracy. Hi, Gemma.’ He glances out into the darkening sky. ‘It’s a bit late to be out, isn’t it?’

Treacle shows him her watch. ‘It’s five o’clock, Mr Smith. We’re not six years old any more.’

Mr Smith shakes his head and sighs. ‘I guess not.’ He turns and calls behind him. ‘Savannah!’ Then he steps out of the way and waves us in. ‘She’s probably on
her laptop playing Facebook with some lanky-haired layabout in Kuala Lumpur.’ I swear I see another hair turn grey as he speaks.

‘Gemma! Treacle!’ Savannah pops her head out of the living room door. ‘Come in! Have you finished that history essay? It’s
sooooo
hard.’ Gabbling, she herds
us into the living room where cushions are piled into a nest in the middle of the wide, cream carpet. A laptop sits in the nest, snapped shut, like a precious egg she’s been trying to
hatch.

She kneels on the cushion and cracks it open. ‘I’m on the conclusion.’ She blinks up at me as I sit on the sofa and tuck my legs under me. ‘The First World War was
everyone’s
fault, right?’

Treacle flops next to me. ‘That’s pretty much what I decided.’

Mr Smith is loitering in the doorway. ‘Juice and biscuits?’ he offers.

Savannah rolls her eyes at him. ‘
Da-ad
,’ she groans. As his face falls, she softens. ‘Some Coke would be cool.’

‘No biscuits?’ he presses.

Treacle sits forward. ‘What sort?’

‘Double choc chip,’ Mr Smith answers like a man who knows his biscuits.

Treacle grins. ‘Yes please.’ She starts to get up. ‘Can I help?’

My Smith shakes his head. ‘You stay and gossip. Savannah’s been stuck in with no one but me for company all day.’

As he disappears, Treacle’s attention snaps to Savannah. ‘Well?’ she demands. ‘Any progress?’

I’m more gentle. ‘Has he signed the Paris form yet?’

Savannah slumps on her cushion nest like the last dodo surrendering. ‘He’s acting like I’m asking him to sign my death warrant.’

‘Should we say anything to him?’ I ask.

Savannah’s super-smooth brow crumples. ‘I don’t know,’ she wails. ‘I’m trying to act grown-up and responsible, but I am
this
close—’ she
pinches her finger and thumb a millimetre apart, ‘—to having a full-on tantrum.’ Her hair sweeps the cushions. ‘I think you’re just going to have to go without me.
Just promise you’ll send postcards so I can at least see what I’m missing.’

‘Refreshments.’ Mr Smith breezes in, carrying a tray. He’s decanted Coke into cut-glass tumblers and the biscuits are piled high on a plate. Treacle’s gaze is darting
manically from the biscuits to Mr Smith. I guess she’s trying to decide which to do first: wolf down cookies or bring up Paris.

Mr Smith slides the tray of goodies onto the coffee table. Treacle grabs a cookie and practically swallows it whole, then reaches for a glass of Coke and starts to sip. Mr Smith is lingering,
swaying from one foot to another, with the nervous look of a Year Seven in the school office. Then he sits down suddenly on the edge of an armchair and rests his elbows on his knees.
‘Savannah says you’re both going on this Paris trip.’

Treacle gurgles as she tries to speak through her Coke.

I fill in for her. ‘Yes.’ I nod furiously. ‘We are
really
looking forward to it. It’s such a
great
opportunity. I’m hoping to write an article about
our experiences for the school webzine.’

‘You’ll be travelling with Year Tens?’ Mr Smith looks wary. ‘Aren’t they a bit . . .’ He creases his brow. ‘. . .
mature
?’

Treacle puts her Coke on the table and fixes Mr Smith with an earnest look. ‘I’m dating a Year Ten, Mr Smith, and I promise you, he’s not
at all
mature.’

I butt in. ‘You don’t have to worry about Year Tens. I work with some on the webzine.’ Is he worried they’ll lead us astray and take us to seedy nightclubs and spike our
lemonade with absinthe? ‘They think Year Nines are way uncool. We’re invisible as far as they’re concerned.’

Mr Smith is still frowning. ‘But who’ll be chaperoning you?’

‘Madame Papillon and Mr Chapman,’ Treacle pipes up. ‘There’s a list of the teachers on the form. We’re practically outnumbered. I think half the staffroom are
going.’

Mr Smith turns back to me. ‘You say you work with Year Tens on the webzine?’

‘Treacle’s boyfriend is the sports reporter,’ I tell him.

‘Are many of them going on this trip?’ Mr Smith presses.

‘I think the whole editorial team’s going,’ I tell him. ‘They’re really nice.’ I’m thinking of Sam, Barbara, Dave and Phil. ‘
Really
sensible.’ I push home my point. ‘Between them and the teachers, I’m sure we’ll be well looked after.’

Treacle shifts forward on her seat. ‘I know you’re worried for Savannah, but I promise we’ll watch out for her, Mr Smith.’

‘We won’t leave her alone for a second.’ I can see him softening and hold my breath as he taps his fingertips together.

Then he stands up. ‘I just need to think about it a bit more.’ He exits and Savannah collapses onto her cushions and buries her face. A muffled groan seeps out.

I squash down next to her and hug her. ‘I really think he wants you to go,’ I comfort. ‘He just needs to get used to the idea.’

Savannah sits up and drags a stray lock of hair from between her lips. ‘Thanks for trying, guys,’ she sighs. ‘But I think he’s just going to build me a Rapunzel tower and
lock me in it.’

Treacle slides onto the floor and tugs Savannah’s hair. ‘You’d better start growing this then,’ she teases gently. ‘Marcus will need something to climb
up.’

‘I’m pleased to see so many of you made it to this special meeting.’ Cindy gazes up from behind a monitor. ‘I know it’s early.’

Webzine HQ is dingy beneath the single bulb. Outside, the sky’s hardly woken up. I glance at the clock.
Eight fifteen.
I stifle a yawn, still drowsy from the rumble of the early
bus.

Jeff is looking flushed. He probably jogged to school. Sam’s rubbing his eyes as though he’s trying to massage them into life. Dave and Phil are damp and smell fresh with shower gel.
Barbara’s neat as a pin, as usual, though there’s a dark smudge above each eye. Has she been experimenting with make-up?

While I’m wondering, boots are goose-stepping along the corridor outside.

‘Will.’ Cindy lifts her chin as the door wallops open. ‘I hope I haven’t interfered with your morning routine.’

He looks even more dishevelled than normal, his jacket unzipped. There’s stubble on his chin and his dark brown hair is a tousled mass that makes my curls seem well-behaved.

‘Would you like to borrow a brush, William?’ Cindy reaches for her bag.

‘Why?’ Will snorts. ‘Did you call us here for a fashion shoot?’

Cindy flicks him a tight smile then swings her monitor round so that we can all see the screen. ‘I wanted to show you this before I send out this week’s edition of the
webzine.’

A garish pink webpage is lighting up the screen.

Zodiac signs are flashing between lumps of text.

The headline makes me blink.
That’s my column! On the web!
I’ve gone global.

‘I thought it would be a good idea for our email version of the webzine to link to a webpage.’ Cindy examines our expressions hopefully. ‘This isn’t live yet, it’s
just a mock-up,’ she explains. ‘I thought Jessica’s page would make a good example.’

Jeff nods thoughtfully. ‘Looks good, Cindy. Did you make this yourself?’

Cindy tucks her hair behind her ear. ‘It’s pretty straightforward with the software.’

‘Won’t updating it every week be a hassle?’ Jeff asks.

Phil is chewing his thumbnail. He takes it out of his mouth. ‘We could help with that.’ He glances at David.

David scratches his head. ‘If we base it in a preformatted blog, we could set it up so we can just email our stories straight into the page.’

Cindy smiles indulgently. ‘I
knew
you boys would make this work.’ She starts clicking on links. ‘You can jump to the Reader’s Email-of-the-Week feature
here.’ The page reloads. David’s lovelorn letter is suddenly plastered over the screen. I glance at him, alarmed, but he doesn’t blink.

Will, on the other hand, stares like a shocked cat. ‘Doesn’t this publication have
ethics
? Who on earth wants their personal email plastered over a webpage?’

He leans forward and starts reading off the screen. ‘
I’ve fallen for a girl who works on the webzine.
’ He does a double-take. ‘Whoa!’ His gaze dismisses me
and Barbara in a flash and moves on to Cindy. ‘You’ve got mail, honey,’ he says sarcastically, then turns back to the screen and reads on, his voice dripping with scorn.
‘
I’m hoping you can give me a few tips on how to woo this most wonderful girl.’
Suddenly he grins and jerks round to Sam. ‘Aww, Sammy.’ He shakes Sam’s
shoulder. ‘That’s sweet, but wooing Cindy is easy.’ He glances back at the Ice Queen. ‘Just buy her a mirror.’