Signs of Love: Stupid Cupid (2 page)

‘I’m not really thirsty,’ Treacle answers.

‘Sandwich?’

Treacle shakes her head. ‘Not hungry.’

‘Really? A growing girl like you?’ I grab a sandwich for myself and plump down next to Treacle on the bed. ‘You’re not one of those funny eaters, are you?’

Treacle shakes her head.

‘Vegetarian?’ I ask. ‘We’ve a friend with a daughter who’s just turned vegetarian. Poor things. They have to cook bean burgers every night. It’s all
she’ll eat.’ I take another bite of sandwich. Cheese and mustard. My favourite. ‘Where do you live?’

‘Mulberry Crescent.’

‘Really?’ I swallow. ‘Which end? Crook Street or Tottington Avenue?’

Treacle rubs the side of her nose. ‘Kind of in the middle.’

‘Hmm.’ I frown as I cram in the last of the sandwich. ‘Are you sure you’re not hungry? They’re very good.’

‘No thank you Mrs Simps—’ Treacle corrects herself. ‘
Mary
. I ate before I came out.’

‘Really?’ I frown. Time to increase the pressure. ‘Didn’t Jeff tell you we’d be having dinner?’

Treacle looks flustered. ‘Well, yes.’

‘It seems a little thoughtless to eat beforehand.’

‘I-I-er-I . . .’

While Treacle fishes for a reply, I push on. I’m really living the part now. Being a middle-aged bossy-boots is fun. ‘Never mind. We can always donate what you don’t need to
the soup kitchen. I hear they’re always in need.’

Treacle’s twitching like a flustered terrier beside me. ‘When I said I’d eaten, it was only a packet of crisps on the bus, I’m sure I’ll be hungry in a minute.
I’m just a bit nervous, that’s all.’

‘Nervous, dear?’ I turn a spectacularly amazed look on her. ‘Of meeting
us
? Did Jeff tell you we’re monsters or something?’

‘No, no! Jeff didn’t say anything.’

‘Because if he did, I’d feel very disappointed in him.’

‘Really—’ Treacle balls her fists ‘—he didn’t say anything.’ I feel her fluster hardening into irritation, but I’m not turning down the heat. I
want her to be prepared for anything.

‘He didn’t mention us
at all
?’ I flash her a wounded look and then move on swiftly. ‘So you play football?’

‘Yes, for the school.’

‘Jeff plays for the county.’

‘I’m going to try out for the county team,’ Treacle says quickly.

‘That’s nice, dear. But it’s a lot of time and energy to devote to something that’s not really going to take you anywhere.’ As Treacle’s eyes spark with
indignation, I carry on. ‘It’s not like a girl could ever go on to play football professionally.’ I know Treacle’s got her whole footballing career mapped out, but
Jeff’s mum won’t. ‘Surely you’d be better off spending the time on school-work. Then you’ll be able to get a nice little job as a secretary or something.’

‘Secretary or something?’ The spark in Treacle’s eyes ignites into fury. ‘This is the twenty-first century Mrs—Mary! Women become lawyers and surgeons and
CEOs!’

‘I’m pleased to hear you’re aiming high but, once you marry and settle down, you’ll want to put your family first, surely?’

Treacle leaps to her feet. ‘Oh! My! God!’ She’s outraged. ‘You want someone to cook and clean for your son and provide you with grandchildren? It’s like one of
those old books we read at school! There’s no way I’m going to end up as a housewife.’

I gaze at her innocently. ‘It’s been a good enough career for me.’

‘Really?’ Treacle puts her hands on her hips. ‘Well it’s not good enough for me! You should be locked up somewhere in the nineteenth century where you belong! If
you’re looking for a nice little stay-at-home wife for your precious son, you’d better look somewhere else, because it’s not going to be me, you stupid old bag!’

Her face is beetroot-red, her eyes wild. She looks so funny!

‘Whoa! Treacle!’ I laugh.

Treacle claps her hands over her mouth in horror. ‘I just called Jeff’s mum a stupid old bag!’

‘Maybe save that for your second meeting,’ I suggest.

‘Why did you have to push me like that?’ Treacle’s puffing like an angry bull. ‘Mrs Simpson’s not going to be grilling me about marriage.’

I smile up at her sweetly. ‘I just wanted to make sure you were prepared for anything.’

‘
Gemma
!’ Treacle grabs the pillow-pooch and starts bashing me furiously.

I burrow for cover under the duvet, laughing. ‘Don’t hurt poor Bubbles!’

‘You’re no help!’ she yelps, continuing to batter me with the ex-Chihuahua.

When the whacking stops, I peep out. ‘Sorry, Treacle.’

She’s pacing again. ‘I’m hopeless. I’m going to mess it up, I know I will!’

‘No you won’t.’ I leap up. ‘You’ll be great, and Mrs Simpson will be nice, and you’ll get on really well.’ I’m keeping pace with her, backward and
forward, hopping over the clothes and books littering my floor.

Treacle sinks on to the bed and drops her head into her hands. ‘Why do I have to meet Jeff’s parents at all?’

‘I guess he’s planning to date you for a while,’ I say with a smile.

Treacle groans and flops back on to the crumpled duvet. ‘Yeah well, he might change his mind after I’ve told his mother she’s a stupid old bag.’

‘You won’t.’ I plop down beside her and pass her a sandwich. ‘He won’t. It’ll be fine.’

Treacle sits up and takes a bite, staring despairingly into space as she chews. ‘Perhaps Jessica Jupiter can write something in Jeff’s horoscope this week asking him to be
sympathetic and understanding if a loved one happens to say something dumb.’

‘Good idea,’ I agree. ‘Just in case.’ Jessica Jupiter’s my alter-ego – I write horoscopes for the school webzine under her name. It’s the silliest job
on the webzine and far less cool than Will Bold’s job as feature writer, or Jeff’s role as sports writer. Even boring Barbara Tweed has a better job than me, with her brainless
lifestyle features. (Most earth-shattering articles to date:
Twenty Ways to Get the Most from Your School Locker
,
Desk Etiquette: Polite Behaviour in the Classroom
and
Top Tips to
Spice Up Your School Stationery
.) At least no one apart from Treacle knows I’m Jessica Jupiter. I’d die of embarrassment. I joined the webzine team as the first step on the ladder
of my career in journalism. It was going to be the line on my CV that landed me my first intern job on the local paper; the local paper was going to lead to a national paper, and within five years
I was going to be writing my own column and winning international awards. My head fills with my favourite fantasy – a wide stage stretching around me, an audience glittering in the darkness
as I stand at the podium, accepting the award for Journalist of the Year.

Treacle nudges me and passes me a glass of milk. ‘Thank goodness we’ve got Jessica on our side.’ She takes a creamy sip from her glass, then licks away her milk moustache.
‘If it wasn’t for her, Jeff might never have noticed my number ten shirt.’

‘Jessica’ had written in Jeff’s horoscope that the number ten would change his life. When he spotted it on Treacle’s football jersey after she’d scored the winning
goal at the Year Nine girls’ football cup final, he asked her out. It was a major result for Jessica, and I was delighted to help my best friend land the boy of her dreams.

I start thinking about this week’s column. I’ve written most of it already. But I left Cancer and Pisces till last. Jeff’s star sign is Cancer – and I know what to write
now, but Pisces will be harder. ‘I’m stuck on Savannah’s sign,’ I tell Treacle.

‘Pisces?’

‘I want to use this week’s prediction to warn her.’

‘About LJ?’

I nod and we both sip at our milk.

‘Do you think I should interfere?’ I ask. ‘What if we’re wrong about LJ?’

‘Were we wrong about Josh?’ Treacle reminds me.

‘No,’ I concede. Josh was Savannah’s last boyfriend and, when I spotted him snogging Chelsea Leeson behind the bike shed, I’d used Jessica’s column to warn Savannah
that he couldn’t be trusted.

‘You don’t have to be totally down on LJ,’ Treacle suggests. ‘Maybe just hint that the new boy may need to
earn
his reputation as coolest kid in school.’

LJ is a Year Ten who has just moved to Green Park High from a school in America. Everyone treats him like a god and he laps it up, never missing a chance to remind them that he was a model in
the US – glossing over the less-than-glamorous fact that most of his work has been for catalogues, and an advert for pet food. Watching him strut around the school corridors you’d think
he’d spent the past three years on a New York catwalk. And he checks himself in every door or window that reflects his glorious passing. ‘Bleugh!’ I pull a face, wondering what on
earth Savannah sees in him. He’s good-looking, but he knows it. ‘Why can’t she go out with Marcus? He’s had a crush on her for ages and he’s really sweet.’

‘Savannah’s determined to land a Year Ten.’ Treacle shrugs.

I slide her a sideways glance. ‘It’s pretty rare for a Year Nine to date a Year Ten.’

She grins, clearly thinking of Jeff. ‘I did manage to shrug off the Year Nine Invisibility Cloak, didn’t I?’

‘You’ve brought hope to us all,’ I tell her. Year Nine sucks. You’re not in the top year, not in the bottom. Not doing GCSEs, not allowed to work in the tuck shop. Year
Tens are usually blind to Year Nines. I know this better than most – all the other kids on the webzine are Year Tens and most of the time they treat me like I’m not there. If they do
notice me, it’s to give me any idiot job that happens to be available. And Cindy – our editor and the school’s resident Ice Queen – is the only one who knows I’m the
webzine’s star-sign scribbler because she gave me the dumb job in the first place.

The only webziner who treats me like I can actually read and write is Sam Baynham, the music reporter. He even invited me out for a milkshake once, but I think that was just because he felt
sorry for me because Ben had been ill. I said no, of course. I’m no pity case, and I wanted to catch the bus to the hospital and visit Ben.

Treacle drains her glass noisily, jerking me from my thoughts.

‘So what are you going to write for Savannah? Sorry. What’s
Jessica
going to write?’ she corrects herself. ‘Is she going to set Sav straight about LJ?’

‘She’ll try,’ I promise. The thought of writing horoscopes for the rest of the term makes my stomach tighten. ‘But I don’t think I’ll be able to help people
with the horoscopes for much longer.’

Treacle raises her eyebrows. ‘Why?’

‘Because I have a plan,’ I say, reaching for another sandwich. ‘A plan to remove Jessica Jupiter from my life once and for all.’

The form room is cosy after the freezing dash from the bus stop. I can still feel the sting of the biting March wind on my cheeks. Ryan Edwards is breathing steam on to a
window and doodling faces. Chelsea is perched on a radiator, her skinny legs hooked on to a desk. Josh slouches beside her, his arm round her shoulders, like a snake hanging off a stick.

‘Hey, Chelsea!’ Anila calls across the room. ‘Don’t burn your bum.’

Chelsea sticks out her tongue and snuggles closer to Josh.

I nudge Treacle, swivelling my eyeballs toward Savannah, and whisper, ‘Do Josh and Chelsea have to smooch in front of everyone?’ But Savannah’s not flinging vengeful looks at
the love-rats today. She’s leaning swoonily against the wall beside Treacle, hugging her backpack and gazing into space.

‘LJ’s wearing bow-legged jeans,’ she sighs. ‘Only a real model could carry off a pair of low-waisters like that. He’s so
gorgeous
.’ She fixes me with
an intense stare. ‘Did I tell you he used to drive his Dad’s Cadillac to school when he lived in America? He’s so far ahead of anyone here. He must think Green Park is
so
totally backward.’

Treacle’s eyebrows lift, ‘Yeah, right.’

Miss Davis scuttles into the room and opens the class register. ‘Hello, everyone.’ She beams like a lighthouse. ‘Nasty weather today.’

Savannah stares dreamily out of the window. ‘I hadn’t noticed,’ she sighs.

I hate to diss Savannah. She’s a babe and really sweet with it. If there’s a trend, she’s setting it; there’s no outfit she can’t wear and her porcelain skin has
never hosted a spot. She’s kind, thoughtful and friends with everyone – and me and Treacle are lucky to have her as a best friend.
But
she suffers from boy-blindness. Sav gets so
dazzled by good looks she can’t tell heroes from zeroes. She should date blindfolded.

‘Don’t you know he’s in
so
love with himself, he’ll never notice you?’ Treacle tells Savannah bluntly.

Miss Davis starts calling names from the register. ‘Tracy Brown.’

Treacle shoots up her hand, ‘Here.’

Savannah sniffs and takes a compact from her bag. ‘Just because he’s cool and good-looking, doesn’t mean he’s not a nice guy.’ She ducks to get a glimpse of herself
while she dabs her perfect nose with powder. ‘I don’t see why you’re so cynical, Treacle. You landed Jeff,’ she snaps her compact shut, ‘Dreams
do
come
true.’

‘Jeff’s a nice guy,’ I point out.

Savannah tips her head. ‘And what makes you think LJ’s not?’