Violet Ink (6 page)

I'm sitting at the kitchen table struggling over my science homework when I hear the back door open.

‘Hi, Finn,' says Mum, without turning round from the stove.

‘Hi,' Finn replies, flopping down into a chair. He's wearing a grey sweatshirt that's perfect for him; grey people are reliable people and I'd trust Finn with anything. ‘What you working on, Izzy?'

‘The rock cycle,' I tell him.

‘That's cool! You get way better homework than we did in Year 7. If you want any CDs, just let me know. I've got all the classics and loads of examples – garage rock, indie rock, punk rock, soft rock, hard rock, grunge.' Finn stops to take a breath. ‘And then I've got blues rock, psychedelic rock and, obviously, progressive rock.'

‘Not
that
kind of rock,' I say. ‘I've got to look
at how different rocks are made, like sedimentary rocks and igneous rocks.'

Finn looks disappointed so I rush to reassure him.

‘Your kinds of rock are much more interesting than mine,' I tell him. ‘I wish my homework
was
about them!'

‘Well, I'm not going to be much use to you then – I was rubbish at science. Gave it up the first chance I had.'

I sense Mum turning round behind me.

‘But wouldn't you agree, Finn, that science is a very useful subject and Izzy should do her absolute best to finish her homework?' Her voice is friendly, but I know she's raising her eyebrows at Finn in a ‘get the hint and agree with me' way.

‘Oh yes. I totally agree. Science is very important. I really wish I'd worked a bit harder when I was in Year 7. And just wait till you're in Year 13 – we have so much work to do it isn't funny!'

Mum is satisfied with his answer and turns back to the stove. Finn grins at me and I stifle a groan. Why does Mum have to make me look like such a baby in front of him? I always do my homework; it's not like she has to nag me to do it.

‘Here you go, Finn – try one of these.' Mum puts down a plate of biscuits on the table in front of us. ‘Careful, they only came out of the oven a few minutes ago so they're piping hot!'

‘Thanks, I thought I could smell something good.' Finn grabs a biscuit and then quickly drops it, yelping and shoving his fingers in his mouth.

‘I did warn you,' says Mum.

I laugh at the face Finn is pulling and carefully take a biscuit for myself, gently pulling pieces off the sides and blowing on them before I risk eating one.

Today must be a no-reason visit from Finn because there's no band practice. I know this because Alex spends hours and hours getting ready on band nights and I can't ever get anywhere near the bathroom. Not until she's gone out at least. Alex is quiet today – suspiciously quiet actually. Now that I think about it, she's not making any noise whatsoever, which is very unusual. There's no radio blaring from her room, or the sound of her hairdryer at full hair-destroying throttle. Very strange indeed.

Finn has obviously recovered from his burns because he reaches for another biscuit and stuffs it into his mouth, whole.

‘Ooobledook Aldrgghhh ergghhh?' he splutters through the crumbs. I really, really like Finn, but I wish that he wasn't such a boy sometimes. There are crumbs all over the table and somebody will have to clear them up and you can bet that it won't be him.

‘What?' I ask him. ‘I don't speak biscuit language.'

Finn swallows and wipes his mouth.

‘That was lush – thanks! I said, is Alex about?'

I look towards the ceiling, which is daft because I don't have X-ray vision.

‘Well, I
thought
she was in her room,' I tell him. ‘But now I'm not so sure. It's very quiet up there.'

Finn stands up.

‘I'll go and have a look,' he says, and saunters off towards the stairs. Mum doesn't say a word, just keeps stirring her pan on the stove. If it was any other boy, she'd have a fit – there's no way that Alex would be allowed to have a boy in her room – but Finn is different. I don't know why, but he just is. It's silly really because he actually still is a boy, even if he's just Finn.

I keep going with my homework, labelling a diagram with erosion and weathering and other confusing things. After a few minutes, I hear heavy
footsteps clomping down the stairs and then Finn appears in the kitchen doorway.

‘Was she not there?' asks Mum, looking worried for a moment. She likes to keep very close tabs on me and Alex, which is not a problem for me as I have nowhere else to be but home or school, but Alex hates Mum ‘constantly going on' about where she'll be and what time she'll be home. They had a whopping argument about it the other night and Alex yelled at Mum that maybe she should just be done with it and make Alex wear a tag like a prisoner – then she could track her location at all times. Mum shouted back that she thought that was a great idea and that when Alex showed she was worthy of trust then she, Mum, would be more than happy to give it to her.

I pretended that I couldn't hear them, which was quite difficult as I was watching TV in the living room and they were standing in the hallway right outside the door. I turned the volume up on the TV to drown them out, but then Alex stormed off and slammed the front door, and Mum marched into the living room and yelled at me for having the sound too loud. So unfair – it was Alex who wound her up, not me.

‘She's there,' Finn tells Mum. His voice is
quieter than normal and I look up to see what's wrong. ‘She's busy. I'll catch up with her another time.' He walks quickly across the kitchen and opens the back door. ‘Thanks for the grub. Good luck with the homework, Izzy.'

‘Finn –' starts Mum, but the door has closed and he's gone. Mum looks at me and shrugs. I shrug back. I have no idea what just happened. Finn and Alex are inseparable. It makes me feel a bit left out actually – the way they can spend hours lounging around with each other, totally relaxed and laughing at jokes that only they understand. She's never been too busy for him before. Not ever.

‘Maybe she's finally starting to understand the importance of her A levels,' Mum says, drying her hands on a tea towel. She looks quietly pleased, but I don't buy it. Alex is never that predictable.

‘Supper's in the oven. You've got about half an hour,' Mum warns me and then she heads towards her study and the mountain of marking that's balanced on her desk. She teaches for three days every week and the rest of the time she's always really busy looking after us and Granny and Grandpa. She doesn't ever really go out with friends, even though Alex has been going on at her to get
a social life. She does talk to Granny on the phone for ages every day though, and she pops in to see them virtually every day too, so it's not like she hasn't got anyone to talk to.

I keep going with my rocks for a few minutes, but curiosity overwhelms me and I can't think about sediments and magma until I know what Alex is doing. I creep out of the kitchen, past the closed study door and up the stairs. Alex's room is at the top on the right and her door is slightly open – Finn can't have closed it properly when he left. I'm not an eavesdropper, but surely if I just happen to hear something then that's OK? And if I'm crouched on the floor by Alex's door when I happen to hear something then that's totally explainable and fine. I could be looking for a contact lens or something. Except I don't wear contact lenses so I'd probably be looking for something else small and hard to find. Like a pin. Or a needle. Or maybe a pencil sharpener – I can never find one of those when I need it.

I sink on to the carpet and press my face up against the door. I can hear Alex, but she's not talking in her normal voice. She's speaking really quietly and giggling. Alex doesn't giggle. She laughs – a loud, rumbling laugh that makes everyone
who hears it join in. It's totally contagious, Alex's laugh; even if you're completely miserable it makes you start sniggering. But that's not the laugh she's doing now. Now she's making a sweet, tinkling sound, like sleigh bells. It's not a bad laugh – it's just not her laugh. It sounds like a pink laugh, fluffy and sweet. I wonder if she's thinking about choosing a new laugh like she chooses new handwriting styles. I hope not. It wouldn't sound like her.

It's hard to hear what she's saying in this new fairy-princess voice that she's using, but if I press my face against the wall and squint I can see her through one eye. She's lying on her bed and talking on her mobile. I have no idea who she's talking to, but I don't think it's her best friend, Sara, and I know it can't be Finn. Whoever it is must be extremely important for Alex to send Finn away.

I glance down at my mood ring. It's red, which means danger, and I feel a tingle of fear run down my spine.

‘Izzy!'

Alex is yelling at me from the bathroom. I'm lying on my bed and I've just had a really good idea for a verse I want to write, so I pretend I can't hear her and keep writing. I know I'm probably rubbish at writing poetry and I would never show anybody ANYTHING that I've written, but I like the way it feels when I write the words on the page. It feels like it doesn't matter if nobody ever reads it but me.

‘IZZY!' She's not going to give up so I put my pen down and roll sideways off the bed.

‘What?' I ask as I open the bathroom door. Alex is lying back in the bath, clouds of bubbles floating right up to the rim and almost overflowing on to the floor. I can never make the bath that bubbly. I think she must use at least half a bottle
of bubble bath every time she has a bath. There are candles all along the window sill and green gunk all over Alex's face.

‘What IS that?' I ask her.

‘Face mask,' mumbles Alex, barely moving her lips.

‘Why?'

‘Good for the skin. It's got cucumber extract in it. It's very soothing.'

It doesn't look soothing. It looks uncomfortable. It's hardened on Alex's face and makes her look like a zombie.

‘Why did you call me?'

‘Revision. Mum won't let me go out tonight if I haven't done any work so you're going to test me while I get ready. Kill two birds with one stone. Very efficient.'

‘I don't want to kill any birds. And how can I test you? I haven't got a clue about A levels.'

‘That's the genius part of my plan,' says Alex, reaching out her foot and turning on the hot tap with her toes. I watch as the bubbles advance. ‘Go into my room and get the postcards off my desk. I've written down some questions and the answers are at the bottom. You've just got to read me the questions and see if I get them right.'

I scuff my foot along the bath mat, squishing some of the bubbles that have overflowed.

‘I was actually busy,' I tell Alex.

‘Aw – come on, Izzy. Help me out. I'll be forever grateful.' Alex puts on her best wheedling voice and I know that I'll do what she's asked. I was really enjoying writing, but it always makes me feel good if Alex wants to do something with me, even if it does mean sitting in the bathroom helping her to revise.

‘What did your last slave die of?' I mutter, heading towards the bathroom door.

‘Not helping me revise!' Alex calls after me. ‘Thanks, Izzy. I'll owe you, I promise!'

I walk into Alex's room, shuddering slightly at the mess. It's obvious that she's got a big night planned because it's even more of a state than usual. Her wardrobe door is open and the wardrobe is bare. That's because every single item of clothing owned by Alex is spread across the floor, her bed, her chair and her desk. She's rubbish at putting her clothes in the wash so her dirty vest tops and a pair of muddy jeans are lying in a sorry pile next to her laundry basket. I mean, what's that all about? It would take just as much effort to put
her stuff IN the laundry basket as it does to put them on the floor next to it. It just makes no sense.

Leaping across the room, from one safe zone to another, I finally make it to the desk. I flick some smelly socks off the top of the desk using a pencil and find the postcards. Then I have to repeat the whole manoeuvre backwards until I reach the safety of the landing.

By the time I get back to the bathroom, Alex has washed off the face mask and is busy applying something orange with bits in to her arms.

‘Exfoliator,' she explains when she sees me looking. ‘Right, hit me with the questions.'

I put the lid down on the toilet and sit on the seat. Glancing at the postcards in my hand, I see that this is English revision. I read the first question.

‘How is the theme of love addressed in
Romeo and Juliet
?'

Alex sinks lower in the bath and chews her bottom lip.

‘Well, Romeo and Juliet love each other obviously. But they're star-crossed lovers, doomed never to be together.'

‘What's a “star-crossed lover”?' I ask her.

‘It means their fate was written in the stars –
they would only ever be unlucky if they stayed together,' says Alex with a daft, moony look on her face. ‘They were the ultimate romantic couple.' She sighs dramatically and gazes at the hot-water tap like it's something precious. ‘Remember
West Side Story
? That's basically the funky version of
Romeo and Juliet
. Same plot, better songs.'

‘I thought they both died,' I say. ‘That's not very romantic. And anyway the answer you've written here is all about the language of love, the dramatic effects created around the theme of love and the different aspects of love. You've not said anything like that.'

‘Yes, well, never mind,' says Alex quickly. ‘Ask me the next question.'

I sigh very quietly – in fact, so quietly that the sigh only exists inside my head. I know Alex when she's in this mood and she doesn't really want to revise. She just wants me to listen while she thinks out loud. Alex loves an audience: she hates being on her own. I don't usually mind – I like it when she chooses me. But my poem could have been quite good this time and it won't be the same now I've been interrupted mid-sentence.

‘Come on, Izzy. I've got to get ready for my date in a minute.'

This is news. Alex has got loads of friends and she goes out all the time with her big crowd, but I've never heard her talk about a date before. I need to tread carefully if I'm going to get vital information out of her.

‘Who's your date with?' I ask casually, shuffling through the postcards and making it seem like I'm looking for a good question.

‘Charlie,' says Alex, now vigorously scrubbing her legs with a flannel.

‘Charlie? You mean Man-of-the-Match Charlie?'

‘I certainly do,' grins Alex, looking up at me.

Wow. I don't know what to say. I might only be in Year 7, but everyone at school knows Man-of-the-Match Charlie. He's a school legend: a demon on the football pitch and totally brilliant at just about everything he does. I heard that he took two A levels one year early and that a famous football team wants to sign him up, but he's already been offered a place at university and he's going to be a doctor. Probably a brain surgeon or something. And not to mention the teeny fact that he's gorgeous. If you like that kind of thing anyway.

‘Is he your boyfriend?' I ask Alex. She's a perfect match for Charlie – beautiful and funny and
impossible to ignore. I can't help feeling that they would make an unstoppable couple.

‘Maybe,' she tells me. ‘Now ask me another question.'

I try to focus and read out the next card.

‘How is the drama created in Act 3, Scene 1?'

‘Don't know. Can't remember what happens in Act 3, Scene 1. Next question.'

‘Explain the reason for the conflict between Juliet and her father.'

Alex pulls out the plug and stands up.

‘Chuck me the towel.'

I throw it over to her and she wraps herself up tightly, like a caterpillar in a cocoon. Then she stands in front of the mirror and starts swiping at her face with cotton wool.

‘OK, Juliet and her dad. Er – I guess they're conflicted because she doesn't do what he wants her to do and that makes him mad. Because dads are bossy and don't want their daughters to live their own lives. Something like that.' She throws the cotton wool in the bin and begins rubbing cream on to her face.

I think for a moment about what she's just said.

‘Was our dad bossy?' I ask her.

There's a moment of silence.

‘Not really,' Alex says. ‘What makes you ask that?'

‘I just wondered,' I say. ‘That's all.'

Alex is still looking in the mirror, but she catches my eye and looks at me.

‘You can always ask Mum about him, you know. She means it when she says you can ask her anything.'

I pick up the toilet roll and start unravelling it.

‘I know. I just wish I remembered something for myself. It's not the same, always having to ask. And I don't know what questions I should be asking. I might not be asking the right ones.' I twist the toilet roll back the other way so it's all neat and tidy and put it back on the shelf.

‘So ask me,' says Alex, turning to face me and leaning against the sink. ‘I might not have all the answers, but I can try.'

I look at the floor and think about what I want to know. Alex was seven when our dad walked out, just a few months after I was born. I heard Mum telling Finn's mum once that I was supposed to be their ‘rescue baby', the thing that brought them back together. I really wish I hadn't heard her say that because ever since then, whenever I think about it, I feel like a total failure. Me being
born didn't make them love each other again – it made Dad go away. I can't have been a very cute baby if he didn't want to stay with me. Perhaps I cried a lot and it drove him away. Babies can be very annoying.

‘I know that he came back to visit a few times,' I say eventually.

‘I remember that,' says Alex. ‘He played with me in the garden. I used to love him pushing me on the swing. I was always yelling at him to swing me higher and higher!' She smiles at the memory. ‘I used to think I could fly when he did that. And then I'd go just a bit too high and my stomach would flip over and I'd be scared – and he'd grab the swing and stop me, and I knew he'd never let anything bad happen to me.'

We've still got that swing in our garden. We always call it Alex's swing because it was hers first. I go on it sometimes, but nobody's ever pushed me until it felt like I was flying.

‘Where was I?' I ask her. My voice sounds a bit whiney, like I'm jealous, but I don't think I can be jealous about something I don't remember.

‘Oh, in the house with Mum, I guess,' says Alex, turning back to the mirror and her make-up bag.

I'm quiet for a minute, wondering why I wasn't
out in the garden, having fun with my dad. Alex notices the silence and raises her eyebrows at me in the mirror.

‘You were a baby, Izzy. It was probably too cold for you in the garden. Or it was time for you to have your bottle or something. Don't worry about it.'

‘Sure,' I tell her, standing up. ‘Are we done with the revising now?'

‘Yeah, no time left,' she says. ‘Charlie will be here any second. Will you go down and distract him if I'm not ready? I can live without Mum asking him a million questions about what his intentions are.'

This time I let my groan escape into the bathroom.

‘Alex! I've got stuff to do. And I'll feel totally stupid trying to talk to him. What am I supposed to say? Scored any goals lately?'

Alex laughs.

‘You'll think of something. Consider it social skills practice. It's good for you – you should be thanking me.'

I squeeze past her and out on to the landing.

‘And don't forget to tell Mum that I did some revision!' Alex yells after me.

I go back into my room, leaving the door open so that I can listen out for the front doorbell. I wish we hadn't had that conversation about Dad. I can't stop thinking about him and Alex, laughing and playing outside without me. I might have been a baby, but I bet I had feelings. I bet I minded being left behind. And it's not like he can make it up to me now. According to Mum, he had a longing for freedom and that freedom did not mean timetabling every other weekend so that he could take his daughters to McDonald's. Freedom for Dad meant moving to the other side of the world with promises to write and send photos and money so that we could visit. Maybe his plane crashed on the way there because there's never been a letter or a photograph, and we don't have an address for him so we can't visit him, even if we wanted to.

Which we don't. Mum is all that we need and we don't want anyone else. We've done all right up until now, she says. We're a team of three – Team Stone – and I can't imagine it any other way. Mum, Alex and me against the world. Together forever.

I've just picked up my notebook and read what I've written when the doorbell rings.

‘Izzy!' yells Alex.

‘Yes, yes, keep your hair on,' I shout, throwing down my pen and running out on to the landing and down the stairs. I can't deny that I'm quite excited. Man-of-the-Match Charlie! Here in our house!

‘I've got it!' I yell towards the kitchen and then I stand in front of the door, smooth my hair down, take a deep breath and turn the handle.

‘Hello,' I say in my politest voice.

‘Is Alex in?' asks Charlie. His voice is quieter than I'd imagined.

‘She's just getting ready,' I tell him. We look at each other for a moment before I remember my manners. ‘Would you like to come in?'

I hold open the door and Charlie steps into the house. I look at our messy front hall and wonder what he can tell about us – what he thinks about us. My eyes fall on the embarrassing photograph on the wall of me on the beach in only a nappy. I
was
only one year old when it was taken, but still, I can do without Charlie seeing it.