Becoming Jo Page 6

  A possible answer curls itself around my heart, squeezing all the breath out of me. Gripping the sides of the kitchen table I rise up and walk to the living-room door.

  Beth glances up, smiles at me, then goes back to her book.

  Meg, on the other side of the room, also smiles.

  “Lateef really seemed to enjoy the movie, didn’t he?”

  I can’t answer. Can’t speak. Can’t form words. Because I’m letting my gaze rest on Amy who is, still, intent on her phone. She isn’t looking back at me. I can’t see her expression, but her body is stiff with tension. She knows I’m watching her and she can’t meet my eyes.

  And that tells me everything I need to know.

  I stride over and stand in front of her. “Amy?”

  She ignores me.

  “Amy?” I reach down and take the mobile out of her hand.

  She springs up, lunging for the phone, but I hold it over my head where she can’t reach.

  “Give it back!” Amy shrieks.

  “What on earth, Jo?” Mum protests. “Don’t tease her like that.”

  “Did you do it?” I say.

  “Give it back!” Amy says again, this time more sullenly.

  She’s not even denying it.

  A fury sears through me. I’m white hot with it. I turn to Mum, letting Amy’s phone fall on to the carpet where she snatches it up and backs away from me.

  “Amy’s deleted the story I’ve been working on since before we moved,” I say, tears pricking at my eyes. “Permanently deleted. The back-up and everything.”

  Across the room Mum blinks, clearly shocked. Beth claps her hand over her mouth. Meg drops the blouse she’s holding.

  They all stare at my youngest sister.

  “Is this true, Amy?” Mum asks.

  Amy juts out her chin and shrugs.

  “Amy?” Mum’s voice is sharp as a knife.

  A long pause, then Amy mutters: “Yes. I did it.” She looks up defiantly. “You deserved it, Jo; you were so horrible to me earlier. You’re always picking on m—”

  “You evil, evil brat! I’ll never forgive you as long as I live!” I lunge for Amy, who ducks under my arm and races out of the room.

  I make to go after her, but Mum catches my arm.

  “No, Jo,” she says.

  I’m shaking with rage, but I stop struggling. Even in the heat of my anger I know that I shouldn’t be near Amy right now.

  “Let me speak to her,” Mum says. She hurries out of the room. Meg has already vanished, presumably after Amy.

  I sink to the floor, all the fury suddenly ebbing out of me. A small hand clasps mine and I look up into Beth’s soft, sad eyes.

  “Your brilliant Rachel and Rodriguo story?” she whispers. “It’s really all gone? Even the backup?”

  I nod, the reality of what I’ve lost fully sinking in.

  “Oh, Jo, I’m so sorry.”

  And, as Beth squeezes my hand, the hot, bitter tears flood out of me as if they’ll never stop.

  Chapter 10

  “Please, Jo, please, I’m so so sorry.” Amy’s lower lip wobbles tremulously but I don’t care.

  I refuse to forgive her.

  I refuse even to speak to her.

  It’s been two days since she committed her terrible crime and I’m certain she has no idea how devastated I am. All my work … my entire story about Rodriguo and Rachel … is gone and there’s no way I can get it back. Perhaps if it were just one scene, maybe even a couple of chapters, then I might attempt to rewrite it. But not over twenty-six thousand words. I worked so hard getting them just right and there’s no way I’ll be able to remember what I put down before, or to write a replacement version that will be as good. That’s how I feel now, anyway.

  It’s like Amy has ripped my heart out.

  And nobody understands. They’re all sympathetic but they’ve never tried to write a book. Meg might pore over dress designs but she’s never actually made anything, and though Beth and Mum play the piano beautifully, they don’t compose music.

  They don’t understand how my stories are a part of me, at the heart of my being, my soul.

  “Jo, please talk to me.” Amy is crying now. “Please forgive me.”

  She’s standing in the narrow hallway, blocking my way to the front door. I’ve spent most of the past two days in my room, gazing at the pictures of far-off places above my bed and wishing I could escape to them. I’ve only been coming out for meals, which Mum insists we all eat together. But this evening I’m going out with Lateef to Rowena Riddell’s signing. I’ve been looking forward to it all week now and there’s no way I’m going to let Amy and her spiteful behaviour stop me from enjoying meeting my favourite author of all time.

  Who knows? Maybe meeting Rowena Riddell will inspire me to write a new story. I take my black jacket and the tartan cap off the overloaded coat peg by the front door. Amy is still hovering beside me, her hands clasped together, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “Please, Jo,” she beseeches.

  I glare at her. “Get out of my way,” I hiss. Lateef will be here any second and the last thing I want is for him to see Amy weeping and to have to explain why. I’d rather avoid the subject tonight. Concentrate on having fun.

  Amy turns and flees, her sobs growing louder as she thunders upstairs. Mum emerges from the kitchen. She’s been applying for jobs again. Through the open door I can hear Beth on her little keyboard. Several of the notes stick and the overall sound is horribly tinny, but Beth still fills what she plays with feeling.

  “Jo, you need to make up with Amy,” Mum says, leaning against the wall with a sigh.

  I tug on my jacket. “No,” I say, feeling mutinous. “You don’t understand. What Amy did was unforgiveable.”

  “It was mean,” Mum acknowledges. “But it was done in anger, without real thought of the consequences. Amy isn’t a cruel person, she acted in the heat of the moment and—”

  “I don’t care,” I say, my voice rising. “She’s destroyed everything I’ve been working on for the past few months. I won’t ever be able to recreate it.”

  “I know,” Mum says sympathetically. “And I understand that it feels like the end of the world right now, but it’s not worth cutting yourself off from your sister over.”

  “Isn’t it?” The words blurt out of me. I can’t believe Mum is taking Amy’s side like this.

  “No, Jo, listen to me. It was understandable that your first reaction was fury, but you’ve been angry now. You need to let it go.”

  “Let it go?” I gasp. “It’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  “Then you’ve led a very fortunate life,” Mum says. “Think about Lateef. Imagine losing everything.”

  I stare at her. She’s right, a part of me realizes. Of course I haven’t been wrenched away from my entire family. Far from it. But just because he – and lots of other people – are worse off than I am, I don’t see why that means I’m not allowed to feel resentful. What Amy did still hurts. Mum has no idea what it feels like to pour your heart into a story and have it be trampled to smithereens.

  “That’s not fair,” I say. “You can’t compare my life with his. What Amy did was wrong. And mean. And totally unprovoked.”

  “It was definitely wrong and yes, it was mean,” Mum agrees. “But you have to bear some responsibility for Amy’s anger. She is several years younger than you and eager to join in and instead of welcoming her, or letting her down gently, you all too often make a big point of telling her you don’t want anything to do with her.” She tilts her head on one side and forces me to look into her eyes. “You shut her out, Jo.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but before I can speak Mum is talking again. “I’m not taking Amy’s side, my darling. I’d just like you to see the … layers of the situation. That you haven’t behaved perfectly yourself; that you above all her sisters should have some idea of what it feels like to have an impulsive personality and a hot temper; that I am making
sure Amy is punished for what she has done, but the punishment should fit the crime. I’ve grounded her for a month and I’ve stopped her allowance.” She squeezes my arm. “Please speak to her.”

  A knock at the door. I grab my tartan cap and shove it roughly on my head. “If you ask me, those punishments aren’t enough,” I mutter darkly. And then I turn and hurry outside to join Lateef.

  It’s good to be out of the house and even better to be with Lateef. We might have only known each other for a couple of weeks, but it already feels like ten times as long. All the tension I’ve been feeling in the house for the past few days ebbs away as we saunter towards the centre of Ringstone. I don’t mention either the quarrel with Amy or Mum’s attempt to get me to make up with her, and if Lateef guesses something is wrong he doesn’t pester me to talk about it.

  Instead we chat about the start of school tomorrow. I know, from the visit my sisters and I made to Ringstone Academy a month ago, that each year group has four classes, though certain subjects like maths and English are in sets for ability. Much to my delight I’m going to be in the same form as Lateef – and several friends of his whom I’ve already met and liked.

  “So the only teacher to really watch out for is Mr Lymington.” Lateef chats merrily away as we turn on to the High Street. The light is fading, a bank of grey clouds partially covering the weak sun. The shops are still open, their windows full of colourful clothes and food displays. “Mr Lymington’s one of those teachers who turn suddenly, like you think they’re happy for a bit of banter, then they get all cross out of nowhere.”

  “Teachers like that are a nightmare,” I agree. I glance along the road. The Bookbound bookshop is just a few doors away, its dark red awning fluttering in the late afternoon breeze. In a few minutes I’m going to meet my hero, Rowena Riddell. My stomach tightens with excitement. “So, now you’ve seen the films, are you going read any of the Blacktower books?”

  “Nah,” Lateef says with a grin.

  “But—”

  “I’m in the bottom set for English, you know,” Lateef goes on. “So that’s one class we won’t be together in.”

  I fall silent. Lateef is probably right. I’ve always done well in English lessons, though I don’t want to say I’m expecting to be in the top set at Ringstone Academy in case it sounds boastful.

  Bookbound is heaving with people. The queue is spilling out on to the pavement as we arrive. We stand waiting near the door, the winter sun so low in the sky that it glares off the windows. Most of the people here are our age or younger, though there’s a sprinkling of older men and women too. The line moves faster than I’m expecting and soon we’re inside the shop where the queue snakes around a large bookcase to where Rowena Riddell is, presumably, sitting at the back of the store.

  Lateef chatters on with more gossip about school and the teachers and which people in our class are cool and which to be wary of. I’m not really listening as I crane my neck, trying to get a peek at my favourite author. Though the wait outside the shop seemed very short, the one inside goes on for ever. Well, it probably lasts about fifteen minutes, but I’m too impatient to just stand and talk to Lateef or even to check out the books on the shelves that we’re passing.

  At last we round the end of the big bookcase and Rowena Riddell appears in person. She’s smaller and older than in her picture. From that I’d thought she was in her twenties, but this woman is at least as old as Mum. Possibly older. There are lines around her eyes, mouth and neck, and her hair is cut short with a lot of grey mixed in with the brown. She is wearing a blue jumper and lots of liner around her eyes, and both make her eyes look startlingly blue. She glances up at the queue every now and then and I imagine she’s seeing me; seeing into me with those sharp eyes; seeing that I’m a kindred spirit, that I love her books, that I too am destined to be a writer.

  Long stacks of the new book line the route to the desk. I take one and count out the cash I’ve been saving up. I pay the shop assistant when I reach the till and flick the book open. But I’m too excited to read. I clutch the book tight, my palms sweating on the cover.

  We’re next in the queue now. I’m vaguely aware of Lateef chatting away about something, but I’m too distracted to listen. Rowena Riddell is smiling at the girl in front of me. Soon she’ll be smiling at me. I had a headful of stuff I was going to say to her, but now I can’t remember a word of it.

  “So, what do you think?” Lateef’s voice pulls me back to reality.

  I turn to him, distracted. “Think about what?” I ask.

  He stares at me. “Jeez, Jo, weren’t you listening to anything I said?”

  Just then a crisp voice calls out: “Do you have a book for me to sign?”

  Chapter 11

  I spin around. Rowena Riddell – the author I have loved for so many years – is looking up at me from her signing desk. Her bright blue eyes are set deep in her face, their expression both frustrated and enquiring, like a bird might look if you were in the way of its dinner.

  “Here’s my book,” I gush, thrusting it towards her. “I’m your biggest fan. I love your writing.”

  Rowena takes the book, still holding my gaze. She smiles, and the skin around her eyes crinkles.

  “Thank you,” she says. “That’s lovely to hear. Which of my books have you read?”

  “All of them,” I gabble on. I’ve entirely forgotten that Lateef is here until he speaks.

  “It’s true,” he says, folding his arms. “Jo reads, like, all the time, especially your books. And she’s a writer too.”

  I cast him a warning glance.

  “That’s great,” Rowena Riddell says. “So, shall I sign the book to you, Jo?”

  “Yes, please,” I say.

  There’s a short pause as she bends over my book, her pen gliding over the paper. My heart thuds. In a minute I’ll have to make way for the next adoring fan. If I want to say anything important to her, it has to be now.

  “I really do want to be a writer,” I blurt out. “You and your books have inspired me and … and I was wondering if you had any advice?”

  Rowena Riddell flicks her gaze up at me again. She tilts her head to one side, looking more like a bird than ever.

  “Keep reading,” she says eventually. “And keep writing. Don’t give up.” She hands me my book back. “It’s always good to find a way of writing what you know.” She grimaces. “A cliché, but true nonetheless.”

  I think about that. It’s an odd thing for a fantasy writer to say – has Rowena Riddell ever fought off dragons or saved the world? I store the comment away to mull over another time.

  “May I have a photo, please?” I ask.

  “Sure.”

  I lean in and Lateef takes the pic.

  “Good luck,” Rowena Riddell says with a smile. “And remember, talent is all very well, but working hard is the most important thing. Most of success is just plain old graft.”

  “Thank you, thank you.” I back away, then turn and hurry out of the shop. Lateef follows close behind.

  I realize I’ve been holding my breath as the cold air whips around my head, and I take a deep, burning lungful. Out in the High Street the lamps have all come on, casting a soft light across the twilit pavement. Lateef says something but I can’t hear over the traffic noise and the jubilant hum rising through my chest and throat, ringing in my ears.

  “Wasn’t she amazing?” I ask Lateef. It feels like my whole body is glowing with delight. “Wasn’t that just the most brilliant experience ever?”

  He laughs. “Definitely up there.”

  “I can’t go back home, not straight away,” I say. “I know! Let’s go to the beach. I want to feel the sea breeze on my face, proper fresh air to be inspired by. The promise of strange and wonderful lands across the water. Not all these traffic fumes.”

  “But the beach is over a mile away,” Lateef protests. “And it’s winter!”

  “So what? If I’m home by eight, Mum won’t mind.”

  “O
K. Sure.” Lateef’s eyes brighten. “How about Dead Man’s Cove? You’ll love it. Masses of atmosphere. It’s dead spooky at night.”

  “Perfect,” I say with a grin. “Rowena Riddell’s inspired me to start a new story and a deserted beach sounds the perfect place to set it. I’m thinking historical … maybe something with smugglers who shipwreck boats and … and the daughter of a poor boatman who risks her life to save a young sailor who turns out to be the son of a wealthy lord…”

  “Where on earth do you get all your ideas from?” Lateef asks, as we set off at a brisk walk.

  “Dunno,” I say. “Sometimes they just bubble up, like a bottle of fizzy drink when you shake it. And it only takes one thing to open the bottle and all the ideas froth out.”

  As we stroll along I think about what Rowena Riddell said: Keep writing. Don’t give up. It’s as if she knew Amy had destroyed my story and was telling me to keep writing, to persevere with my ambitions. And now I have an idea.

  I talk through my smugglers story, and Lateef nods and whistles as the tale gets more and more dramatic. As we head away from the centre of town the streetlights disappear and the evening darkness surrounds us. Soon we’re on the main road out of Ringstone. It’s a very busy street with a narrow pavement on one side only and cars whooshing past at top speed, their headlamps flashing over the fields on either side. Lateef says he knows a shortcut to the beach across a field, so after ten minutes or so we turn off the road. Lateef opens the torch app on his mobile to light our way across the grass.

  As we walk on I get a creeping sense that we’re being watched. I can’t explain it, but as I turn around and look over my shoulder, back at the main road, I catch sight of a figure hesitating at the intersection of the road and the field.

  I peer through the gloom. I can’t see her face in any detail, but it’s a girl, quite slight, in a jacket with a thick scarf wound around her neck. There’s something familiar about the shape of the head and halo of curls – and the way her chin sticks out is unmistakable.

  “Amy!” I growl. What on earth is she doing here?

  “Shall we let her catch up with us?” Lateef asks.