Indigo Blue (8 page)

We wave bye to Aisha at the gates and turn up towards the estate.

‘Is it far?’ Jo wants to know. ‘Is there a bus?’

I show her the money Mum gave me for bus fares, and we decide to spend it on sweets and walk instead. We buy ice pops and penny chews and strawberry laces, and Jo links my arm as we mooch along on a sugar high, telling me I’m her best, best mate.

Two weeks ago, I know I was. Our friendship was unshakeable, the kind that lasts forever. I could have pictured us sat side by side in the old folks’ home, squirting each other with lavender water, painting each other’s nails lime green and sharing strawberry laces and Ovaltine.

Now I’m not so sure.

And I’m not even sure any more whether it’s Aisha’s fault, or Shane’s or anyone else’s fault at all. It’s just me and Jo.

‘Friends forever?’ Jo squeezes my arm.

‘Forever,’ I say, knowing it’s a wish and not a promise.

‘Good. Aisha’s just my second-best mate, OK? You’re not to be jealous.’

What do you say to that?

By the time we reach the top of Hartington Drive, Jo’s moaning that her feet hurt. ‘It’s stupid to move so far away from Calder’s Lane,’ she sulks. ‘It’s not even on a proper bus route, it takes ages to walk and it’s all gloomy and tatty round here…’

‘It’s not like we had much choice,’ I remind her.

‘No, but… I mean, I’m surprised you’re still going to our school. You must be well out of the catchment area. My cousin’s mate lives near here, and he went to Templars Primary, then Rathbone High. I expect you’ll have to go there.’

‘No, I won’t!’

Jo fixes me with a look. ‘It’s not up to you, is it?’ she shrugs. ‘It’s up to the council. It’s all about catchment areas and where you live. You can’t just
choose.’

‘I’m going to Kellway Comp like everyone else,’ I say, and I know that if Jo doesn’t shut up about this I’m going to cry, or slap her, or both.

‘We’ll see,’ she says, and we turn into the driveway of number 33 just as Ian Turner is getting out of his red Fiat, bags and papers flapping as usual.

‘Hello, Indie,’ he says. ‘Hello, Indie’s friend.’

‘Hello, Mr Turner.’

We clatter down the steps and into the flat.

‘
He’s
pretty lush,’ Jo whispers. ‘Too old for us, but I bet your mum fancies him…’

‘She does not!’

The idea is so loopy it has me laughing again.

‘They could get married!’ Jo suggests. ‘We could be bridesmaids!’

‘In pink and lilac frocks with frills and big bows in our hair!’

Mum comes through from the bedroom carrying Misti, who’s obviously been bathed and dressed in her best stuff specially.

‘What’s the joke?’ she asks, and we collapse in giggles again, but Mum doesn’t mind. She’s got orange juice and chocolate chip cookies and Hula Hoops all set out on the table.

I love my mum.

We scoff the snacks and go through to my room, and it’s all neat and tidy and smelling of joss sticks to disguise any lingering whiff of Misti-accidents. Jo admires the wardrobe, the spotty drawers and the turquoise fun-fur cushions my mum found in last year’s Homebase sale. She chooses a CD and we turn up the volume and stretch out on the bed, doing flow charts and quizzes from a couple of teen mags Jo’s brought along.

We discover that my perfect party snack is popcorn, and Jo’s is peanuts; my dream date is a day at the ice rink, and Jo’s is a candlelit dinner for two; my feel-good fashion is sassy skateboard chic and Jo’s is glitz ‘n’ glam, all high heels, crushed velvet and dangly earrings.

We clean off Monday’s nail varnish and repaint it, using ‘Tangerine Dream’ for me and ‘Purple Passion’ for Jo. No spots, no smudges, no crushed-crisp sprinkles. We even paint three of Misti’s dinky little fingernails before she gets bored and wanders off to dunk all her soft toys in the bathroom sink.

‘Teatime, girls,’ Mum shouts through, and we wolf down sausage, beans and mash. Mum says there’s ice cream for afters.

‘What kind?’ Jo wants to know. ‘My fave is that Häagen-Dazs one with the triple chocolate swirls…’

We’ve got economy vanilla from the cheap supermarket, but Mum lets us crumble a couple of choc chip cookies on top, and Jo says it’s almost as good.

Afterwards, we go through our lines for the audition. Miss McDougall’s given everyone the same chunk of script, because she says she’s just looking for expression and confidence and potential. We’re to get into groups and each read a character from the two-page test script, and Miss McDougall will make a shortlist and do the casting from that.

And Shane was right – we have to sing. Everyone who’s trying out for a part has to do the pickpocket song, solo, in front of the whole class.

Jo reads Nancy, I read Oliver, and we leave out the bits for Dodger because Aisha’s going to do that. Jo reads her lines really clearly, like she’s reading out in assembly, or doing a talk in front of the class. Aisha’s right: she’s pretty, she’s confident. She’ll make a great Nancy.

‘Do we do the singy bit too?’ I ask, and Jo’s away, wiggling her hips, whipping imaginary silk squares out of nowhere. She looks so convincing, you don’t really notice the bits where her voice goes wobbly.

She flops back down on the bed. ‘I
have
to get this part,’ she says. ‘It’s perfect for me, isn’t it? And I just know Shane’s going to be Oliver or Dodger or something. I really want him to notice me, Indie. If I get the part, we’ll have to practise together loads, and maybe he’ll ask me out or something.’

I stare at Jo. Nobody in our class has ever been out with a boy, except for Carrie Naughton who says she had a holiday romance last summer and showed us a blurry photo of a geeky French kid as proof. And Kelly Murphy, who hangs out with Buzz Bielinski sometimes and says he once kissed her outside the chippy.

‘D’you think he will?’ Jo demands. ‘Ask me out, I mean?’

‘Probably,’ I say. ‘You’re the prettiest girl in the class.’

‘D’you think so? Does
he
think so?’

Jo looks so sad that I want to stroke her hair and tell her to forget about Shane Taggart cos he’s just a sandy-haired, skateboard-mad, chip-stealing chancer. There’s no way he’s worth all the heartache, the hassle.

‘Anyway,’ Jo says, ‘I fancied him first, so you have to back off. I’d never forgive you if you went out with him, Indie. Never.’

‘But I wouldn’t – I don’t even like him, not that way –’

I’m so shocked at the unfairness of it all, I’d laugh if Jo wasn’t so serious.

‘Just remember,’ she says. ‘Back off.’

We run some more lines and Jo tears out two posters from her magazines and says I can have them for my walls, and then Mum calls through because it’s half seven and Jo’s dad’s here.

She’s going.

I wish she’d never come here in the first place.

I’m sitting on the wall at school, eating a strawberry lace leftover from last night and wishing I could rewind my life and start again.

Mum’s left Max, and I miss him, in a funny kind of a way. He shouted a lot and there were way too many rows, but he could be good fun too. And now it’s over, and we’re alone again.

Mum says she’s strong, that she’s come through worse than this, but I’m not convinced.

It’d be OK if only Jo wasn’t losing the plot over Shane Taggart. It’s crazy and irrational and it doesn’t make any sense, so I know it has to be a growing-up thing and the way to go is to blank it, big style, and hope it goes away. It’s not that easy, though.

‘Hiya.’

I look up, and guess what, it’s problem number three, Aisha, hovering a few feet away, smiling sadly and waiting for me to send her get-lost signals.

Somehow, this morning, I can’t be bothered.

‘Hi, Aisha.’

‘How’d it go last night?’

‘Oh, y’know. It was OK. We played CDs and did a whole bunch of quizzes from Jo’s mags, and we went through our lines and stuff.’

‘Sounds cool.’

Aisha gets brave and sits down next to me on the wall.

‘Yeah, it was.’

‘But…?’

‘Oh, I dunno. Jo’s hacked off with me cos she thinks I like Shane. I
don’t
. D’you think I could be bothered to go chasing after some lad when everything’s so… messed up? Well, anyway, I just don’t, OK?’

I break off a length of strawberry lace and hand it over.

‘Thanks.’ Aisha chews thoughtfully. ‘He likes
you,
though.’

‘Did I ask him to?’

‘No-o. It’s just hard for Jo, that’s all’

‘Look, it’s hard for me too,’ I say. ‘I have enough problems without Jo going all funny on me. I’ve been best mates with her since we were in Reception class. Then, lately, everything’s been going pear-shaped.’

Aisha looks away, biting her lip.

‘Do you think it’s my fault, some of this?’ she asks in a tiny voice.

‘Ten out of ten,’ I say.

There’s a long, long silence. I kick the gravel around at my feet and feel mean, but Aisha isn’t stupid. She must know how I feel about her.

‘It’s not been a great year for me either,’ she says eventually. ‘Moving here, starting a new school in the middle of term. I know you and Jo aren’t exactly over the moon to have me hanging around, but… I had to try. I like you, both of you. I just wanted a chance.’

I scuff my shoes some more, feeling spiteful and selfish. I try, just as an experiment, to see things from Aisha’s point of view.

‘I’m not trying to steal Jo from you,’ she says.

‘No?’

‘No. I promise. I didn’t mean to stir things up. If you want me to get lost, I will.’

I look at Aisha and she tries to smile. I do too. Neither of us do very well.

The bell rings.

‘So…’ Aisha says.

‘So… I dunno, Aisha. Maybe I’ll just get used to you.’

‘Maybe you will.’

Maybe pigs will fly.

*

When I get home, Misti’s crying and Mum’s got that creased, anxious expression again, like the day she stressed out thinking Max had followed me home. I chuck down my bag and give Misti a cuddle.

‘Aw, she’s all wet, Mum,’ I say, wrinkling my nose. ‘That’s why she’s crying.’

‘Hmm?’

So I change Misti’s nappy and wipe her legs with a flannel, dry them off and drag on clean tights. She’s still grizzly, though.

‘What’s up, poppet? Want a biscuit?’

There’s nothing left in the biscuit tin, so I make a peanut butter sandwich and Misti wolfs it down.

‘Did you have any lunch?’ I ask Mum, frowning.

‘Lunch? Oh, no. I wasn’t hungry.’

I look around. The blue carpet hasn’t been hoovered, the bathroom’s flooded from one of Misti’s doll-washing games, the sink is full of last night’s washing up.

‘Mum, are you feeling OK?’

‘What? Oh, yes, I’m fine. Is it teatime? Do you want something to eat?’

We make macaroni because there’s loads of dried pasta on the shelf, but there’s no milk or cheese so we can’t have sauce. Mum opens a tin of tomatoes instead. It tastes pretty boring, but we eat it anyway. Then Mum curls up in one of the grotty brown chairs and her face goes all sad and closed again.

I tie a tea towel round Misti’s waist and stand her on a kitchen chair, and we wash up. Misti sloshes the water around and makes mountains of bubbles, whooping and squealing, and I chip away at yesterday’s frying pan with a wedge of scourer, then attack the pasta pan and the stack of plates.

I try teaching Misti the pickpocket song, and after a while we’re belting it out full blast as we scrub and rinse and dry. I have to swab the kitchen floor with a used bath towel, to soak up the floods, then I move on and do the same in the bathroom, hauling a dozen badly mauled teddies out of the bath and lining them up near the leccy fire to dry.

Misti’s soaked again by then, but at least it’s only washing-up water this time. I change her nappy again and put her into her jammies. She’s squealing for a story, so I read
Sleeping Beauty
from the big book of fairy tales, and before I get to the handsome prince part she’s fast asleep, her fair hair spread out across the pillow.

‘OK, Mum?’ I ask as I come back through, but she’s definitely not OK. ‘Want to help me with my lines? It’s the audition tomorrow.’

She doesn’t even hear me.

‘Mum, are you feeling ill? D’you need a herb tea or an aspirin or something?’

She shakes her head, and though it’s hard to tell in this light because of the blue scarf draped over the standard lamp, I think she’s been crying.

‘
Mum?
Shall I get someone? The landlady, or Mr Turner from upstairs?’ My voice is all wobbly and frightened now. I know something’s wrong, but I don’t know what to do.

‘Mum, I’m going to ring Jane. Or Gran. Have you got some change? Where’s the address book?’

I’m flicking through the blue velvet notebook when Mum gets to her feet, raking a hand through her tangled hair.

‘Indie… look, I’m sorry. I’m OK, really. It’s just – I had a bit of a shock today. I was going to the park with Misti when I saw Max’s van. It just scared me. Silly, really. It was probably just coincidence.’

I bite my lip. ‘Did he see you?’

‘No. No, I don’t think so.’

‘I still think we should ring Jane. She’ll know what to do.’