Kitten Smitten (12 page)

S
ome holiday this was turning out to be. I blundered down the stairs, swiping furiously at my wet, tear-streaked face and pushed past Ty who was
standing in the hall, gawping at me and waving a long-suffering Huckleberry in the air.

‘Ber-tiiie,’ he whined. ‘Jazz just called Huckleberry a tail-less lettuce-munching rat!’

‘S-sorry, Ty. Gotta go,’ I mumbled, letting myself out of the house and running down the street before Jazz’s mum or sister could spot me and make me sit down with Jazz and
‘try to sort it all out’.

All I could think was how much distance I wanted to put between me and Jazz.

How could she have said those things? We had always been mates. OK, so we didn’t get on one hundred per cent of the time, but she’d never been so hurtful before. What was I going to
do now? It had always been Jazz and Bertie, Bertie and Jazz. I wished I had Kaboodle to run home to – that gorgeous, soft, clever little kitten who always had some words of wisdom and a loud
jet-engine purr to make me feel better. He certainly would have had some sharp, witty comments up his whiskers when it came to Jazz. But Kaboodle had gone. And Jaffa too. And Dad was working.

I thought of Jazz and how she too was probably in tears right this minute because I had laughed at her. I should have felt bad about that, I supposed. But why should I feel sorry for her? She
had a mum to cuddle her when she was down, a big sister to give her advice. She even had a guinea pig in the family.

I had no one.

I was wallowing in the deep end of my own personal pool of misery and running along at full tilt with my hair flying in my face, so I didn’t see someone coming the other way. And I ran
right into them.

‘Uh – oh, sorry!’ I muttered, keeping my face hidden behind a curtain of mad-as-a-mongoose hair.

‘Er, it’s OK,’ said the someone.

I wiped my face on the back of my sleeve and moved to one side to get past.

The someone moved in the same direction and we bumped into one another again. I felt heat rise to my face.

‘Sorry!’ I almost shouted it this time. I just wanted to get home.

Then I sensed a hand on my arm and glanced up sharply.

‘Hey, you OK? You look as though you’ve been crying.’

Oh. No. Holy Stromboli with grated cheese and extra salami. It was only
him
wasn’t it? Prince Charming himself.

‘I – I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. I’m Fergus, by the way – we’re neighbours, I think.’

I pursed my lips to stop myself from coming out with any words that I might live to regret for the rest of my life.

Fergus was taller than me. He had to stoop to try and hold my gaze while I shuffled uncomfortably and tried to flick my hair back over my eyes. I couldn’t think of anything to say and
wished he would stop staring at me like that. Apart from anything else, it made it difficult for me to get a proper look at him.

‘How old are you?’ I blurted out.

WHAT DID I SAY THAT FOR? We weren’t in Reception any more! Next thing I’ll be asking him if he wants to be my friend. Actually, scrap that. That’s one thing I would definitely
not
be asking him.

Fergus grinned. I noticed, through my hair-curtain, that he had very white even teeth. And
his
hair was actually really glossy and quite an unusual dark red, which glinted in the sunlight
– what you’d call auburn. I felt even more of a hot and dirty mess.

In fact, I felt like I was running a temperature. I wished the pavement would split in two and that some alien life form would emerge and drag me down into the depths.

‘Thirteen. Why? How old are you?’ Fergus was saying.

I was so shocked I forgot to stay hidden behind my fringe. My eyes were doing their best to leap out of their sockets, but I did my best to restrain them.
Thirteen?
Bang went Jazz’s
dreams of Prince Charming leading her up into the dizzying heights of fame and fortune!

‘I’m eleven – nearly twelve,’ I added, immediately biting my lip and thinking how utterly dumb that sounded. Why didn’t I just say ‘eleven’ and be done
with it?

‘Oh. Right – I thought you might be older than that,’ Fergus said, his smooth face going a bit pink. ‘It’s just – er – your friend Jazz told me she was
thirteen and I guess I thought you might be in the same year as her.’

I was finding it incredibly difficult to speak like a normal human being. Jazz was unbelievable. But for some weird reason, I couldn’t allow myself to drop her in it and tell Fergus the
truth.

‘So. I guess we’ll be in the same school in September,’ he was babbling on.

‘Yeah, probably.’

I’d calmed down slightly now, what with all this bizarre conversation, and I realized I didn’t feel like crying any more. I sniffed loudly.

‘So, er, what are you into?’ Fergus said, kicking at a leaf on the pavement.

‘What?’ I said. What kind of a question was that, for goodness sake?

‘Well, like, your friend Jazz is into music and dancing and stuff – she told me all about it—’

‘I bet she did,’ I muttered.

‘Eh?’

‘I said, “That sounds like Jazz!”’ I fibbed extra-brightly.

‘Yeah, so – are you into music?’ he persisted, peering down at me through his floppy fringe.

I picked at some loose threads on the sleeve of my T-shirt. ‘Kind of. Not really. I mean, it’s OK, but it’s not my
thing
,’ I said with a slight sneer.
‘I’m not in a successful band or anything.’

I knew I should be trying to be nice to this boy. He was only making conversation. He was probably a bit lonely if he’d moved a long way from all his friends. And I knew what lonely felt
like. But it was all that stuff about Jazz: I couldn’t help it.

‘Oh, right. You’ve heard about the band . . . Actually, it doesn’t exist any more. We had to split when I moved,’ Fergus said. He looked sad suddenly. Then he blurted out
suddenly, ‘Sorry, enough about me. I should let you go. Erm – hope you don’t mind me asking though, but is everything OK? Only, you were crying, like I said, and—’

All at once I was fed up with this freaky chitchat with a boy I had never even wanted to meet in the first place. I didn’t care about his band. I didn’t care about him. I snapped.
‘Not that it’s any of your business, but
animals
are really “my thing”; not music, not
Summer School Dance Camp
, not Zeb Acorn, not Street Dance –
animals
. And if you absolutely have to know why I was crying, it’s cos I’ve lost my cat and she’s only little, so it’s kind of upsetting.’

I had been trying to keep my eyes fixed firmly on the pavement during this whole tirade, so that I didn’t embarrass myself by bursting into tears again, but a sharp gasp from Fergus made
me start.

‘What?’ I asked, looking up.

Fergus was frowning and chewing his lip.

‘Have
you
seen her?’ I pressed him.

‘I’m not sure, but . . . You say she’s little. How little?’ Fergus asked, his dark blue eyes clouding over. Why was he suddenly so concerned about my kitten?

‘We-ell, size-wise she’s about this big.’ I showed him with my hands exactly how tiny my little Jaffa was. About the size of a grapefruit – I could still hold her in one
hand. The last time I’d held her, anyway. ‘But we don’t know exactly how old she is. She was given to us, you see. By – by the lady who owns the house you’re living
in, as it happens.’

Fergus smiled. ‘Oh, Fenella Pinkington.’

I found myself smiling too. ‘Yeah. Pinkella!’

Fergus laughed. ‘Great nickname – wish I’d thought of that! Makes sense when you see the walls and carpets. Mum’ll crack up when I tell her.’

I was horrified. ‘You can’t tell your
mum
! She might tell Pink— I mean, Ms Pinkington, and I’d hate that. She was really nice to me,’ I tailed off,
pathetically.

Fergus shrugged. I could tell he thought I was a right doofus. ‘So – your kitten,’ he prompted.

‘So?’ Was he humouring me?

‘Tell me what she’s like. Apart from being small.’

‘I – well, she’s mega-cute. I called her Jaffa cos she’s gingery-orange. Made me think of Jaffa Cakes? Oh, and she’s a bit white too. And she seemed really happy
with us to start with, and then we had to take her to the vet for her jabs and stuff, and ever since then—’

‘Sorry,’ said Fergus, interrupting my stream of babble. ‘Did you say she was ginger?’ He was looking anxious again.

‘Yeah, unusual for a female cat, I know,’ I said airily, hoping I sounded knowledgeable.

‘No, it’s not that. It’s just, I . . .’ He faltered, suddenly looking ill at ease.

‘Yes?’

‘No, really. It’s nothing. Er, listen, are you doing anything right now? Do you want to maybe go to the park or something?’

Where did that come from? I thought, my forehead creasing into a frown. Why would he want to go to the park? With me? He was definitely winding me up now.

‘No thanks,’ I said firmly. ‘I need to look for Jaffa and I don’t think she could have gone all that way.’

He chewed his lip and then said in a totally over-the-top fake careless manner: ‘It’s OK. I only asked as I was going to the park anyway. Might call on your mate Jazz and ask her if
she’s free.’

‘Fine,’ I said, turning on my heel. ‘See you around.’

‘Yeah, see you!’ Fergus called out.

‘Oh.’ I swivelled back. ‘And if you do see a small ginger kitten, you will let me know, won’t you?’

Fergus glanced away quickly. ‘Uh-huh.’ He nodded casually. Then stuffing his hands deep into his pockets, he turned round very slowly and slouched off in the direction of
Jazz’s house.

D
ad was in the hall, beaming all over his face when I got in.

‘What’s up?’ I asked gloomily.

‘Look who’s here!’ he said, gesturing towards the sitting room with a ‘Daa-daaaa!’ and a flourish of his hands, as if he’d just pulled a white rabbit out of a
top hat.

Actually, it was better than that.

‘JAFFSIE!’ I yelled, my whole face lighting up with joy. I stopped myself just in time from running towards her and frightening the life out of her, and instead I tiptoed up to my
little kitten and scooped her into my arms for a gentle cuddle. ‘Where have you been?’ I whispered, rubbing my nose softly against her fur.

She whipped round and sank her tiny, needle-sharp teeth into my hand. ‘Miaaaaaow! None of Bertie’s business.’

‘Wh—aaaaaa?’ I nearly dropped her.

‘Hey, that was some noise! Did she scratch you?’ Dad asked, leaping to my side.

‘I – yes, but it wasn’t . . .’ I stammered. She
had
spoken to me, hadn’t she? Or had I imagined it in my excitement?

‘Grrrrrooowl!’ Jaffa let out a low warning snarl.

And then (I was absolutely sure of this) I heard her say something, so soft that it came out in a hiss: ‘Don’t you be telling that man
nothin’
.’

I gasped.

‘She’s hurt you, hasn’t she?’ Dad said, looking concerned. ‘Give her to me,’ he went on, stretching out his arms. ‘Blimey! Who would have thought such a
tiny cat could—’

‘No, no, it’s fine,’ I said, thinking quickly. ‘I think she must be hungry. I’ll go and get her something to eat.’

Dad shook his head. ‘You know what? I tried giving her something when she came trotting in just now, but she wasn’t interested.’

‘What did you give her?’

‘That kitten food, of course. What else was I supposed to offer? A prawn cocktail?’

‘Kitten food yucky. Prawns . . .
purrrrr
. . . scrumlummmmtious.’

There it was again!

‘I – I’m going to try something else,’ I said, backing out of the sitting room. ‘I think we should give her a proper treat to welcome her home. Actually,
have
we got any prawns?’ I asked, as casually as I could.

Jaffa started purring so noisily at this, I was completely positive that she had understood what I’d just said. I was intent on getting away from Dad by now. I had to go to my room so that
I could talk to Jaffa. Maybe once I got her on her own we could have a proper conversation and she’d tell me where she’d been the past few days.

‘We have, but . . .’ said Dad, sounding unsure. ‘Hey, I think I might just ring Bex at the pet shop to ask her if she thinks it’s safe to give Jaffa rich food.’