Signs of Love - Love Match (5 page)

Treacle starts striding across the carpet, chin forward, bum out, arms swaying like they’ve got no bones. She looks more like a chimp in the zoo than a model on the catwalk.

‘Don’t lean forward, lean back!’ I order. ‘
Lead with your hips
.’

She fires her hips forward, her head snapping back.

‘Oh, Treacle, you’re hilarious!’ Savannah exclaims. Treacle glares at her.

‘What? I thought you were joking,’ Savannah says.

‘Let’s try the other stuff they recommend,’ I say quickly and carry on reading out loud. ‘
Try “sweetening up” your behaviour: why laugh when you can giggle? Why tease when you can compliment? Come on, girls! Don’t just smoothe off your rough edges, add some pink frills to them.
’ I can feel waves of disbelief rolling off Treacle but I don’t stop. ‘
Don’t shake someone’s hand – kiss their cheek and, if you leave a lipstick print, all the better! Just apologise prettily and dab it off with your hanky. Be cute. Smile more often and speak in a higher-pitched voice.
’

‘OK, Gemmakins,’ Treacle squeaks. She’s standing on tiptoe, a grotesque ballerina, batting her eyelashes like a camel trying to get sand out of its eye.

Savannah lets out a roar of laughter and even I can’t hold it in any longer. I explode into giggles, dropping
Teengirl
on to the floor. Thankfully Treacle bursts into laughter too and we all fall back on the sofa, hooting helplessly.

‘I really don’t think—’ Treacle’s gasping for breath, ‘—Jeff’s going to be rushing for a date if he sees me like that.’

I’m fighting hiccups. ‘No,’ I splutter. ‘Maybe we need to try a different approach.’

‘Yes, one where I don’t look like I need the loo,’ Treacle replies.

‘You just need to be yourself,’ Savannah says, flicking her glossy hair over her shoulder. ‘You want a boy to like you for who you are, not someone you’re pretending to be.’

‘Savannah’s right.’ I start to smile. ‘And I’ve got some great news.’

Treacle looks up like a spaniel who’s heard the word
walkies.

‘Since Jeff’s working on the webzine . . .’ I begin.

Treacle’s bolt upright now. ‘Yeah?’

‘He’ll be watching
all
of the school matches.’

Treacle’s flushing. ‘
OMG!
’ she gasps. ‘Even the girls’?’

‘Uh-huh.’ I’m smiling. ‘And while you’re busy impressing him on the field, I’ll be finding out everything I can about him in our meetings.’

‘Good work!’ Savannah says approvingly.

Treacle starts flapping her hands like she’s drying nail varnish. ‘You can find out if he’s noticed me.’

I nod. ‘And what he likes and doesn’t like.’ I’m so happy she’s smiling. ‘I’ll make a note of everything and report back.’

‘Nice plan.’ Savannah looks at her watch. ‘Right, I’ve got to go.’

‘Already?’ Treacle and I chorus.

Savannah stands up and smoothes her skirt, not that there’s much of it to smoothe. But with legs like Savannah’s who needs a skirt? ‘’Fraid so, I’m meeting Josh at eight. Poor Marcus was crushed. But I couldn’t
two-time
.’

‘Where’s Josh taking you?’ I ask.

‘
I’m
taking
him
to the movies,’ Savannah says, heading for the door. ‘Some shoot-’em-up action thingy. It’s always best to make a fuss of them on the first date. He’ll be so grateful, I’ll get to pick the next five dates.’

I’m confused. ‘But you picked this one.’

‘Yes, but I picked it for
him
. The next ones I’ll pick for me.’ She sweeps out and the front door clicks shut behind her.

‘Was she born knowing this stuff?’ Treacle says, staring after her.

I grin. ‘Perhaps she gets it from magazines.’ We both look at
Teengirl
lying on the rug where I dropped it.

‘Talking of which.’ Treacle’s gaze zooms in on me. ‘When’s your first load of
horror
-scopes due?’

‘Monday.’

Treacle leans forward. Her ponytail swings as she tips her head. ‘So you’re really OK with doing them?’

‘It’s a start.’ I’m determined to look on the bright side. ‘And at least I’ll finally have my name in print.’

‘Ow, not so hard!’

Ben shouts at me and starts coughing. He’s lying on his nearly-new, super-cool, bells-and-whistles tilt-table, fully adjustable to 1001 positions. Right now he’s on his back, stretched flat, sloping head first towards the floor while I pound his chest like he’s a pair of bongos. Doing this for twenty minutes each morning is part of his treatment; it helps to clear his lungs. ‘Do you want to sing today?’

‘No.’

Ben’s in a growly mood. I’m not surprised. His CF is hard work. He’s only nine years old and all the pills and inhalers and therapy and exercise are Not Fun. Plus they seriously cut into his Xbox time. He can’t do sleepovers either or scoff down pizza without taking a fistful of pills to help him digest it.

Singing sometimes helps take his mind off the physio. I start warbling, hoping he’ll join in. On a good day, the daft wobble that I thump into his voice makes him laugh. But today he doesn’t want to play.

I stop yodelling and try patting out rhythms on his chest, hoping it’ll feel more like fun for both of us.

I’ve been taking turns with Mum and Dad to help with his physio for as long as I can remember. I like helping out, but it’s hard work. When I’m a famous journalist, the first thing I’m going to buy him is a vibrating air vest. After that, I’m going to pay for him to visit a specialist clinic in Sweden where they’ve got some pretty amazing therapies.

I drift a little, still pummelling his chest, while in my head I’m taking interviews after my awards ceremony.

‘I only hope that now I can make my family’s life a little easier,’ I tell
The Times
’ media correspondent. In my imagination, he’s really handsome and terribly impressed by my brilliance.

‘Has your brother’s illness been important in driving you on to such great success?’ he asks sympathetically.

I touch his knee and look at him earnestly. ‘My pure love of journalism is what’s driven me,’ I admit. ‘But Ben’s illness has taught me a lot about loyalty and tenacity. And about facing the truth head-on.’

As his eyes glow in admiration, Mum shouts from the bathroom. ‘Has Ben taken his vitamins and antibiotics?’ I’m jolted from my fantasy.

‘Not yet, but I’ve got them ready.’ I’ve already lined up the pill bottles on the table. Mum asks the same question every time it’s my turn to do Ben’s therapy, like I might
forget.
It used to bug me till I realised she needs to ask; it’s her magic spell that keeps Ben from getting an infection. If she asks then he’ll be OK for the day. Like if I check under my bed for alligators before I switch off the light, there’ll be no alligator. It sounds crazy, I know, but I haven’t been bitten by an alligator yet.

The morning passes slowly. Maths drags like time’s trailing through syrup. I’m relieved when the lunch bell goes. My physio mornings with Ben always make me tired. I have to set the alarm early and then run for the bus.

‘Is my hair OK?’ I ask as I head for the lunch hall with Treacle and Savannah.

‘Try this.’ Treacle stops and slides a hairband from her wrist.

Facing the class with hedge-hair is one thing; facing a packed lunch hall is entirely different.

Ducking behind me, she scoops my hair loosely into a low ponytail. ‘I wish I had curly hair like yours.’

I stare at her silky black locks. ‘We should swap.’ We’ve been longing to swap hair since nursery school, but we haven’t discovered how to do a whole-head hair transplant yet. If we ever do, I bet she lasts five minutes before she’s begging me to swap back. My hair is not exactly wash-and-go. It’s more light-the-fuse-and-retreat.

‘Wait a second.’ Savannah pulls a few stray tendrils round my face. ‘That’s better,’ she says, standing back and admiring her handiwork. ‘Très chic!’

The lunch hall is warm, wide and sunny. Students mill at the edges and fill the Formica tables. We take a seat at the table by the pasta bar and I scope the hall, self-conscious as I recognise Cindy, Barbara, Sam, Will and Jeff, dotted around the room. I wonder if I’m allowed to say hi to them. We work together on the webzine, but does that mean I can speak to them outside our meetings? I freeze as I catch Sam’s eye. Shyness swamps me and I look away, feeling dumb. Savannah would have just flashed a smile and got on with her lunch. For the millionth time I wish I was her. I fumble with my sandwich box, the sting of a blush heating my face.

Savannah’s phone bleeps and she checks the screen. ‘Text from Josh,’ she says casually, as if getting a text from a boy is as dull and everyday as cleaning your teeth.

‘Aren’t you going to read it?’ I ask.

Savannah unwraps a ham-and-lettuce sandwich, cut into four neat little triangles – even her lunch is poster-perfect. ‘When I’m ready,’ she says with a grin. ‘Don’t want him thinking I’m too keen.’

‘I’ve gotta eat fast,’ Treacle says. ‘It’s the Cup match tomorrow and I want to practise penalties.’ Her feet are tapping under her chair. I know she’s itching to get to the football field.

She gobbles her sandwich, stuffing crisps between each mouthful of tuna-filled bread.

I nibble the samosa Mum packed for my lunch and keep my eyes fixed firmly on Treacle or my lunch box. There’s no way I’m letting my gaze stray towards the webziners again. But as always I can’t keep my mind from wandering.

Treacle’s voice cuts into my think-piece. ‘Right, I’m off,’ she says as she scrunches up her crisp packet.

I drop the half-eaten samosa back into my lunch box, my appetite crushed by my drama-queen daydream.

Treacle doesn’t notice. ‘If I score ten penalties before the bell goes,’ she says, ‘we’ll win the Cup.’

She’s making deals just like Mum does with Ben and I do with alligators. Maybe everyone needs magical deals to make them feel strong. No wonder Cindy wants horoscopes in the school webzine. Half the school may have smartphones, but we’re still as superstitious as cave-dwellers. ‘You’ll win,’ I promise.

‘Thanks. See you in geography.’ Treacle clatters her chair back and makes for the exit. She’s already wearing her number ten football jersey over her school jumper.

I close my lunch box. I might as well leave too. I’m not hungry and Savannah is now deep in conversation with Sally Moore about the pros and cons of carbs. ‘See you in geography,’ I call to them.

‘Yeah.’ Savannah waves at me, distracted.