Kitten Wars (7 page)

I took a deep breath and rang the doorbell before I could change my mind and leg it back home.

The door was flung open so fast I gasped and stepped back.

‘JA-AZZ! It’s Bertie – you know, the one you were getting all stressy about,’ shouted Ty, Jazz’s younger brother.

What did
that
mean?

Jazz hurtled down the stairs and pushed her brother out of the way. This did not look good. Maybe I should have called first after all. Maybe she wouldn’t want to see me, especially if she
was so ‘stressy’ about me that she had told her family about it.

In one swift gesture, Jazz confirmed all my suspicions: she crossed her arms tightly and stood with one hip sticking out, her lips pursed, creating what can only be described as her
seriously-not-amused pose.

‘Hi!’ I said. Bit pathetic, but what else was I supposed to say?

‘What?’ she said.

‘Er . . . hi,’ I repeated.

‘Right, is that all? Only I’m kind of busy right now.’

My stomach squeezed in on itself. I dug my fingernails into the palms of my hands to keep a hold on things.

‘Oh,’ I said. Great. It seemed I had lost the power of speech.

‘Okaaay,’ Jazz said slowly, looking somewhere over my shoulder as if I was becoming invisible. ‘I’m going to close the door then. It’s getting draughty.’

‘Jazz, look! Huckleberry’s climbing up my tummy – whoo. It tickles!’ Ty had re-emerged and there was something crazy going on inside his sweatshirt. It was jumping and
wriggling and, wait, was it
squeaking
too?

Jazz whirled round and let rip at her brother. ‘Tyson Brown, I’m going to KILL you! Come here!’

But too late – Ty and the wriggling sweatshirt were off down the hall at full pelt, Jazz screeching after him like a hawk on the attack.

The door was still open, so I thought I might as well go into the house. I was pretty intrigued about what Ty had done that was making Jazz so mad. And I couldn’t help feeling grateful to
him for distracting his sister from giving me the cold shoulder.

The shrieking and yelling from the kitchen brought Jazz’s big sister, Aleisha, tearing downstairs.

‘What on earth—? Oh, hi Bertie.’ She stopped when she caught sight of me and smiled. ‘Good to see you – you and Jazz made up then?’

Made up? So Jazz
had
told her whole family we’d had a fight? I must have looked shocked, because Aleisha blushed and stammered, ‘Oh, right, none of my business. But hey,
I’d better go and see what the brats are brawling about now. You coming?’

I wasn’t sure I wanted to now: the noise from the kitchen had reached a new level of hysteria, and added to Jazz’s yelling and Ty’s protestations there was a shriller, more
distressed squeaking.

‘Break it up, you two!’ Aleisha shouted above the commotion, waving her hands in the air like a referee at a football match. And then: ‘Oh my— Ty, put Huckleberry down
NOW!’

The noise from Jazz and her little brother ceased immediately, and Tyson dropped what he had been wrestling from Jazz’s grasp.

I screamed. A brown furry thing the size of my shoe ran past me and zipped under the dresser, squeaking furiously as it went.

‘Upstairs!’ Aleisha barked at her brother. ‘And you had better coax the poor thing out from under there,’ she told Jazz. ‘You’ll be lucky if it doesn’t
have a heart attack after what you two have just put it through.’

‘He’s a HE, not an
it
,’ said Ty sullenly, but catching the steely look in his older sister’s eyes, he ran out of the room.

Jazz was already on her knees looking under the dresser and muttering something about new trainers getting dirty.

Aleisha raised one eyebrow at me and said, ‘Good luck,’ and then swept out of the room after Ty.

Jazz was reaching her arm as far as she could under the dresser and calling out in a high-pitched voice, ‘Come on out, Huckleberry. Come on, cutie-pie. I’m sorry. The nasty
boy’s gone now.’

I shuffled from foot to foot. I had obviously picked a really bad time to come round, but I was pretty hacked off that Jazz wasn’t explaining who or what Huckleberry was. It was obvious he
was some kind of animal, but Jazz didn’t have any pets. So why was she suddenly looking after one and why hadn’t she told me?

‘Jazz – who is Huckleberry?’ I asked loudly, getting down on my knees beside her.

She frowned up at me, her arm still stretched out underneath the dresser, moving from side to side. ‘As if you care,’ she snapped.

‘Of course I care!’ I protested, irritation rising up inside me. I sat up and slumped back on to my heels. ‘Jazz,’ I said trying to keep my feelings under control,
‘I’ve obviously done something to really upset you, but believe me, if I knew what it was I’d sort it out—’

Jazz rolled her eyes. ‘Well, if you don’t know what it is,
I
can’t help you.’

She sounded like one of our teachers. I snapped. ‘Listen, Jazz, if you’re going to get all high and mighty with me, forget it. I was going to offer to help you with whatever
you’re doing down here, cos after what Aleisha said about heart attacks it sounded serious. But you know what? I think I’ll just go home and leave you to it.’

I pushed myself up and dusted my jeans down, giving Jazz time to apologize. She didn’t, so I walked out of the room.

I was heading for the front door, steam coming out of my ears, when I heard her shout, ‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Come back, Bert. Please?’

I turned round to see a dusty, dishevelled Jazz standing in the doorway to the kitchen, cradling a dusty and dishevelled lump of brown fur in her arms.

Curiosity welled up enough to quash my annoyance, so I walked towards her. It wasn’t until I was up really close that I saw what it was that Jazz was holding.

‘Say hi to Huckleberry,’ she said, smiling faintly.

My stony heart melted.

‘Oh my goodness! What a gorgeous little thing!’ I raced over and held out my hands. ‘Can I have a cuddle?’

Jazz handed the creature over (a little quickly, I noticed). ‘Sure,’ she said.

Huckleberry had started up a huge racket the minute he was put into my arms, squirming around, squeaking and trying to nibble my sleeve. I giggled. ‘He’s a wriggler, isn’t
he?’

‘Oh yeah,’ said Jazz with feeling. ‘It turns out guinea pigs are not the nice quiet easy pets I thought they were going to be. Rats with attitude, if you ask me.’ (I
chewed my lip to stop myself from smirking: not so long ago, when I first set up my Pet-Sitting Service, Jazz had said she hoped we would get to look after guinea pigs because she
‘luuurrved’ them.) ‘Also turns out my brother has the attention span of the average fruit fly and has already given up on Huckleberry, so it’s down to Guess Who to look
after him.’

‘Oh, right. So he’s
Ty’s
pet? That makes sense.’

Jazz frowned at me. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘N-nothing!’ I stammered. ‘I just meant – well, I was thinking that you didn’t exactly seem enthusiastic about Huckleberry?’ I stopped. I was in danger of
digging a hole too deep to get out of.

Jazz had the beginnings of a mad-bad-and-dangerous-to-know look on her face. But then the cloud passed and she let out a long slow breath and said, ‘Yeah, which is why me becoming
Huckleberry’s Next Best Owner is not really my idea of fun. It’s cool you’re here actually, Bertie. You can give me some advice.’

I felt my shoulders relax. Everything was going to be all right. Jazz and I were still friends.

We went into the TV room. Huckleberry’s cage was on a table by the window, so I carefully unhooked his little claws from my jumper and placed him gently inside. I couldn’t help
feeling a bit envious. This little guy was a barrel of fun and his cage was awesome: full of tubes for him to scurry in and out of, piles of sawdust and a little cubby hole for him to sleep in. It
looked like one of the ones I’d seen in Paws for Thought. Shame Ty and Jazz didn’t seem to appreciate the little guy.

‘Did you get him from that lady round the corner?’ I asked. ‘The one you told me about when I had the Pet-Sitting Service?’

Jazz flopped down on to a beanbag and I slumped down next to her. ‘Telly?’ she asked, reaching for the remote and completely ignoring my question. ‘I’ve got this cool new
DVD from the last series of
Who’s Got Talent?
It’s this behind-the-stage thing? They show you all the interviews with the guys who got into the finals. I sooooo wish I could
audition for the next one!’ she babbled.

‘Right,’ I said, disappointed. What had happened to asking me for advice about Huckleberry? But I guessed I was lucky Jazz wanted to spend time with me at all, the way things had
been lately, even if I was going to have to sit through this rubbish.

We snuggled down and Jazz fiddled about with the remote. The screen blazed with light and noise and I groaned inwardly as a bunch of people with weird clothes and horrible hair started screaming
and whooping and yelling about how being on
Who’s Got Talent?
was their ‘dream come true’ and it had been ‘just the most incredible journey’ and how it had
‘changed their lives forever’. Jazz was whooping and yelling in agreement and seemed to have completely forgotten that I was there.

I was just thinking that maybe I should slip away quietly and get back to Jaffa, when Jazz’s mum came into the room.

‘Hi, Bertie! Haven’t seen you for a while. You OK?’

I nodded. ‘Yes, thanks.’

‘Great!’ She smiled her huge, glossy smile which always made a warm feeling spread like sunshine inside me. ‘Want to hear some interesting news?’

Jazz frowned. ‘Shh!’ she snapped.

Jazz’s mum went over to the TV and turned it off, silencing her daughter’s protests with a don’t-start-with-me-young-lady look in her big brown eyes. ‘You shouldn’t
be watching telly on a lovely day like this!’

‘B-but—!’ Jazz started.

‘Jazz,’ Mrs B said, a dangerous note of warning creeping into her voice. Then she looked at me and grinned apologetically. ‘So, as I was saying. You know those new
neighbours?’

Jazz crossed her arms and flicked her head back stroppily. ‘What about them?’ she said, trying to sound like she didn’t give a stuff.

But her eyes were shining. I focused on not smirking. Jazz couldn’t wait to meet that boy she’d told me about. It was so obvious.

Mrs Brown immediately drew herself up to her full height, squaring up to her daughter. It was always a pretty impressive sight when Jazz and her mum had a face-off. I quite enjoyed being a
spectator, but deep down was relieved I was not involved. Put it this way: when Jazz’s mum was putting on her tough act, I could see where her youngest daughter got it from.

‘I thought Bertie would like to know – seeing as she’s going to be living opposite these people,’ Mrs Brown began tartly, ‘that Mr Smythe told me—’

‘Mr Smythe! Whoo! Hamster Man!’ Jazz crowed, putting her hands up to her face as if she were nibbling a carrot and twitching her nose in a realistic impression of a giant
hamster.

‘Ja-azz!’ I protested, embarrassed at her impersonation. It was true, Mr Smythe did act as rodenty as his hamsters, Houdini and Mr Nibbles, but even so it was mortifying seeing Jazz
take the mickey out of him in front of her mum.

‘Sor-reeeee!’ Jazz drawled, wobbling her head at me.

Mrs Brown sucked her teeth. ‘OK, OK, I know he’s a bit strange. But he’s always been friendly to me. And anyway, he gave me some good advice about looking after guinea
pigs,’ she said, looking at me. ‘Heaven knows no one in
this
household seems to be taking an interest.’ She glared at Jazz. ‘Anyway, I’m getting off the point.
Mr Smythe says that the removal vans may arrive tonight, ahead of the family. You should probably tell your dad, Bertie. Oh yes, and he said these people may only be here for a short time –
they’re renting Fenella’s place. She’s not going to sell her house in case she wants to come back.’

My heart fluttered like a trapped moth at the words ‘come back’. Did this mean I might see Kaboodle again soon? I would love to be able to ask him more questions about Jaffa. Where
had she really come from? How come I couldn’t seem to understand her? How could I get her to calm down and be less skittish around me? But my excitement faded at Mrs Brown’s next
words.

‘ – but it seems that’s not going to be any time soon. Her career’s really taken off since your dad wrote that play for her, Bertie, and she’s been offered loads of
work. Apparently she’s got to travel a lot, so she’s decided to let out her house for at least six months while she makes up her mind what to do—’

‘Yeah, yeah. Tell us something we actually
want
to know,’ Jazz butted in rudely.

Mrs Brown frowned and Jazz muttered another barely audible ‘sor-reee’ at the floor.

‘Mr Smythe also told me some gossip about Fergus. But . . . I’m obviously intruding on your valuable time,’ Jazz’s mum teased, noting the sudden spark of interest on her
daughter’s face. ‘I’ll leave you girls to it.’

‘But, Mum—’ Jazz cried.

Mrs Brown turned her back on Jazz’s frustrated bleating.

Jazz made to follow her, but Aleisha stuck her head around the door. ‘What’s up with you guys?’ she asked. ‘You look as if the world’s about to end. Hey, did Mum
tell you about the new boy? You know he’s in a band, right? Well, you won’t believe it – they’ve got an album deal already! How cool is that? I checked him out on the
net.’ She paused for effect and then said, ‘He’s lush!’

I felt my face collapse as Jazz started jumping up and down on the spot, squealing and squeaking like a hundred Huckleberries.

A
t tea that night I asked Dad if he’d heard from Pinkella.

‘Er . . . oh, yes,’ he said vaguely, spooning baked beans into his mouth and staring into the middle distance. ‘Why?’

‘Just wondered if she’d told you anything about her tenants,’ I said, trying to keep my voice light.

Dad blushed. ‘Oh, sorry, Bertie, I should have told you – yes, there’s a family coming to live in her house. They were supposed to arrive tonight, actually—’