Paris Crush (4 page)

She contains it well. ‘I’m captain of the Year Nine team,’ she growls menacingly.

‘They
let
girls on the team?’ Rupert blinks.

‘It
is
a girls’ team.’ Treacle’s long black hair is trembling at the tips and she’s balling her fists under the table.

‘Rupert,’ I distract him quickly. ‘That looks like a nice lunch. Did you make it yourself?’

‘Mrs Ramsey made it.’

I blink. ‘Mrs Ramsey?’

‘She’s the housekeeper.’ He takes another mouthful. ‘She’s a great cook. I call her Gordon.’

Savannah wrinkles her perfect forehead in a frown. ‘Gordon?’

‘Ramsey,’ Rupert explains. ‘Like the chef.’

Treacle’s leaning back in her chair, pouting. ‘Does she swear a lot?’

‘Just the usual,’ Rupert answers. ‘A dress, an apron. Not a lot.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Treacle stares at him, exasperated.

‘You said does she wear a lot.’ Rupert looks round for support, but no one’s giving any. ‘It was a joke.’ He guffaws suddenly. ‘Swear a lot? Get
it?’

‘Ha. Ha.’ Treacle sounds unimpressed.

Ryan chips in. ‘You’re going to have to work on your jokes, mate.’

Sally grins. ‘Scared of the competition, Ryan?’

Ryan tips further back on his chair. ‘Nope.’

I check Rupert for blushes, but he’s unabashed.

‘I went to the shopping centre for the first time on Saturday,’ he announces suddenly. ‘But once you’ve seen one shopping centre, you’ve seen a mall.’

‘You really need a new joke book, Rupe.’ Ryan tips further back. ‘You can borrow mine, if—’ He’s cut short as his chair slips and he crashes onto the
floor.

Sal leaps up. ‘Are you OK?’

Ryan lifts his head, grinning. ‘I do it all the time at home. Keeps the cat amused.’

Savannah hurls herself halfway across the table and taps her smartphone wildly. ‘Look at this!’ I recognize Jessica’s page of the webzine.

‘What star sign are you, Ryan?’

‘Leo.’

‘That’s amazing!’ She waves her phone in Sal’s face. ‘Jessica’s written “
Pride comes before a fall
” for Leo!’

I hide under my curly hair. While I’d been writing Leo’s horoscope last week, Dad was trying to win a bet with Ben. Dad bet he could juggle fruit. He couldn’t. Instead, he
tripped over the coffee table, flinging oranges everywhere. He’s been limping ever since, but Ben still made him pay the 50p bet. Ben can be very hard-headed for a nine-year-old.

‘That’s it.’

I look up as I hear determination in Savannah’s voice. She turns on Marcus and kisses him on the lips, then jerks away coughing. ‘Ewwww!’ she squeals and wipes her mouth
furiously.

Marcus is spluttering Coke like a Willy Wonka fountain. ‘You could’ve warned me!’

‘Yuck!’ Sal’s giggling her head off. ‘Coke kiss!’

‘Jessica told me to do it!’ Savannah huffs, crossly. ‘
Take your sweetheart by surprise.’

‘I didn’t mean snog him on the spot,’ I mutter under my breath.

Treacle kicks me sharply under the table. ‘Shh!’

Savannah jerks round. ‘What was that?’

‘Nothing,’ I shrug innocently.

Rupert looks at me. ‘You said snog him on the spot.’

‘Snog who on the spot?’ Ryan drags himself up from his fallen chair and hangs over the edge of the table.

Marcus is dabbing spilt Coke off his shirt. Savannah’s still wiping her lips. Treacle and Sal are doubling up with laughter.

I should be laughing too. Jessica has caused mayhem. But I’ve got this wistful feeling haunting my stomach. And not just because Cindy’s feeding crisps to Sam with the indulgent look
of a seal trainer. Now the Ice Queen has given me a bigger column, will I
ever
escape my role as Jessica Jupiter and be allowed to publish a serious piece of journalism?

Madame Papillon is staring at the class like she’s about to perform a magic trick. I lean forward, willing her to pull a pigeon from her mouth. It would cheer up a dull
Thursday. Instead, she does something
way
more exciting . . .

‘I have good news,’ she announces. ‘There are a few places available on the Year Ten trip to Paris, so we’re inviting any Year Nines who’d like to go.’

Who’d like to go to Paris?
My heart leaps, salmon-style, and my brain starts to whirl. Imagine what a brilliant story that would make for the webzine! I picture the feature article:
Paris – Heart of France.
I could review restaurants, bookshops, fashion:
Ten Best Cafés, Five Sights You Must See, The Teen Guide to Shopping in Europe’s Most Glamorous
City
. Then Madame Papillon fires a pellet into my happy-balloon.

‘The trip is expensive, but well worth it.’

I lean forward in my seat.
How much?

‘Here are the forms for you to take home to your parents.’ She starts a delivery route between desks. ‘It gives all the dates and costs.’ I freeze as I watch her hand out
forms along the aisle.

She passes one to Chelsea, two desks ahead. Chelsea shrugs and drops it into her bag without reading it. Ryan takes one, yawning.

It’s my turn. I have to stop myself snatching it from Madame Papillon’s hand.

I skim the text.

April . . . Three days, two nights . . . Tour of the Eiffel Tower . . . Breakfast and dinner included . . .

£350!

How will my parents ever afford that? We’ve just paid for a new nebulizer for Ben. Dad’s been working overtime since Christmas. We haven’t had a family holiday since forever.
How can I expect them to blow £350 on a trip only I will enjoy?

As the last of the air splutters from my happy-balloon, I fold up the form. Savannah leans across the aisle and flaps hers in my face. ‘I hope Dad lets me go,’ she squeaks.
‘Can you imagine it? We would have
such
fun!’

Treacle’s sitting next to me. ‘Jeff’s going on this trip,’ she grins. ‘We could visit the Stade de France together.’ Her eyes are moons. Mine are clouds. I
blink back disappointment. Perhaps I could get a Saturday job and find a way of paying for the trip myself.

‘Marcus!’ Savannah’s hissing across her desk. ‘Are you going?’ Marcus is in front of her.

He turns, smiling. ‘Maybe we’ll get to Disneyland Paris after all.’

Madame’s ears prick like a cat’s. ‘Disneyland Paris!’ she hisses. ‘This trip is about culture.’

Bilal leans back in his chair. ‘Disneyland Paris is culture, Miss,’ he argues.

Zhang Wu, the class brain, nods. ‘Most historians would argue that popular culture is as valid as elitist culture. Disneyland Paris probably provides a better critique of modern society
than the Louvre.’

‘I’ve been to the Louvre,’ Rupert chimes in. ‘It was
Louvre
at first sight.’

Ryan groans. ‘Can’t you stop his jokes, Miss?’

Rupert objects. ‘I’m
jest
having fun.’ Ryan puts his hands over his ears.

Rupert turns to Madame Papillon. ‘A trip to Paris sounds fun. There’s nothing
Toulouse
.’

Madame’s lips tighten. ‘Rupert, I think that if you’re joining us on this trip, you’d better improve your jokes.’

Rupert salutes. ‘
Oui, Madame
.’

I zip my trip form into my bag and sigh. Every cloud has a silver lining. If I’m stuck in England while Rupert’s in Paris, I won’t have to listen to his stupid comedy
routine.

It’s Ben’s night to choose what we watch on TV, which means cars. A large man with a sagging belly and a bulging midlife crisis is declaring undying love for a
four-wheel drive. Ben watches transfixed as the large man announces he’s going to drive to France.

France
.

The word rings in my brain like an unanswered phone. I’ve not told Mum and Dad about the Paris trip. I’m not even sure I’m going to. It’s way out of our budget. Why make
them feel guilty? But the thought of it keeps nagging.

Large TV man is still blithering on. ‘So I’ll drive my big powerful car and boast while my colleagues try to keep up with me on pogo sticks.’

‘Mum.’ I hook my legs over her lap. ‘Have you ever been to France?’ Perhaps she’ll say,
No, Gemma, but I’ve always dreamed of having a daughter who’d
go before she was sixteen.

She doesn’t. But her face suddenly melts into soft focus. ‘I went there with your dad, before we were married.’

‘Really?’ I sit up. ‘Where did you go?’

‘We went to the Côte D’Azur first, then we headed for Paris.’

Dad’s at the other end of the sofa with Ben. ‘Our van broke down outside Lyon,’ he chips in. ‘By the time it was fixed, we’d run out of time and had to head
straight for the ferry.’

Mum sighs wistfully. ‘I was looking forward to Paris.’

Dad stretches out a hand and wiggles her knee affectionately. ‘One day, honey.’

‘Shh!’ Ben pokes Dad hard in the belly and stares fiercely at the TV. ‘I can’t hear.’

The TV glazes in front of my eyes. How can I even ask about Paris when it’s Mum’s dream city and she’s never been?

The doorbell buzzes.

‘I’ll get it.’ Mum heaves herself to her feet and heads into the hall. Five seconds later, Treacle and Savannah bounce in like Tiggers.

‘So?’ Savannah’s round-eyed and fizzing. ‘Are you going?’

Treacle’s grinning from ear to ear. ‘Dad’s already signed my form!’

‘What form?’ Mum’s standing in the doorway, hand on hip.

‘Nothing.’ I leap off the sofa, hoping to get Treacle and Savannah to my room before they detonate the Paris bomb.

Ben’s fidgeting angrily. ‘Can everyone shut up? It’s nearly finished!’

I glance at the TV. Large car-guy is strutting round some fancy French building jeering at his friends as they look for somewhere to park their pogo sticks.

‘Come on.’ I grab Treacle’s hand and head for the door.

‘Hold on.’ Mum blocks my path. The TV starts blaring theme music.

‘Ben.’ Mum’s got her doorstep voice on – the one she uses for double-glazing salesmen. The one you don’t argue with. ‘Go and get your pyjamas on.’

He looks at her, mouth open, then closes it and slinks past her in a cloud of sulk. Dad watches from the sofa.

‘What’s this form?’ Mum asks. ‘Where are you meant to be going?’ Sheepishly, I fetch the Paris letter from my bag.

‘Haven’t you told them?’ Savannah whispers, as I hand the form to Mum.

‘It’s really expensive,’ I explain under my breath. I know how much she and Treacle want me to go.

Mum glances at the form and hands it to Dad. He’s on his feet now, looking curious.

‘I don’t have to go,’ I insist. ‘It’s not compulsory or anything.’

Savannah stares at me, stunned. ‘But it’s
Paris
!’

‘Wait right there, young lady.’ Mum’s slinging orders like a dinner lady serving beans. She hauls Dad into the kitchen.

Treacle looks at me, then grabs me and hugs me. ‘Sorry, Gem. I didn’t think about the cost.’

I’m swallowing back the lump in my throat. Suddenly
everything
feels unfair. I
shouldn’t
want to go so much. We can’t
afford
it.

But it’s
Paris
!

I want to go so badly. Is that totally selfish?

Savannah’s looking bewildered. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘Three hundred and fifty pounds is the problem,’ Treacle tells her without letting go of me.

Suddenly Mum appears, Dad in her wake. She’s holding out the form. I pull away from Treacle and take the crumpled paper. I stare at it. Then I stare some more. I can hardly believe my
eyes. ‘But Mum . . .’

She’s
signed
it!

I can go?
I look at her, incredulous. ‘But it’s too expensive!’

‘We can afford it,’ Mum says simply.

‘I’ve had a pay rise this year,’ Dad explains. ‘And Mum’s got some freelance work.’

‘But we haven’t had a proper holiday for ages,’ I protest. ‘What about Ben? And you?’

‘Ben likes camping best anyway,’ Dad says. ‘So do I. We’ll take the tent to the seaside in the summer holidays.’

Mum touches my hand. ‘I’ve always regretted missing Paris,’ she says softly.

My mum rocks. So does Dad. I have the
best
family. The moment I win the Journalist of the Year Award, I’m taking Mum to Paris. And Dad. And Ben! I can see myself onstage at the
ceremony, the lights warming my face, Mum and Dad cheering from the crowd. ‘At last I can give my family the holiday they deserve!’

I switch from my dream world, back to reality. ‘Thanks.’

Mum smiles. ‘You deserve a treat, Gemma. You do so much to help with Ben.’ She’s wearing her incoming-hug look, but I know she’ll hold back while Treacle and Savannah are
watching.

Ben yells down the stairs. ‘Dad!’

‘I’m coming.’ Dad slides past us. ‘Excuse me, ladies.’ He thunders upstairs, hollering at Ben. ‘Have you picked out a story?’

‘
Zombie Death Monsters
!’ Ben roars back.

‘Off you go.’ Mum chivvies us out of the living room. ‘I’m sure you want to go and plan what to pack.’ She waves us upstairs, her gaze straying towards the empty
sofa.

I lead the way and make it to the landing in 3.6 seconds. Treacle and Savannah race after me. As I swing into my room, they rush past me and collapse onto my bed while I dance round the piles of
clothes and books littering my floor. ‘I’m going to Paris! I’m really going!’