Signs of Love - Love Match (4 page)

‘The horoscopes?’ Treacle falls back on the sofa, bellylaughing so loud that Mum shouts down the stairs.

‘Cut the cackle, girls! I’m trying to get Ben to bed!’

‘Sorry, Mum.’ I swing the living room door shut with my foot and smother Treacle’s squawks with a cushion. My brother Ben has cystic fibrosis so he needs a good night’s sleep to keep his strength up.

Treacle fights me off and sits up. ‘Nice career move, Mystic Mug.’

I flop down on the rug and hug the cushion. ‘Cindy said I’d be perfect for the column.’

‘Why? Does she think all Year Nines are psychic?’ Treacle rolls her eyes. ‘What did she say when you turned her down?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

I stare at the floor. ‘I didn’t turn her down.’

‘What?’ Treacle shrieks.

‘Shh.’

‘You said
yes
?’

I shrug. ‘I know it’s not what I’d hoped for but—’

‘The
horoscopes
?’ Treacle cuts in. ‘Do they hand out Nobel prizes for horoscopy?’

‘Astrology,’ I correct.

‘Whatever.’

‘It’s not like I had a choice. Being the only Year Nine in a pack of Year Tens is a bit like being Baby Bear in a room full of Goldilocks. They’re sharing out the porridge while I’m wondering who broke my chair.’

Treacle leans back into the sofa. ‘Don’t worry.’ She grins. ‘Baby Bears eventually grow into Grizzlies. At least you got a job, and I’m sure it will lead on to something better. Maybe next term she’ll let you do the problem page.’

‘Oh, ha ha.’ We look at each other and start to laugh.

Then Treacle’s smile wavers. ‘I saw Jeff at football practice today.’

She’s looking wistful. I could cheer her up right now by telling her Jeff is working on the webzine – which is practically a backstage pass to his life. But I’m saving the news for a maximum-impact headline. Besides, I have to let her dangle a bit longer while I follow my journalistic instinct and check the facts. ‘Did he see you? Did you say hi?’

‘Why would I say
hi
?’ Treacle’s open-mouthed. ‘He doesn’t know I’m alive.’

‘But you gave him his ball back in the playground this morning.’

‘That doesn’t mean I can
Hi
him whenever I like!’ Treacle lobs a cushion at me. ‘Don’t be dumb.’

‘But if you never
Hi
him, he’ll never
Hi
you back.’

‘But what if he blanks me?’ she says, looking worried.

‘Jeff wouldn’t do that.’

‘How do
you
know?’

I smile. I’ve got her complete attention. It’s the perfect time to drop my info-bomb. ‘He’s working on the webzine,’ I say casually.

‘
What
?’ She’s hanging off the front of the sofa like a chimp begging for a banana. ‘
Writing
?’

‘Some kind of extra credit thing with Mr Harris.’ I shrug. I’m still acting cool but I’m savouring the moment. ‘He’s going to be the sports writer.’

If Treacle were a cartoon character, her eyes would be spinning and zigzags would be shooting from her head. ‘You’re going to be working with Jeff? Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I’m telling you now.’

Treacle throws up her arms like she’s high-fiving angels. Then she stops and droops. ‘This is so unfair! You’re going to get to work with him, but what about me? How am I ever going to get him to see me as a
girl
and not just something that kicks a ball about?’

I look at Treacle. With her baggy joggers, shapeless football jersey and hair skewed in a ponytail, even
I’m
having trouble seeing her as a girl.

‘Perhaps if you dressed more . . .’ I fumble for the right word, feeling guilty for even thinking it, ‘. . .
girly
?’

‘But I’m comfortable like this.’ Treacle looks fondly down at her outfit. ‘It’s my number ten shirt. I always score when I’m wearing my number ten shirt.’

‘Yes, but are you going to score with a
boy
when you’re wearing it?’ I point out.

Her eyes pop. ‘You want me to dress like Savannah, don’t you? I’d
never
carry it off.’

‘Why not?’

‘You know Savannah! She’s cooler than an Eskimo eating an ice lolly in a snowdrift. Coolness is part of her operating system.’ Treacle shrugs. ‘If I wore a skirt as short as hers, my knees would start shouting, “Look at us! We’re the knobbly twins!”’

‘Your knees aren’t knobbly!’ Treacle’s got great knees – though admittedly, I’ve only ever seen them splattered with mud on a football pitch.

‘They’re like oversized walnuts!’ she argues. ‘Where is Savannah, anyway? She said she’d be here at seven.’

‘Probably still deciding who to date,’ I say with a laugh. Suddenly I have an idea. ‘There’s an article in
Teengirl
about how to get noticed by boys.’ I pull Treacle to her feet and shunt her towards the door. ‘It’s in my room.’

‘There’s
always
an article in
Teengirl
about how to get noticed by boys,’ Treacle sniffs, trudging after me as I bound upstairs.

As we reach the top and head along the hall, I can hear Mum bargaining with Ben in his room.

‘If you go to bed now, you can get up early and play on your Xbox.’

‘But Mum, why can’t I play Xbox now and sleep late in the morning?’

We creep past his door and slip into my bedroom.

‘This article’s different.’ I scoop the mag off my desk and show it to Treacle.

‘Oh, great.’ She snatches it off me and flops on to my bed. ‘
Ten Ways to Nab Your Lad.
Well, I need about a hundred!’

I ignore her whinging and rummage through my wardrobe. What Treacle needs is tough love not sympathy. ‘Here.’ I toss a chocolate-coloured miniskirt at her, and a turquoise top Dad says I’ll freeze to death in, which must mean it’s gorgeous.

‘Right.’ I use my fierce voice. I’ve got to get Treacle out of her football jersey. ‘You change into those and then come downstairs so we can practise The Walk.’

‘The
Walk
?’ Treacle sounds horrified, but before she can moan any more I leave her to get changed and take the magazine downstairs. There’s a whole paragraph on walking in the article. By the time I’ve finished she’s going to be strutting like a supermodel.

I’m so busy skim-reading, I don’t notice Ben’s shoes parked at the bottom of the stairs. I stumble over them and find myself hurtling into the living room a lot faster than I’d intended.

I grab for the sofa and collapse into it.
Teengirl
slaps on to the cushion beside me, flopping open on the horoscope page.

The shiny words shout at me:
What do the stars say about your life, love and luck?

I wince, remembering my super-uncool assignment for the webzine, and flick the living door closed with an outstretched toe.

Libra
. I’m trying not to read it but I can’t tear my gaze away.

Oh, please. It’s so lame.

Is this going to be my life? A hack journalist churning out fluff pieces for a hard-faced editor.

A Despair Monster starts tap-dancing on my chest, delighted at recruiting a new member to its dark world of endless misery. I picture my awards ceremony. It’s not me on the podium any more. A glamorous blonde with perfectly straight hair is holding up the award while the audience cheer. I’m sitting at the back, slow-clapping next to a weather girl from breakfast TV.

Weather girl leans closer. ‘Did you say you wrote horoscopes?’

I sigh. ‘Yes.’

‘Do you know what’s in store for Capricorn this week?’ She smiles a glittering smile, utterly unaware that no one ever asks me anything else any more.

As I reach for a napkin and prepare to gag her, the living room door eases open and Treacle slides in. Jerked back to reality, I sit up.

Her knees are pressed together like she’s trying to hide them both at the same time.

‘You look great!’ Weather girl puffs out of existence and I focus on Treacle. She looks fab. The turquoise top and chocolate skirt are gorgeous on her. All her football training has toned her into a complete babe. I just wish
she
knew it. Right now, she’s fidgeting like the outfit’s wearing her, not the other way round.

As Treacle shuffles further into the room, the doorbell rings.

Mum calls from the hall. ‘Savannah’s here!’

I sit bolt upright. ‘Treacle, don’t tell her about the horoscopes!’

‘Why not?’

‘Not my proudest moment.’

‘OK.’

‘You swear?’

‘I swear.’ Treacle nods.

‘On your mum’s Jimmy Choos?’

‘On my mum’s
what
?’

‘Did someone say Jimmy Choos?’ Savannah whisks in and drapes herself across an armchair, long legs swinging over the edge, arms drooping, hair cascading round her face.

‘Jim he chews? Chews what?’ Treacle’s sitting, eyebrows and palms raised like we’re speaking Martian.

Savannah shakes her head sadly. ‘Shoes, Treacle. They’re shoes.’ She glances down at Treacle’s trainers. ‘
Real
shoes.’

‘Like Nikes but with heels and slingbacks and stuff,’ I explain. I’m no expert at fashion, but occasionally, when Savannah squeals and waves this month’s copy of
Elle
in my face, I look and learn. I figure if you’re going to be a journalist, you’ve got to know what’s happening in every walk of life – including the catwalk.

Treacle slumps back in the sofa. ‘I’m never going to understand this girly stuff.’

Savannah looks at Treacle properly and stares at her, mouth wide. She’s probably never seen Treacle in a skirt before. ‘Nice legs, Treacle.’ She nods approvingly. ‘You should show them off more often. In fact,’ she sits up, ‘if you want to get Jeff’s attention, you should try wearing that outfit on the pitch. You look great.’

Treacle snorts. ‘Not exactly practical for tackling.’

‘Right, let’s get back to the article,’ I say, flicking to the right page. ‘We’re taking some tips from
Teengirl
,’ I explain to Savannah.

Savannah raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow. ‘Tips on what?’

‘How to get a boy,’ I reply.

‘What for?’ Savannah exclaims, with all the shock of someone who has never needed a tip on getting a boy in her entire life.

Treacle’s face flushes redder than a stop sign.

‘Just for fun,’ I say quickly. I don’t want Treacle giving up out of embarrassment before we’ve even started.

‘Oh. Cool!’ Savannah says.

I throw Treacle an encouraging smile. ‘
You’re a girl with
more
than attitude
–
you’ve got
sass-
itude!
’ I start reading from the glossy pink page. ‘
Don’t wilt like a daisy at sundown. Think sunflower! Stand tall!
’

Treacle grimaces and straightens up.

‘
Stand with your hips pulled back and your backbone straight.’

‘You look like you’ve got wind,’ Savannah snorts.

Ignoring her, I press on. ‘
Chin out and eyes facing front
.’

Treacle thrusts out her chin and glares like Mrs Monroe, our super-scary maths teacher. She looks like she’s about to shred anyone in her path and throw the scraps out of the window. Once again Savannah starts to laugh.

‘Any chance you can drop the psycho-killer expression?’ I ask sweetly.

‘Try pouting like a supermodel,’ Savannah suggests.

Treacle cuts the glare, then goggles her eyes and lets her mouth droop into a
Vogue
pout. ‘Is that better?’

‘You look less scary,’ I say helpfully, realising suddenly that the line between goddess and freak is very thin. Right now, Treacle is wobbling towards freak and I’m trying hard not to giggle.

‘This is so funny!’ Savannah cries, clapping her hands together. ‘Read some more!’

I focus on the mag and carry on. ‘
Your hair may shine, your eyes may sparkle, but your walk will give away what’s on the
inside
, so don’t shuffle, strut!
’ Who writes this stuff? ‘
Be comfortable. Wear shoes you can balance in. Falling over is not an option if you’re trying to make a good impression.
’

‘Ha – no danger there,’ Savannah says, looking at Treacle’s feet. I follow her gaze. Treacle’s still wearing her trainers. She looks like a gazelle in wellies.

I don’t comment. We can move on to footwear later. ‘Start walking,’ I tell her, reading from the article again. ‘
Don’t stride. Let the air waft you forward. Float like dandelion seed. Let your arms swing freely. There’s no need to pump them. You’re not in the gym
.’