Starting Over

Cinnamon Girl

Starting Over

Cathy Hopkins
is the author of the incredibly successful
Mates, Dates and Truth, Dare
books, as well as the highly acclaimed
Cinnamon Girl
series. She lives in North London with her husband and cats.

Cathy spends most of her time locked in a shed at the bottom of the garden pretending to write books, but she is actually in there listening to music, hippie dancing and talking to her friends on email.

Apart from that, Cathy has joined the gym and spends more time than is good for her making up excuses as to why she hasn't got time to go.

Find out more about Cathy and her books at
www.cathyhopkins.com

Cathy Hopkins

Cinnamon Girl
Starting
Over

As this book is essentially about friends, I'd like to dedicate this one to Anne O'Malley who's been my friend since I was thirteen when, like India Jane in this book, I had to start a new school and was dreading it. And thanks, as always, to Brenda Gardner, Anne Clark, Melissa Patey and all the fab team at Piccadilly.

First published in Great Britain in 2007
by Piccadilly Press Ltd,
5 Castle Road, London NW1 8PR
www.piccadillypress.co.uk

Text copyright © Cathy Hopkins, 2007

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

The right of Cathy Hopkins to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978 1 85340 916 5 (trade paperback)

eISBN: 978 1 84812 220 8

3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Printed in the UK by CPI Bookmarque, Croydon, CR0 4TD
Text design by Carolyn Griffiths, Cambridge
Cover design by Simon Davis
Cover illustration by Sue Hellard

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1. Starting Over

Chapter 2. First Day

Chapter 3. First Impressions

Chapter 4. Going Home

Chapter 5. Sorry, Sorry, Sorry

Chapter 6. Friends Wanted - Apply Here

Chapter 7. Meeting, Schmeeiing

Chapter 8. Weekend Blues

Chapter 9. Moving On

Chapter 10. Complications

Chapter 11. Boy Trouble

Chapter 12. Make-do Mates

Chapter 13. Half-term

Chapter 14. Pnssy-knlckers Pills

Chapter 15. Stake-out

Chapter 16. New Friends

Chapter 17. Party Time

Chapter 18. Starting Over - Again

‘MUUUM, have you seen my rucksack?' I called down from my bedroom on the third floor.

‘MUM, where's the shoe polish?' my brother, Dylan, called from the bathroom on the second floor.

‘Both in the cupboard under the stairs and both of you, GET A MOVE ON!' Mum shouted up from the ground floor. ‘I have better things to do with my time than chase the two of you to do something you should have done AGES AGO.'

‘It's only last-minute stuff, I'm almost there,' I called back.

I slid down two flights of banisters to the first floor then took the stairs to the ground, but I wasn't feeling as carefree as I appeared. Not by a long shot. The next day was going to be the start of term at a new school and I'd be going into Year Eleven.

‘Ah, what vision of loveliness is this?' I asked when I spotted Mum's backside in the air as she scrabbled about on her knees with her head in the cupboard under the stairs. She located my rucksack and pulled it out from the tangle of bags and cases stuffed in the cupboard, then began to crawl out. ‘Thanks,' I said as I took it from her.

‘Looking forward to tomorrow?' she asked as she knelt back, loosened her auburn hair then twisted it up again into a bun.

‘About as much as a visit to the dentist's.'

Mum stood up and dusted off the peacock-blue velvet top she was wearing over her jeans. It never ceased to amaze me how even after fishing about in a dirty old cupboard she still managed to look lovely - like a princess out of an Edward Burne-Jones Pre-Raphaelite painting. ‘You'll be fine, India Jane,' she said. ‘You've done it so many times before.'

‘Yes and
each
time has been more difficult. You don't understand. Starting a new school is not something that gets easier. It gets harder.'

‘Well it will be new for Dylan too,' said Mum as he appeared on the stairs in his pyjamas, his rust-brown hair slicked down wet and his face fresh and pink from his bath.

‘Yeah —' he started.

‘Oh, he'll be OK,' I interrupted. ‘Everyone going into Year Seven will be new. All the dinky little kids are in the same situation, little fish in the big pond. They can be wide-eyed and anxious together. They can bond over it. But going into Year Eleven, I'll probably be the
only
new girl in my year.'

Dylan walked over and punched my arm. ‘Less of the dinky little kid, dingbat-brain.'

‘Dingbat-brain, huh? And you? You are a bug on the windscreen of my life, O small-but-annoying one, and you know what happens to them.' In a flash, I dropped my rucksack, flicked out my right leg, hooked it around his left, grabbed his torso and pushed him to the floor. It was an ace move. I had learned in a self-defence class at my last school. I rested my left foot on his stomach and began to sing, ‘I am the champion, I am the champion . . .'

He reached up and karate-chopped the back of my knee.

‘Owwwwww!'

‘Stop it, you two!' said Mum. ‘For heaven's sake, India, act your age.'

‘I am. I'm fifteen. You're always telling me not to grow up too fast. Make up your mind.'

Dylan pushed me off, scrambled to his feet and stuck his tongue out. ‘Boys don't like tomboys,' he said, ‘so you'll never get a boyfriend.'

‘Says who? And how do you know I haven't already got one?'

‘You wish,' said Dylan. He turned away from us, wrapped his arms around himself and started wriggling in a suggestive way so that, from our position, it looked as if someone had their arms around him. He started making slurpy kissing noises. ‘Oh Joe, joe . . .'

I raced over and put my hands around his neck. ‘God help any girl that you try and kiss,' I said as I began to strangle him,
then tried to wrestle him down to the ground. ‘You sound like you're slurping noodles.'

‘Muuuuum, she's attacking me again.
Muu-uuuum.
'

Mum watched us for a few seconds then sighed. ‘India, put your brother aside,' she said wearily. ‘He's not a toy. And you'll both be fine tomorrow at school although . . . sometimes I wonder if we
should
have stayed in one place instead of trawling all over the world. Maybe we should have let you have a normal family life.'

I let go of Dylan and he went to look in the cupboard under the stairs, but not before elbowing me in the stomach as he went past.

‘Yes. We should have stayed in one place, Mum,' I said. ‘As it is, I am scarred for life and will need years of therapy when I'm older.'

‘You need it now,' said Dylan over his shoulder. ‘But I doubt any psychotherapist could help you.'

Mum laughed. She knew I was joking. Kind of. Part of me was serious and wished I had experienced the usual upbringing. One junior school. One secondary. The same best friends since Year Seven.
Especially
the same-best-friends-since-Year-Seven bit. Being on my own tomorrow and going into a year where all the friendships and cliques would have been well established years ago - that was the part I was dreading the most. My family had been on the move since I was born and I'd already lived in five different countries - Rajasthan in India, St Lucia in the Caribbean, Venice in Italy, Essaouria in Morocco, Dingle Bay in
Ireland - all wonderful places: the wing of an ancient palace (the rest of it was a hotel), a lovely colonial house, an old palazzo, a villa and a derelict castle. Mum and Dad loved travelling. And we did see some extraordinary sights and have experiences I wouldn't swap for anything, but all I ever really wanted was a proper home. And a bunch of good mates. Not that I don't have friends. I do, but I feel like I have spent my whole life saying goodbye to them when my family have moved on.

At last, it looked like we might be staying in one place for a while now that we were in Holland Park in my aunt's house (apart from Dad). Mum and Dad ran out of funds (i.e. Mum's inheritance) about a year ago so had needed to rethink the plan. Due to the lack of cash, Dad had taken the first job he could - and was still travelling, but only until October when he was going to come back to join us. He was with an orchestra who were on tour in Europe, and I did miss him. Even though there were five of us living at Aunt Sarah's and a constant stream of visitors, the house felt quiet without his larger-than-life presence. Apart from that, the rethink turned out well. Aunt Sarah's house is awesome with five floors, so plenty of room for all of us. And she has the best taste - at least I like it. Airy light rooms with tall bay windows, wooden floors, (with underfloor heating which is sooo fab after some of the leaky, freezing places we've lived in), warm soft colours on the walls, lots of interesting ethnic art and nick-nacks from her travels in the Far East. Totally tasteful, but then that's Aunt Sarah. The only truly crap part about the move was leaving my
best friend, Erin, in Ireland at the beginning of summer. That was an awful wrench.