Signs of Love: Stupid Cupid Read online

  I start thinking about this week’s column. I’ve written most of it already. But I left Cancer and Pisces till last. Jeff’s star sign is Cancer – and I know what to write now, but Pisces will be harder. ‘I’m stuck on Savannah’s sign,’ I tell Treacle.

  ‘Pisces?’

  ‘I want to use this week’s prediction to warn her.’

  ‘About LJ?’

  I nod and we both sip at our milk.

  ‘Do you think I should interfere?’ I ask. ‘What if we’re wrong about LJ?’

  ‘Were we wrong about Josh?’ Treacle reminds me.

  ‘No,’ I concede. Josh was Savannah’s last boyfriend and, when I spotted him snogging Chelsea Leeson behind the bike shed, I’d used Jessica’s column to warn Savannah that he couldn’t be trusted.

  ‘You don’t have to be totally down on LJ,’ Treacle suggests. ‘Maybe just hint that the new boy may need to earn his reputation as coolest kid in school.’

  LJ is a Year Ten who has just moved to Green Park High from a school in America. Everyone treats him like a god and he laps it up, never missing a chance to remind them that he was a model in the US – glossing over the less-than-glamorous fact that most of his work has been for catalogues, and an advert for pet food. Watching him strut around the school corridors you’d think he’d spent the past three years on a New York catwalk. And he checks himself in every door or window that reflects his glorious passing. ‘Bleugh!’ I pull a face, wondering what on earth Savannah sees in him. He’s good-looking, but he knows it. ‘Why can’t she go out with Marcus? He’s had a crush on her for ages and he’s really sweet.’

  ‘Savannah’s determined to land a Year Ten.’ Treacle shrugs.

  I slide her a sideways glance. ‘It’s pretty rare for a Year Nine to date a Year Ten.’

  She grins, clearly thinking of Jeff. ‘I did manage to shrug off the Year Nine Invisibility Cloak, didn’t I?’

  ‘You’ve brought hope to us all,’ I tell her. Year Nine sucks. You’re not in the top year, not in the bottom. Not doing GCSEs, not allowed to work in the tuck shop. Year Tens are usually blind to Year Nines. I know this better than most – all the other kids on the webzine are Year Tens and most of the time they treat me like I’m not there. If they do notice me, it’s to give me any idiot job that happens to be available. And Cindy – our editor and the school’s resident Ice Queen – is the only one who knows I’m the webzine’s star-sign scribbler because she gave me the dumb job in the first place.

  The only webziner who treats me like I can actually read and write is Sam Baynham, the music reporter. He even invited me out for a milkshake once, but I think that was just because he felt sorry for me because Ben had been ill. I said no, of course. I’m no pity case, and I wanted to catch the bus to the hospital and visit Ben.

  Treacle drains her glass noisily, jerking me from my thoughts.

  ‘So what are you going to write for Savannah? Sorry. What’s Jessica going to write?’ she corrects herself. ‘Is she going to set Sav straight about LJ?’

  ‘She’ll try,’ I promise. The thought of writing horoscopes for the rest of the term makes my stomach tighten. ‘But I don’t think I’ll be able to help people with the horoscopes for much longer.’

  Treacle raises her eyebrows. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I have a plan,’ I say, reaching for another sandwich. ‘A plan to remove Jessica Jupiter from my life once and for all.’

  The form room is cosy after the freezing dash from the bus stop. I can still feel the sting of the biting March wind on my cheeks. Ryan Edwards is breathing steam on to a window and doodling faces. Chelsea is perched on a radiator, her skinny legs hooked on to a desk. Josh slouches beside her, his arm round her shoulders, like a snake hanging off a stick.

  ‘Hey, Chelsea!’ Anila calls across the room. ‘Don’t burn your bum.’

  Chelsea sticks out her tongue and snuggles closer to Josh.

  I nudge Treacle, swivelling my eyeballs toward Savannah, and whisper, ‘Do Josh and Chelsea have to smooch in front of everyone?’ But Savannah’s not flinging vengeful looks at the love-rats today. She’s leaning swoonily against the wall beside Treacle, hugging her backpack and gazing into space.

  ‘LJ’s wearing bow-legged jeans,’ she sighs. ‘Only a real model could carry off a pair of low-waisters like that. He’s so gorgeous.’ She fixes me with an intense stare. ‘Did I tell you he used to drive his Dad’s Cadillac to school when he lived in America? He’s so far ahead of anyone here. He must think Green Park is so totally backward.’

  Treacle’s eyebrows lift, ‘Yeah, right.’

  Miss Davis scuttles into the room and opens the class register. ‘Hello, everyone.’ She beams like a lighthouse. ‘Nasty weather today.’

  Savannah stares dreamily out of the window. ‘I hadn’t noticed,’ she sighs.

  I hate to diss Savannah. She’s a babe and really sweet with it. If there’s a trend, she’s setting it; there’s no outfit she can’t wear and her porcelain skin has never hosted a spot. She’s kind, thoughtful and friends with everyone – and me and Treacle are lucky to have her as a best friend. But she suffers from boy-blindness. Sav gets so dazzled by good looks she can’t tell heroes from zeroes. She should date blindfolded.

  ‘Don’t you know he’s in so love with himself, he’ll never notice you?’ Treacle tells Savannah bluntly.

  Miss Davis starts calling names from the register. ‘Tracy Brown.’

  Treacle shoots up her hand, ‘Here.’

  Savannah sniffs and takes a compact from her bag. ‘Just because he’s cool and good-looking, doesn’t mean he’s not a nice guy.’ She ducks to get a glimpse of herself while she dabs her perfect nose with powder. ‘I don’t see why you’re so cynical, Treacle. You landed Jeff,’ she snaps her compact shut, ‘Dreams do come true.’

  ‘Jeff’s a nice guy,’ I point out.

  Savannah tips her head. ‘And what makes you think LJ’s not?’

  OK, she’s got a point. I’ve got no proof. I’m going on gut instinct. Every time I see LJ, he’s surrounded by a crowd and looking like he’s wishing he could give autographs. But gut instinct is not enough. A real journalist needs facts. If only there was some way I could get evidence that he’s as shallow as a puddle.

  A headline pops into my mind:

  School Glamour-boy Exposed!

  Green Park new boy, LJ, revealed in an in-depth interview with reporter Gemma Stone that he actually didn’t know the name of a single one of his classmates.

  ‘Gee. It never occurred to me that British people had actual given names,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve just been calling them whatever popped into my head. No one seemed to mind so I thought I must be the only person in school with a proper name.’

  ‘Gemma Stone?’ Miss Davis’s voice zaps my thoughts. She’s looking up from her desk. ‘Gemma?’ She scans the room.

  I stick up my hand. ‘Here!’

  ‘Anila Zajmi.’ Miss Davis finishes the register just as the bell goes for first lesson.

  Savannah’s off like a whippet. ‘Come on.’ She hooks her arm through Treacle’s and drags her away.

  ‘Wait for me!’ I follow them to the crush at the door.

  We pass Marcus and I can’t help noticing his wistful gaze follow Savannah. Marcus asked her out last month, but she chose Josh and hasn’t looked at Marcus since, even though he’s ten times sweeter than Josh and cute in his own shy way.

  We burst out of the form room and into the hallway.

  Treacle’s flapping from Savannah’s arm like washing on a windy day. ‘What’s the hurry?’ I ask.

  ‘We’re going the long way,’ Savannah announces. Instead of turning right towards the classroom where Mrs Dalton is thumping English Literature books on to desks in readiness for our arrival, she veers left and scoots along the corridor towards the science labs.

  Treacle gives me the desperate stare of a kidnap victim as I catch up.

  ‘Are you trying to shed calories?’ I ask Savannah, mystifi
ed why she should circle the entire building to get to the classroom just next door to our form room.

  ‘Never miss a chance to exercise,’ Savannah puffs, swinging Treacle round the corner as the corridor splits. We hit a wave of students and weave through the surge like salmon fighting their way upstream. As we round the next corner, I understand why Savannah’s taking the long route. LJ is at the far end of the hallway, leaning next to the science-lab door.

  ‘Savannah!’ The sigh in Treacle’s voice is enough to tell me she’s spotted LJ too.

  He’s watching his classmates file into the lesson – or rather, he’s letting them watch him. Each girl drifts past, glancing up hopefully. LJ’s gaze flicks over them like a farmer inspecting cattle. He doesn’t crack a smile.

  I suddenly realize Savannah’s disappeared towards LJ. ‘Quick, let’s rescue her before she does something stupid,’ I gasp to Treacle, who rolls her eyes.

  ‘Gem, if you’re worried she’s going to throw herself at LJ, she’ll have to join the queue.’

  But the queue’s quickly dwindling as LJ’s classmates disappear into the lab.

  ‘Come on!’ I grab Treacle’s arm and drag her forwards. Savannah’s smoothing her long blonde hair with her hand and gazing at LJ.

  I tap her shoulder. ‘We’re going to be late for English.’

  ‘One more minute,’ Savannah pleads. ‘The bell’s only just gone.’

  I glance back along the corridor. It’s become ominously empty and quiet.

  ‘He’s not even noticed you,’ Treacle tries to reason with Savannah.

  LJ’s stare is fixed on a window, where he’s staring at his reflection in the glass. He lifts a hand to re-tousle the thick, brown hair flopping over his eyes.

  ‘Let’s go, Sav—’ I stop as Sam looms in front of me.

  ‘Hi, Gemma.’ His bright blue eyes meet mine and he does one of his I’m-totally-unaware-how-gorgeous-I-am smiles. If only LJ were more like Sam, Savannah might be in with a chance.

  ‘Hi, Sam.’ I nod toward the science lab. ‘Is this your class?’

  ‘Double Physics,’ he shrugs. ‘Not a bad way to start a Monday.’

  I’m surprised to discover he’s a science-head. ‘I thought you were only into music.’

  Sam grins. ‘Yeah, well, I like to stay in tune with the whole universe.’

  Behind me I hear Savannah giggle and my heart sinks. It’s her flirty giggle. I turn round and find her simpering at LJ.

  ‘Hi, LJ. How’s it going?’ she asks.

  Treacle pulls a face at me, sticking out her tongue like she’s about to heave.

  LJ looks down at Savannah. ‘Oh – er – hi . . .’ He frowns like he’s fumbling for a long-forgotten memory. ‘I know you, right?’ His American accent sounds more American than the ones on TV. ‘You’re – er – Tundra, aren’t you?’

  Sam jabs him in the arm. ‘She’s Savannah, you idiot.’

  LJ scratches the side of his nose. ‘I knew it was some kinda climate zone.’ He turns and disappears into the lab.

  Savannah watches him go like a leper who has just been blessed by the Pope.

  Sam shakes his head. ‘That new kid is not the brightest tool in the box.’

  ‘“Tool” is right,’ Treacle mutters beside me.

  I elbow her sharply, hoping Sam didn’t hear, but he’s looking at Treacle, eyes narrow. ‘I thought every girl in Green Park was in the LJ fan club.’

  Treacle wrinkles her nose. ‘He calls football “soccer” and thinks it was invented by Americans,’ she huffs.

  Sam’s eyes twinkle beneath his shaggy blond hair. ‘Maybe he’s still jet-lagged. Hopefully he’ll catch up soon.’ His gaze flicks back to me. ‘Are you coming to the webzine HQ at lunchtime?’

  I nod. ‘I want to start work on my—’ I stop myself just in time. I can’t say ‘horoscopes’. No one apart from Cindy and Treacle know that I’m Jessica Jupiter. I grope for words. ‘My – er – the – er – lipstick review I’m doing for Cindy.’

  Cindy keeps giving me make-up to test for her beauty column. It’s her way of disguising my role as horoscope writer. She calls me the webzine’s editorial assistant, but basically I’m a lab rat. I keep expecting animal rights activists to break in and release me back into the wild.

  ‘What are you testing this week?’ Sam asks.

  ‘Fang-Bang Ruby Lip-Shimmer.’ I cringe, wanting to explain that I joined the webzine to be a reporter, not a guinea pig for beauty products.

  Sam throws out a hand to catch the fast-closing door of the science lab. ‘Some girls don’t need make-up,’ he says as he slides through the gap and disappears into his lesson.

  He must be talking about Cindy. Her face is more painted than the Mona Lisa’s, but I think she’d be far prettier without make-up. She has blue eyes, rosebud lips and cheekbones you could slice cheese with.

  ‘Did you hear him?’ Savannah’s hanging off my arm, staring at the lab door. ‘He actually spoke to me.’

  I look at her, surprised. ‘Who?’

  Savannah looks at me, round-eyed. ‘LJ, of course! Didn’t you hear him?’

  Treacle puffs out her cheeks. ‘He called you “Tundra”.’

  ‘So?’ Savannah heads down the corridor. ‘Did you see the way he looked at me, Gem?’

  A wave of despair crashes over me as I follow her. She’s besotted. ‘He looked like he was trying to remember who you were,’ I remind her.

  ‘Exactly!’ Savannah pauses at the English-room door. ‘And he did remember me.’

  ‘A girl called “Tundra”’s hard to forget,’ Treacle mutters.

  ‘“Tundra”’s almost the same as “Savannah”,’ Savannah argues.

  Treacle reaches for the door handle. ‘Try telling that to a penguin.’

  I can see Mrs Dalton through the meshed glass of the door window. She’s pacing the front of the class, book in hand. Ryan’s head is resting on his desk and Sally Moore is mouthing something to Anila. The lesson is clearly in full swing. ‘Come on!’ I nudge Treacle.

  ‘Wait.’ Savannah pulls a pot of strawberry lipbalm from her blazer pocket. ‘This weather is murder on my lips.’ As she flicks off the lid, her mouth drops open. ‘Look!’ She thrusts the balm under my nose.

  I stare at it. ‘What?’

  ‘Can’t you see it?’ Savannah sounds amazed.

  Treacle leans over the pot and stares. ‘What?’

  ‘It spells LJ!’ Savannah proclaims.

  ‘What does?’ Treacle sounds unconvinced.

  ‘The marks in the lipbalm.’ She points at a couple of smears in the pink goo. ‘It definitely says LJ!’

  I squint, trying to make out a pattern. ‘It’s just squig-gles,’ I say.

  Savannah snatches the pot away. ‘It’s not just squiggles! It’s a sign! It clearly says LJ! I knew we were meant to be together!’

  The door of the English room swings open. Mrs Dalton frowns at us over her half-specs. ‘Very good of you to join us,’ she says sarcastically.

  ‘Sorry, Miss.’ I duck past her and slide into my seat. As Treacle sits beside me, Savannah floats to the back of the class, her eyes dreamy.

  I can’t believe LJ has reduced Savannah to such a twittering idiot. I pull my books from my bag, vowing to take immediate action to end her insanity.

  I’m writing Savannah’s horoscope in my head as I take the stairs to the webzine HQ. There’s only twenty minutes to the bell for the first lesson after lunch. Escaping the lunch room took longer than I’d planned; Savannah was using me as a human shield while she watched LJ pick his way through a box of sushi.

  He used chopsticks.

  She practically fell off her chair with excitement. ‘Oh. My. God! He is so cool!’

  Substitute ‘lame’ for ‘cool’ and she pretty much got it right.

  I glance at my watch – nineteen minutes left – and open the door.

  The webzine HQ is basically a storeroom on the first floor of the school. The caretaker kindly cleared out most of th
e clutter and now, apart from the shelves of aging textbooks and glue pots that line the walls, there are six battered desks, each with a computer and a chair.

  No one’s here. I’ve got the room to myself. I wonder where they are. It’s deadline day. I can’t be the only one who’s not finished their piece. Maybe the rest of the webzine team have already been and gone. Maybe amazement at LJ’s chopstick skills slayed them and they’re lying dead in a corridor somewhere, their faces frozen in awe.

  The ticker tape starts running in my head.

  Newsroom Massacre

  The entire staff of the Green Park High webzine were struck down today, stunned to death by the unprecedented coolness of their new schoolmate.

  LJ Kennedy, recently arrived from the USA, ate sushi in the lunch room with chopsticks. In a community where forks and fingers rule the lunch box, this startling feat of manual dexterity plunged the entire school into hysteria.

  Webzine editor, Cindy Jensen, was the first to succumb, frothing at the mouth as shock overwhelmed her. Will Bold collapsed a few minutes later, his face contorted as he landed on his editor’s still-writhing body, though it’s not yet clear whether it was astonishment or contempt that killed him.

  The old school clock above the door is ticking away the seconds noisily. I cut the internal monologue.

  I breathe in the lovely old paper-and-wood smell of the storeroom as I settle behind a desk. It’s how I imagine a newsroom might have smelled in the days before plastic and high-speed communication. I’ve bagged the fastest PC, pleased that Will’s not here to elbow his way to it like he usually does. By the time I’ve got the PC humming, found this week’s horoscope document and opened it, Savannah’s stars are already written in my head. It takes me two seconds to slip into Jessica Jupiter’s voice and type them into the PC.

  Pisces. You are the most idealistic and dreamy of all the star signs, but don’t be fish-brained, Star-ling. Before you dive into a new romance, check the depth. You may think you’ve found your heart’s desire but, my dear Fin-derella, your Prince Charming may turn out to be all charm and no prince.

  I pause, leaning back in my chair. It may not be enough to convince Savannah. I know from experience that when she’s smitten, the smit runs deep. Frowning, I tap my fingernails on the desk – I gave up biting my nails when I became Jessica. Somehow, chewed stubs for fingers didn’t suit the glamorous image I’d given her. Though I still have to fight the urge to nibble. Then an idea strikes. I could encourage Marcus to ask Savannah out again. It might distract her. After all, a real date beats a fantasy date. I’ve actually only ever had fantasy dates, so I don’t know for sure, but it seems logical. I can do a quick search on Facebook to find out Marcus’s birthday – then I can work out his star sign and lace his horoscope with gentle encouragement to try again.