don’t have to face Aisha. I don’t want to see her disappointment, don’t want to see her sad brown eyes or her trembly lips.
But Jo hasn’t forgiven me, not quite.
‘Is Wednesday OK for you too, Aisha?’ she says. And she’s smiling, because she wants to see if I have the guts to tell Aisha she can’t come. She wants to see me squirm.
My face burns for the second time in half an hour, and I drag my rotten, lousy eyes up from the tabletop to meet Aisha’s.
‘I – I’m not sure – my mum didn’t say about you, Aisha…’
I’m a liar, a worm, a coward.
‘You see, we’ve only just moved in…’
Aisha looks like she’s sorry for me, like I’m something to be pitied: a small, slimy slug that crawled in from the rain.
‘I can’t do Wednesday, anyhow,’ she says. ‘I’m busy.’
‘Oh, well, that’s a shame,’ Jo gushes. ‘Never mind, though, another time, hey? I’ll definitely be there, Indie. I’m looking forward to it.’
Great. That makes one of us, then.
‘Sorry, Aisha,’ I say yet again as Jo and I get our stuff together to walk home on Wednesday. ‘Maybe another time?’
‘Maybe.’
How come I feel so guilty? Possibly because Jo’s been stirring it every chance she can get, till I’m almost wishing it was Aisha, not her, coming round for tea.
‘You can come over to mine any time you like, Aisha,’ Jo puts in, ever generous. ‘ My mum’s not funny about visitors.’
I have to bite my lip to stop the tears prickling at the back of my eyes. What is it with Jo? Is this all because Shane Taggart nicked my chips?
We wave bye to Aisha at the gates and turn up towards the estate.
‘Is it far?’ Jo wants to know. ‘Is there a bus?’
I show her the money Mum gave me for bus fares, and we decide to spend it on sweets and walk instead. We buy ice pops and penny chews and strawberry laces, and Jo links my arm as we mooch along on a sugar high, telling me I’m her best, best mate.
Two weeks ago, I know I was. Our friendship was unshakeable, the kind that lasts forever. I could have pictured us sat side by side in the old folks’ home, squirting each other with lavender water, painting each other’s nails lime green and sharing strawberry laces and Ovaltine.
Now I’m not so sure.
And I’m not even sure any more whether it’s Aisha’s fault, or Shane’s or anyone else’s fault at all. It’s just me and Jo.
‘Friends forever?’ Jo squeezes my arm.
‘Forever,’ I say, knowing it’s a wish and not a promise.
‘Good. Aisha’s just my second-best mate, OK? You’re not to be jealous.’
What do you say to that?
By the time we reach the top of Hartington Drive, Jo’s moaning that her feet hurt. ‘It’s stupid to move so far away from Calder’s Lane,’ she sulks. ‘It’s not even on a proper bus route, it takes ages to walk and it’s all gloomy and tatty round here…’
‘It’s not like we had much choice,’ I remind her.
‘No, but… I mean, I’m surprised you’re still going to our school. You must be well out of the catchment area. My cousin’s mate lives near here, and he went to Templars Primary, then Rathbone High. I expect you’ll have to go there.’
‘No, I won’t!’
Jo fixes me with a look. ‘It’s not up to you, is it?’ she shrugs. ‘It’s up to the council. It’s all about catchment areas and where you live. You can’t just choose.’
‘I’m going to Kellway Comp like everyone else,’ I say, and I know that if Jo doesn’t shut up about this I’m going to cry, or slap her, or both.
‘We’ll see,’ she says, and we turn into the driveway of number 33 just as Ian Turner is getting out of his red Fiat, bags and papers flapping as usual.
‘Hello, Indie,’ he says. ‘Hello, Indie’s friend.’
‘Hello, Mr Turner.’
We clatter down the steps and into the flat.
‘ He’s pretty lush,’ Jo whispers. ‘Too old for us, but I bet your mum fancies him…’
‘She does not!’
The idea is so loopy it has me
But Jo hasn’t forgiven me, not quite.
‘Is Wednesday OK for you too, Aisha?’ she says. And she’s smiling, because she wants to see if I have the guts to tell Aisha she can’t come. She wants to see me squirm.
My face burns for the second time in half an hour, and I drag my rotten, lousy eyes up from the tabletop to meet Aisha’s.
‘I – I’m not sure – my mum didn’t say about you, Aisha…’
I’m a liar, a worm, a coward.
‘You see, we’ve only just moved in…’
Aisha looks like she’s sorry for me, like I’m something to be pitied: a small, slimy slug that crawled in from the rain.
‘I can’t do Wednesday, anyhow,’ she says. ‘I’m busy.’
‘Oh, well, that’s a shame,’ Jo gushes. ‘Never mind, though, another time, hey? I’ll definitely be there, Indie. I’m looking forward to it.’
Great. That makes one of us, then.
‘Sorry, Aisha,’ I say yet again as Jo and I get our stuff together to walk home on Wednesday. ‘Maybe another time?’
‘Maybe.’
How come I feel so guilty? Possibly because Jo’s been stirring it every chance she can get, till I’m almost wishing it was Aisha, not her, coming round for tea.
‘You can come over to mine any time you like, Aisha,’ Jo puts in, ever generous. ‘ My mum’s not funny about visitors.’
I have to bite my lip to stop the tears prickling at the back of my eyes. What is it with Jo? Is this all because Shane Taggart nicked my chips?
We wave bye to Aisha at the gates and turn up towards the estate.
‘Is it far?’ Jo wants to know. ‘Is there a bus?’
I show her the money Mum gave me for bus fares, and we decide to spend it on sweets and walk instead. We buy ice pops and penny chews and strawberry laces, and Jo links my arm as we mooch along on a sugar high, telling me I’m her best, best mate.
Two weeks ago, I know I was. Our friendship was unshakeable, the kind that lasts forever. I could have pictured us sat side by side in the old folks’ home, squirting each other with lavender water, painting each other’s nails lime green and sharing strawberry laces and Ovaltine.
Now I’m not so sure.
And I’m not even sure any more whether it’s Aisha’s fault, or Shane’s or anyone else’s fault at all. It’s just me and Jo.
‘Friends forever?’ Jo squeezes my arm.
‘Forever,’ I say, knowing it’s a wish and not a promise.
‘Good. Aisha’s just my second-best mate, OK? You’re not to be jealous.’
What do you say to that?
By the time we reach the top of Hartington Drive, Jo’s moaning that her feet hurt. ‘It’s stupid to move so far away from Calder’s Lane,’ she sulks. ‘It’s not even on a proper bus route, it takes ages to walk and it’s all gloomy and tatty round here…’
‘It’s not like we had much choice,’ I remind her.
‘No, but… I mean, I’m surprised you’re still going to our school. You must be well out of the catchment area. My cousin’s mate lives near here, and he went to Templars Primary, then Rathbone High. I expect you’ll have to go there.’
‘No, I won’t!’
Jo fixes me with a look. ‘It’s not up to you, is it?’ she shrugs. ‘It’s up to the council. It’s all about catchment areas and where you live. You can’t just choose.’
‘I’m going to Kellway Comp like everyone else,’ I say, and I know that if Jo doesn’t shut up about this I’m going to cry, or slap her, or both.
‘We’ll see,’ she says, and we turn into the driveway of number 33 just as Ian Turner is getting out of his red Fiat, bags and papers flapping as usual.
‘Hello, Indie,’ he says. ‘Hello, Indie’s friend.’
‘Hello, Mr Turner.’
We clatter down the steps and into the flat.
‘ He’s pretty lush,’ Jo whispers. ‘Too old for us, but I bet your mum fancies him…’
‘She does not!’
The idea is so loopy it has me
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