Caramel Hearts (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five

Mint and Chopped Lavender Flowers

Light pokes under the curtains. Unable to get back to sleep, I creep across the hall and quietly open Hatty's door. She's fast asleep – her hair sprawled across her face and pillow. Breathing a sigh of relief, I close the door and return to my room. But there's no way I'm getting back to sleep. The argument with Jack pops into my head and eats away at me. What will I say to him next time I see him? It's Mam I'm annoyed at, and Maddy – so why did I have to go and fall out with him?

I go downstairs, hoping to leave my worries behind. Hatty will join me soon, and maybe we'll go for a walk or something. But hours pass, and I'm completely alone and bored beyond belief. I flick through every TV channel, which lasts all of five minutes – we can't afford Sky any more and the Internet was cut off months ago – and I read an old edition of
Marie Claire
that Harriet has left lying around. With Sarah at school, there's nothing else to do. There's always a new recipe to try, but I don't feel like pushing things. Even listening to
Unearthed
on repeat on Harriet's old MP3 player doesn't improve my mood. It's a bad day when Johnny doesn't cut it.

A cold shiver sweeps through me as I realize that school will soon close for summer. Everyone else loves the summer holidays, but I hate them. What's good about six long, dreary weeks with nothing to do? Apart from Art class, school is rubbish – but having nothing to do is worse. It's not like the weather's great – and even if it was, we've no money to go anywhere or do anything. Whitby might as well be on the other side of the world these days. Sarah and her dad usually go camping in the Lake District for at least a fortnight and I'm never allowed to go, even though they have a spare tent. Mam always makes excuses: I'm not old enough, I can't be trusted. With Mam gone, there's no way I'll be allowed to go this year either – Hatty will need me, or I'll have to study to improve my grades. Why does everything have to be so boring?

If only I could go back to being a kid, to a time when Mam might still be nicknamed “Happiness” by her friends, to a time when she wasn't consumed by drink. I do remember days when Mam was cheery and bright, making fun plans. Like on our day out in Whitby: I breathed steam on the train windows so we could all play Hangman, and Mam pointed out all the animals in the fields as they sped by. The day was bright but chilly and our noses turned postbox red within minutes of stepping into the fresh Whitby air. We jumped waves and, to warm up, huddled together on the beach around bags of hot chips. Sand gritted our teeth as we ate, but that didn't matter. Sometimes I can still hear the gulls calling overhead, making their weird laughing sounds. It's so clear, it's like they're right here with me. But I
can't remember the last time I heard an actual gull. Or Mam laugh. Can't remember what her laughter sounds like.

“Stop being such a baby, Liv!” I chide, trying to fill the silence. “You're fourteen now. Stop pining for a mum that doesn't exist.”

The words sound good but my heart doesn't listen. Picking up
Recipes to Make Happiness Bloom
, I flick through the pages, but they don't offer any comfort. The gentle fluttering of pages, their magical recipes; it only reminds me of how things should be. The next recipe is “Raspberry Fool”.

“How appropriate,” I say to myself, out loud.

Sometimes, when we were kids, Mam would get wasted day after day; she'd spark out at random times and the house would be so still, I'd get scared. Hatty would tell me we were going on adventures, leading me around the house to hide in strange places. We'd poke about in drawers and wardrobes, looking for treasure or stray coins we could spend on sweets on our way to school. We would try on things we shouldn't – like Mam's best dresses – while Mam snored on top of her bed. When we were finished with our adventures, we'd hide the evidence and cover Mam up with sheets. She often had no clothes on and I'd stare at the silver pregnancy stretch marks on her stomach. They rippled like patterns in sand. She always looked so fragile then, and we'd be especially delicate with her, knowing that we caused the scars. Sometimes, we'd give her extra covers to compensate.

I reread the recipe book's inscription aloud. Then I close my eyes and try to picture Dad. I imagine soft, caramel
hair, a floppy fringe. I picture warm brown eyes – he is kind, good looking and gentle. Then I realize I've made my dad look like Jack. What a freak. That has to be some kind of illness.

Sadness swells inside me and I decide there's only one thing for it. I've nothing to lose by making a few treats. There are some raspberry fools begging to be eaten. They promise to calm nerves and soothe souls – isn't that what we need? It would be a good peace offering for Hatty.

Despite the guilt, I take a bit of money and race to the shops to get what I need. I can't buy lavender flowers, but I collect some on my way back, from a garden from the posher end of the estate. I collect mint too – I Googled them at school to make sure they wouldn't poison us. As I crush raspberries and whip the cream, I start to feel a bit better. But soon my thoughts turn to the stolen bag. I know I should return it, but I've never had so much money before – and where else will I get the stuff I need? Mrs Butler looked so proud of me when I gave her the flapjacks, and even Hatty approves. It's rare for me to do something that makes people smile.

I mix some of the cream and all of the sugared fruit into dreamy pink folds. When it's the colour of marshmallows I pause, wracking my brains for a solution. I have to come up with something before it sends me nuts like Mam.

I decide to spend the money, but return the bag. My options are: I could keep it hidden until the whole sorry mess blows over, then ditch it in some waste ground. There's plenty nearby, so I could probably get away with ditching it now. But I guess I should make sure the bag is returned to Mrs Snelling. After all, it contains something
important that she wants back. Despite several searches, I haven't found anything that looks particularly important. The bills are probably paid by Direct Debit and the keys and driving licence can be replaced. Maybe Old Mozzer was just trying to make the culprit feel bad? If so, it's working.

It's a week since the assembly, and the handbag is taking over my life. I check it's still there every time I come in or out of my room, and I've even started putting my own washing away so Harriet doesn't find it. Every glimpse of the bag makes me shudder. The more I try and ignore it, the worse it gets. I've no idea why I took the stupid thing. No recipes – even Mam's – are worth this much stress. Why couldn't I have left it behind?

Concluding that it's Mam's fault, really – I shouldn't have to steal, normal kids get help from their parents – I layer the pink cream and sugared raspberries into four glasses I've set aside.

A noise upstairs signals to me that Hatty is awake. I go to call her, but she beats me to it, her footsteps padding down the stairs. Quickly, I add the last layer to the final glass, then top all four with raspberries, mint and chopped lavender flowers. A calming, fresh perfume rises from the toppings. Harriet soon arrives – her eyes are red and swollen, but I don't want to embarrass her, so I make a point of pushing one of the desserts straight in front of her.

“For you,” I say. “Raspberry fool.”

Still trying to avoid eye contact with my sister, I put two of the desserts in the fridge and set about washing up, letting the suds cover my forearms with rainbow bubbles.

“You make some amazing stuff,” says Harriet. “Maybe you could give me lessons some time?”

“I'd like that,” I say, even though I doubt I would. It'd only disintegrate into arguments when Hatty tried to take over.

A long silence edges its way in. Eventually, I take the lead.

“Hey, I'm sorry about last night, Hatty. I didn't mean to argue.”

I dry and put away the pots I've washed, and hand her a teaspoon. We stare at the pretty desserts, the sweet scent of lavender wafting around the kitchen.

“It's not your fault,” says Harriet sadly. She reaches out to scoop some cream. “We're just stressed out. I guess it's time I faced facts – I might never go back to Edinburgh. I should have listened to you. It doesn't matter whether I go to uni or not – I'll never amount to anything.”

“Don't say that!” I say.

“This is amazing,” says Harriet, taking a big spoonful and giving a long, slow groan of appreciation.

I try a spoon of my own and follow suit.

“You're right, this
is
good!” I say it too quickly – like I'm showing off – and my face burns up. “I mean, for a first attempt, it's not bad.”

Harriet chuckles.

“Have you heard from Jack at all?”

“No, why would I?”

Harriet shrugs, continuing to spoon mounds of the raspberry dessert into her mouth.

“I thought you liked him.”

“‘As a friend' like him, or ‘as a boyfriend' like him?” I ask.

“You tell me.”

The problem is I can't, because I don't know. Or I'm not yet ready to admit it. Thankfully, Hatty lets the discussion drop. But then she has to go and spoil things.

“You know… you'll have to go back to school tomorrow.”

“Can't I wait until after the weekend?”

“I know you're worried about those bullies, but we can't chance it. With the Social Services visiting soon, the quicker you get back and face up to them, the better.”

Losing my appetite, I push my dessert away. My jaw tightens with anger and it feels like my insides are made of ice.

“How would that be better?” I ask.

“Trust me, Liv. It just would.”

“What makes you so sure? Why don't you sort out your own life before butting into mine?”

As soon as the words are out, I wish I could spoon them back into my cruel mouth. Harriet pushes back her chair and leaves the room without saying a word. I go back to eating my fool. It sticks to the roof of my mouth and cements my teeth together. Pity it couldn't do that sooner.

Chapter Twenty-Six

An Outcast for Eternity

The first day back at school passes too slowly. I try harder than ever to melt into the background, but with my drastic new hairstyle, it's not easy. Some smirk, others snigger and more still pretend to see through me. Sarah sticks by my side as much as possible, but she's quiet, afraid of being turned on again. As if the reaction from the pupils isn't bad enough, Mrs Pearl makes a point of saying how nice I look.

“Very like that girl from the Harry Potter films,” she says, to a chorus of sniggers, before making a fuss about the school trip. “I want each of you to put one – and only one – suggestion forward anonymously in this box, which I'll leave at the front of the classroom,” explains Mrs Pearl. “At the end of this session, I'll add the suggestions to a chart. Over the next few days, tick the ones you're interested in. The three most popular will go through to a final round, and next week, you can elect your final choice in a voting ballot.”

An excited hum breaks out.

“I've too many ideas,” groans Sarah. “How am I going to choose just one?”

I busy myself with organizing my rucksack to avoid the conversation. Everyone in the room seems excited except for me. I sneak a peek at Jack, and accidentally
catch his eye. When I offer a weak smile, he looks away. My mood takes an even steeper dive as Mrs Pearl finishes her arrangements with a grand finale.

“The trip will be even better when the thief owns up,” she says, peering at everyone in turn. “Mrs Snelling is recovering nicely and will be back to work soon. I hope the perpetrator gets their dues before she returns.”

I'm sure Mrs Pearl's eyes linger on me for a moment longer than everyone else. I put my head down and pretend to concentrate on the task in hand, certain the day can't get any worse.

But I'm wrong.

During last lesson, Sarah is in French while I'm in Art. We have to choose partners for portrait-drawing, and no one will work with me – even when Mr Vaughn, the Art teacher, insists. I'm forced to work with the teacher, and he decides to act all cool, like he's my best friend. The rest of the class can't resist pointing and whispering. As if I'm not the butt of enough jokes already.

“What's wrong, Liv?” asks Mr Vaughn, looking between my face and his drawing board, his arm moving vigorously as he sketches. “Why won't anyone work with you?”

“She's upset the wrong person, that's why!” shouts Trinnie Fox.

She's my biggest rival in Art class and a bit of a troublemaker – if she knows Mad Dog did this, then you can be certain the whole school knows.

“This is a private conversation, Trinnie!” calls Mr Vaughn over his shoulder, smiling like it's OK really. Trinnie grins and continues with her work. I can see the concentration on her face as she tries to make her
drawing better than mine. Mr Vaughn points his pencil at me.

“If you need to talk…”

I shake my head, like I've got it all under control, and try to concentrate on varying the pressure of my 5B pencil. But my mind is a jumble of worries and it shows on the page. I can't get the teacher's eyes the same size, his ears are too high and the tones are all wrong. The finished portrait is awkward and distorted. Like a bad Picasso. When we display our drawings like we always do at the end of class, mine's the worst by far. One of the lads points at my efforts and starts mocking it.

“I'm glad she didn't draw me.”

The rest of the class crowds around my crap artwork. One by one they burst into laughter. It's that bad, I can't even be bothered trying to defend it. Instead, I copy Mam. Ripping it in half, then half again, I dump my drawing in the bin. Mr Vaughn peers into the bin, raises his eyebrows, but doesn't say a word. No one else mentions it either.

When I check out my own portrait, my stomach knots with excitement. Is that really how I look? Mr Vaughn has made me look like a fifties film star – Audrey Hepburn, eat your heart out! Not that it matters – I'm still the school leper.

By the time the final school bell rings, I'm near breaking point. Thankfully, Sarah is waiting outside.

“So – what are you going to suggest for the school trip?” she asks excitedly, as we head for home.

I notice the purple shadows under her eyes have lessened. Being dropped by the bullies is doing her good. I, on the other hand, feel drained.

“Dunno. I'll just go along with what everyone else wants.”

“It's a toss-up between the British Museum in London and the Pitt Rivers Museum in Oxford for me. I've read about them so many times and they sound amazing. I think I'll go for the British Museum. No! Pitt Rivers – they have shrunken heads and Samurai armour and everything. What do you think?”

I can't help groaning. “Trust you to choose something sensible!”

“Have you got any better ideas?”

“Alton Towers or Disneyland Paris?” Places I've always dreamt of visiting but would never be able to afford – but I don't really have the right to suggest anything. “No, you're right, Pitt Rivers sounds good.”

“What's up? You never give in so easily. You can tell me it's none of my business…”

“It's none of your business,” I cut in, smiling, knowing full well that Sarah won't let this one go.

“You can't let those bullies get to you. They won't be on the trip and it'll be good to be away from them for the day.”

Trust Sarah to think the best of things, to think the best of me. “It's not just them…”

I open my mouth to confide in her about the bag, but then I think better of it – what if I lose her? After chasing Jack away, and most of the school gossiping about me, I can't risk telling her. The timing has to be right.

“Let me guess… is it something to do with Jack?” asks Sarah.

I lose my cool and gasp. If Sarah and Jack start talking, they'll figure out I'm the thief for sure. I'll be an outcast for eternity.

“Ooh I'm right… Come on, tell me! How are things going? I've seen the way you two glance at each other across the room,” says Sarah, pulling a sickly, adoring face that makes my throat clench.

“There's nothing to tell,” I say, trying to end the conversation.

“He fancies you.”

“Hates my guts more like.”

“How do you work that out, Sherlock? Is there something wrong with your eyes? He's always avoiding you, then watching you when you're not looking. It's a sure sign…”

“Of how much he hates me. He's avoiding me because I threw him out of our house.”

Sarah's eyes threaten to pop out of her head. “Jack Whitman was in
your
house and you
threw him out
?”

She fakes a swoon, pretending to fall to the ground in a faint. Checking the street behind her is clear, Sarah lowers her voice to a whisper.

“Is that why Mad Dog's after you?”

“Probably. That night we missed each other after school I bumped into Jack…”

“The night Mrs Snelling's bag was stolen?”

“Yeah… He should have been hanging out with Maddy but changed his mind. Then he intervened the other day after you ran off… told them to stop and walked me home.”

Sarah winces at the reminder, but quickly gathers herself. “He saved you – a real-life knight in shining armour.”

“I don't think Maddy sees it quite like that.”

“So what? Just cos she fancies him – it doesn't mean she owns him. He's obviously not interested in her.” Sarah gives a knowing smile. “And you know what that means, don't you?”

“It means she won't stop until she's killed me. Great. I'm screwed.”

An uncomfortable silence edges its way between us. Sarah's lost her mind. There's no way Jack would be interested in me over Mad Dog. She might be a bitch, but she's experienced. That's what boys want.

As we venture out onto the open field, I check behind me every few steps, in case we're being followed. Sarah tries to make me feel better by chatting.

“So, how did today go?” she asks.

I give her my best “are you kidding me?” look.

“That bad?”

“Let's see… everyone sniggering at my hair, avoiding me like the plague, and me being in constant fear for my life – it was great! Best day ever!”

“It's not like we were ever popular.”

The way she says it, I can't help laughing.

“I know, but people wouldn't even stand next to me in the dinner queue. You saw them – they were actually pushing others in front of them to get away from me.”

“Yeah, that sucked all right. But at least you got your dinner while it was hot. And if Maddy keeps being so blatant, maybe she'll get her comeuppance.”

I know Sarah is doing her best, so I smile.

“As for your hair,” continues Sarah. “They're just jealous because it's gorgeous on you. You've got a nice face so you can carry it off.”

I take a sharp breath, my head spinning. That's what Jack said, before we'd been disturbed by Hatty. Before I threw him out. I think of how he smelt – warm and spicy – and how he'd leaned in towards me…

“Liv?”

Sarah is holding me by the shoulder, staring into my face.

“Liv, can you hear me?”

“What? Yeah.”

“Did you get checked out at the docs?”

“No need. I'm fine.” I pull away and try to stomp ahead, even though the ground swells and sways, magnified one minute, distant the next.

“Are you sure? The gang – they could have done some real damage… we should get you checked out.”

“I'm fine! Just because your parents call the doctor over every little thing, doesn't mean I have to,” I snap, immediately wishing I hadn't.

There's something clearly wrong with me. Why do I keep pushing people away?

An awful thought shoots through me like a thunderbolt:
I'm turning out like Mam
.