What’s Up With Jody Barton?, page 4
River Phoenix put down his phone, pulled his silver headphones off and said, ‘You what?’
‘Come in here for an all-day Champion Chunky Breakfast, did you, son?’
River Phoenix said, ‘Nah,’ and began to put his headphones back.
My dad said, ‘Whoaa there. What’s this?’ And he pointed to the QPR logo drawn on the sleeve of RP’s parka. I held my breath. My dad can get a bit over-emotional when it comes to football.
RP looked down at his sleeve and then he grinned. ‘It’s the sign of a quality football club,’ he said. ‘Not like that cheap Spurs tat you’re wearing.’
My dad’s eyes widened in mock outrage. ‘How can you say that! This is official clubwear! And Spurs are in the final of the League Cup this year. They’ll soon have the hallowed turf of Wembley Stadium underneath their boots. I don’t see QPR playing any cup finals at Wembley.’
River Phoenix shrugged. ‘I’m not bothered.’
My dad shook his head and then he turned to me, winked and said, ‘Jody, let’s give this poor lad some orange juice. The vitamin C might do him good. He clearly ain’t well because he’s not thinking straight.’ He picked up one of his cartons of juice and reading straight from the packaging said, ‘Here you go. Orange juice. Naturally and artificially flavoured. Made from powdered concentrate.’
RP laughed again and stood up. ‘Nah, you’re all right. I need to get going. But thanks for the offer.’ And then he looked across at me and smiled. It was the most fantastic smile I’ve ever seen. My body temperature rocketed and my hands went clammy. It was like being struck by lightning all over again.
I smiled back and, even though I was in the process of picking up a freezing-cold box of turkey twizzlers, I crossed my fingers on both hands and hoped for something amazing to happen. I don’t know what exactly. Just some kind of random little miracle that would stop him from walking out of my life. Anything!
Unfortunately, it’s difficult to hold a box of frozen turkey twizzlers when you’ve got your fingers crossed. My dad said, ‘Oi, Sulky Sue – careful with those twizzlers! I don’t want them going all over the floor.’
‘OK,’ I snapped. ‘Keep your hair on!’
My dad said, ‘Will do, kiddo, will do.’ And then he touched his bald head and said, ‘OH MY LIFE! WHERE’S IT ALL GONE?’
I laughed. It really is difficult to be annoyed with my dad for more than a couple of seconds.
My dad fished a Spurs beanie hat out of his right pocket, plonked it on his head and said, ‘As soon as those twizzlers are in the freezer, you can call it a day. That lazy twin of yours can take over from here.’ And with a shout of, ‘Oi, Loopy Lou,’ he went up the stairs to find her.
I continued to laugh and then turned back to see if the Beautiful River Phoenix Boy was laughing too. I wanted to see that fantastic smile again.
But he wasn’t laughing. In fact, he wasn’t even there. He’d gone.
I froze with my frozen twizzlers still in my arms. My head was filled with one horrible thought. What if I never ever saw him again? For a moment, I actually thought I might cry.
And then I saw it. And I realized that an amazing little miracle had happened after all.
The Beautiful Mystery Boy had left his phone on the table.
I looked at it. And then I picked it up. It was still slightly sweaty from being in his hands. For a second I just stood there, holding on to the sweaty phone, and then I rushed over to the front door, opened it and stepped out on to the pavement.
The world instantly changed.
Cars and buses were spluttering along the high road in both directions and people were milling around everywhere. They were walking and chatting and strutting and shouting and sometimes – in the way that drives my dad completely mental – they were hanging about by shop windows and just leaning.
I looked up the street.
Aside from all the normal types who are too yawningly normal to describe, I could see three boys doing bunny-hops on their bikes and I could see an old lady with a shopping trolley who was weaving it around just like she thought she was Jenson Button.
I looked down the street.
Aside from a load more normals, I could see someone fast asleep on a public bench, and I could see a kid in a hoodie doing some mean keepie-uppies with an empty cola can, but I couldn’t see the boy who looked like River Phoenix anywhere. It was as if he’d just walked out of the cafe and vanished.
A voice behind me said, ‘Everything all right, sunshine?’
I jumped. Just as if I’d been caught doing something dodgy. I don’t know why though because I hadn’t been doing anything remotely dodgy at all. I’d just been looking.
It was my dad. He was back from upstairs and he had Jolene with him.
‘Lost something?’
‘Just getting some fresh air,’ I said. The Chunky Bus choked to a halt about thirty centimetres away from my face and made me cough. I stepped back inside and quickly closed our door.
My dad winked at me. ‘Look who I found upstairs – Lady Googoo singing into a pair of pink hair straighteners.’ He jerked his thumb at Jolene. She was looking even more fed up than before. Quickly, I slipped the mystery boy’s phone into my apron pocket.
Jolene narrowed her eyes and glared at my dad. ‘Everything about that sentence is wrong! FYI, they were curling tongs – not straighteners. And it wasn’t Lady Gaga I was listening to – it was Beyoncé! They’re hardly similar, Dad. Actually, they’re not even close to similar. Beyoncé’s sound is a soulful fusion of R&B, pop, funk and hip hop whereas Lady Gaga blatantly marries electro-pop with glam-rock and heavy metal. Everybody knows that!’
My dad winked at her. (He’s quite big on winking. He’s not a creepy winker though.) ‘That’s fascinating, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘I’ll try to remember for next time. Now, be a good girl and give the kitchen floor a quick once-over with a mop. And, Jody, get a wriggle on and get yourself out of here – you’re done, sunshine.’
I didn’t need telling twice. ‘Thanks, Dad,’ I said, and hurried over to the STAFF ONLY door.
My dad said, ‘Whoaa there! Ain’t you gonna take that apron off?’
I paused, one hand on the door handle and the other hovering nervously over the pocket of my hideous bright orange apron. After a second of panic, I said, ‘Do I have to? I like wearing it.’ And then I went very red.
My dad looked gobsmacked. But then he relaxed and said, ‘Lady Googoo wearing a lot of orange this season, is she?’
‘Yeah,’ I said quickly.
‘Like crap she is!’ said Jolene. ‘This season, she’s mostly wearing spandex leopard print in black and silver!’
Luckily my dad ignored her. ‘Well, just you make sure you stick it in the wash before your next shift. I’ve got a five-star hygiene rating and I intend to keep it that way. Now jog off before I change my mind and find you something else to do.’
I did as I was told and rushed up the stairs. When I reached the locked front door of our flat, I let myself in and then ran up the next flight of stairs until I was at the very top of the building. I went straight to my bedroom, closed the door behind me and flopped down on my bed.
I lay there, breathing hard, and looked at my walls. There’s a lot to look at because every square centimetre is plastered with posters – except for one rectangle above my headboard which is occupied by my prime numbers chart. And even though I’ve got the coolest collection of River Phoenix and Jim Morrison posters in the whole of Willesden Green, Jolene still reckons that my one single maths chart cancels out everything else and makes my entire bedroom look like a nerd hole. But that’s just her opinion. I like it because I think prime numbers are actually fairly fascinating. And, quite frankly, I don’t take much notice of what she thinks because she’s got a picture of Justin Bieber on her wall.
I studied River’s face. To begin with, it was a very calming thing to do. His green eyes were deep and intense and his cheekbones were so sharp that they looked as if they’d been carefully calculated with a protractor. In fact, I’d say that River Phoenix was so good-looking that it’s impossible not to fall in love with him a little bit. Even though he’s just a poster on my wall. Even though he’s dead. Even though . . .
I’d stopped feeling calm and started feeling a bit agitated so I shifted my focus to my prime numbers chart and studied that for a while and then, when I’d lost interest in that, I stood up and walked over to the window. I pressed my face to the glass. It smelt fusty and damp. Further down the street, the white arch of Wembley was shooting through the sky, and thin shafts of February afternoon sunshine were bouncing against it. It actually looked like it was glowing. That’s why I really love that arch. It’s different every single time you see it. And it always makes me feel happy. Even if I’m in a really bog-awful mood. I don’t know why it has this effect on me. But, as long as I can see that great big steel rainbow, I know that nothing is anywhere near as bog-awful as it seems.
I took the phone out of my apron pocket and had a proper look at it. It was a nice one. With a touch-screen and a shiny silver shell. And, even though the screen had a crack in it and the whole thing was held together with a piece of sticky tape, it was still way cooler than the matching pay-as-you-go supermarket Shame Boxes that me and Jolene have to put up with.
The boy’s phone felt weird in my hand. Or maybe it was just my hand that was feeling weird. It had gone all clammy.
I put the phone down on the window sill. And then I just stood there, leaning against the window and drumming my fingers on the wooden sill. And then I picked the phone up again.
It still felt weird. But it felt sort of nice too. Sort of dangerously and temptingly nice. I quickly put it down.
I pressed my face back to the window. The Wembley arch was still there. Everything was OK. I took a deep breath, snatched the phone up again and switched it on. The screen glowed and buzzed into life. After a couple of seconds, the blank surface was replaced with a set of tiny icons. Carefully, to avoid doing any more damage to the cracked screen, I touched the icon for the main menu. Then I touched the one for the phone log. A load of names and numbers appeared on the screen. I quickly switched it off.
This felt bad. Really bad. Like looking through somebody’s sock drawer or something.
But, then again, you have to ask yourself this question:
Is it wrong to look through somebody’s sock drawer if you’re trying to find a way to return their phone to them?
I switched the phone back on. Hardly daring to breathe, I quickly scanned the list of contacts. There were names like Waggy and Rory and Spoony and Kyle. The last number dialled had been to someone called Titch. He didn’t sound too scary. Before I could change my mind, I pressed redial and waited.
Somewhere, a phone began to ring.
I waited. Only for a second or two. And then somebody who sounded exactly like a gangster said, ‘Hey, Liam, what’s up?’
Quick as a flash, I pressed end call. And then I sat back down on my bed and smiled.
Liam.
Liam. Liam. Liam. Liam.
The phone began to flash and vibrate in my hand. I dropped it on my duvet as if I’d been burned. Titch’s name was flashing on the screen. He obviously wanted to chat.
‘No way,’ I muttered. I know it’s shallow to make judgements based on first impressions, but sometimes you just can’t help it. And Titch had sounded dead shifty to me.
I waited. After another second, the phone went silent and the screen went dull. Titch blatantly wasn’t the sort of person who liked to hang about. I picked the phone up again and navigated my way back to the list of contacts. There was one called Mum. This seemed like safer territory. I selected the option for dial number and waited.
After a few rings, a woman answered and said, ‘Hi, Liam.’
‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘I’m not Liam. But I need to get hold of him. I’ve got his phone, you see. He left it at my dad’s cafe.’
I heard Liam’s mum make an exasperated noise that sounded something like ‘Puh!’. And then she said, ‘Sounds about right. He’s so forgetful he’d leave his brain behind if it wasn’t trapped inside his head.’
She was Irish. I could tell it from her accent. So Liam was Irish then. Or half Irish. An image of the actor Colin Farrell flashed through my head. Because he’s Irish as well.
And then I got thinking about another Irish actor – Jonathan Rhys Meyers . . .
. . . And then my head started to boggle a bit.
There was another blast of exasperated breath down the phone. And then she said, ‘Well, thanks. He should be home any moment. Soon as he gets in, I’ll pass the message on and tell him to drop by. What did you say the cafe was called?’
‘Chunky’s Diner,’ I said. ‘But . . . but . . .’ I stopped for a moment. My hands were so sweaty they felt like they were melting.
‘Yes?’ said Liam’s mum.
‘Er . . . well . . .’ I was starting to feel shiftier than Titch. ‘Could you get him to ring me on his phone before he drops by? So I know when he’s coming. Because a lot of the time we’re shut.’
I’m a rubbish liar – I know I am. And I also know that my dad would be totally outraged if he ever learned of this particular lie. Because our cafe is hardly ever shut. In fact, the only days we don’t open are Christmas Day and Boxing Day. But luckily for me my dad was two floors below and well out of earshot.
Liam’s mum sounded a bit doubtful. ‘OK, love, I’ll get him to call you. But listen to me, kiddo, if I find out that you’ve been using that phone to chat to all your friends, it won’t be my Liam you have to answer to – it’ll be me. Have you got that?’
‘Yes,’ I said. Because I had. And then I said, ‘I won’t.’ And I meant it.
We both said bye and then I just sat in silence staring at the phone. I don’t know how long I sat like that, but it was long enough to give me boringitis and backache. I stood up, stretched, leaned over to my mega-bass super-woofer and switched it on. Flicking through my MP3 files, I selected The Doors and then ‘Light My Fire’ and turned the volume right up. Instantly, the cheerfully weird sound of Ray Manzarek’s electronic organ filled my room. Ray was the keyboard player in The Doors. He wasn’t anywhere near as good-looking or as cool as Jim Morrison, but he had fingers that could skip across a keyboard like a spring lamb on a grassy hillside. Probably he still does because as far as I’m aware he’s actually managed to stay alive.
Listening to The Doors made me feel better. I rolled over on to my side, curled up into a ball and closed my eyes. Jim Morrison started to sing. I curled up tighter and listened.
His voice was soft and deep and hypnotic and beautiful.
And, even though I really didn’t want to go there, I suddenly found myself transported back downstairs. And I was standing at the counter and looking over at the boy in the corner. And I was moving a few steps sideways so that I could see him better, and when I did it felt just as if I’d been struck by lightning. All. Over. Again.
My eyes snapped open.
What if Liam phoned me while this music was on and I didn’t hear him?
I got up and turned the volume down on my mega-bass super-woofer. And then, just to be on the safe side, I turned it off altogether.
But a quick glance at the phone told me that Liam hadn’t rung. It was still lying silent and lifeless on top of my bed. No messages were scrolling across the screen to tell me I’d missed any calls. Not even Titch had rung. I picked the phone up and carried it over to my desk. Then I sat down and drummed my fingers against my desktop for a bit. When I got fed up with doing that, I stopped, took my maths project out of the desk drawer and opened it. I stared at it for a while. And then I sighed, closed it and shoved it back in the drawer.
I put my head down on my desk.
And finally, at long last, the phone burst into noisy life and a blast of a ringtone filled my room. I recognized it at once. It was an old R&B song called ‘Return of the Mack’. This was a big hit around about the time that Jolene and I were born and the only reason I know it is because my dad sings it sometimes when he’s been out to the pub and comes swaggering back home. Except that he sings ‘Return of the Mike’, because even though everybody calls him Chunky my dad’s real name is actually Michael.
Personally, I wouldn’t ever have guessed that ‘Return of the Mack’ was Liam’s cup of tea. To be honest though, nothing much was surprising me any more.
I snatched the phone up. The word Mum was flashing on the screen. My heart sank. I wasn’t in the mood for another conversation with her. Reluctantly, I pressed accept and said, ‘Hello?’
A boy’s voice said, ‘So you’ve got my phone then?’
My heart shot upward into my mouth. And then it did a backflip, a side-spin and a quick moonwalk before swallow-diving downward and settling in my throat like a great big awkward lump.
I gulped. And then I said, ‘Yeah.’ Except that it didn’t actually sound like ‘yeah’. It actually sounded like a yelp. As if someone wearing bovver-boots had stomped on my overly-long little toe while I was wearing flip-flops. I slapped my palm across my forehead and let out a silent inner scream.
Liam said, ‘So will you be open after school tomorrow then?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. I managed to say it properly this time.
Liam said, ‘You don’t say much, do you?’
‘No,’ I said. Because he was dead right. For some reason, I was suddenly less chatty than Chatty Chong on a sponsored silence. Which was weird. Because actually there was loads of stuff I wanted to say to him. Questions mostly. Questions like . . .
Do you like Jim Morrison? What were you listening to on those massive silver headphones? What’s your last name? Where do you live? Which school do you go to? Why have I never seen you before? Are you aware that you look just like River Phoenix? Where did you learn to look so flipping hipping cool? When can I see you again?
But I couldn’t ask him any of those questions because my jaw had gone stiff.
