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- Herausgeber: David Fickling Books
- Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
- Sprache: Englisch
There are three sides to every story . . .It's GCSE results day. Frankie's best friend, Jojo, is missing. A baby has been stolen. And more than one person has been lying.Frankie's determined to find out the truth and her ex-boyfriend Ram is the only person who can help her.But they're both in for a shock . . .EVERYTHING is about to change.
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Seitenzahl: 423
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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Praise for The Art of Being Normal
Winner of the Waterstones Children’s Book PrizeSunday Times Children’s Book of the Week Shortlisted for the YA Book Prize
‘A life-changing and life-saving book’ Philip Pullman
‘A sensational, heart-warming and life-affirming debut’ Juno Dawson
‘The sort of book I hope will change lives. Amazing’ Non Pratt
‘Please, please, please read The Art of Being Normal! I want to scream from the rooftops about it!’ Lucy Powrie
‘Impressive and affecting’ Guardian
‘Passionate and gripping … a powerful tale of a teenager’s struggle with identity’ Telegraph
‘Heart-warming, and ground-breaking’ Independent
‘Life-affirming’ Marie Claire
‘A compelling story with a ton of heart’ BuzzFeed
‘Incredible and heartbreaking’ Express
‘Life-affirming, powerful and heart-warming’ BookTrust
‘A revelation’ Books for Keeps
‘Wow’ Fiona Noble, The Booksellerii
Praise for Paper Avalanche
One of The Times’ Biggest Children’s Books of 2019
‘Pacy, instantly absorbing’ Guardian
‘Relatable characters and well-crafted dialogue make this a thoroughly engaging read’ Financial Times
‘Poignant, thought-provoking and intensely readable, this is UK YA writing at its best’ The Bookseller
Praise for All About Mia
‘Absorbing, hilarious … witty and touching’ Guardian
‘This zingy rites of passage novel is filled with warmth and insight’ Financial Times
‘Mia is a chaotic, charming character and one of the most irresistible teenage voices I’ve read in a long time’ Fiona Noble, The Bookseller
‘A tumultuous but poignant tale about family, friendship and being a sister’ Sun
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For Mum, Dad and Helen
Contents
Prologue
OPERATOR: Emergency. Which service? Fire, police or ambulance?
CALLER: (breathless) Police!
OPERATOR: Connecting you now.
POLICE CALL HANDLER: You’re through to the police. What is the address or location of your emergency?
CALLER: (hysterical) Someone’s taken her! Someone’s taken my baby!
POLICE CALL HANDLER: Can you repeat that please?
CALLER: My baby! She’s gone! Please, you need to help me!
Caller breaks down in tears.
POLICE CALL HANDLER: OK, I need you to listen to me. Can you tell me your exact location?
CALLER: (inaudible – voice muffled)x
POLICE CALL HANDLER: I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. Can you say that again, please?
CALLER: I’m in Newfield. Newfield, Nottingham. The BP garage on Larwood Avenue. Please, you need to do something. They’ve got my baby.
POLICE CALL HANDLER: A unit is on their way. Can I get some more details from you? What’s your name?
CALLER: It’s Caroline, Caroline Sinclair.
POLICE CALL HANDLER: OK, Caroline. When did you realize your baby was missing?
CALLER: Just now. I came back to the car and she was gone. I was only inside for a few minutes. Oh God …
Caller starts crying again.
POLICE CALL HANDLER: How old is the baby?
CALLER: (inaudible)
POLICE CALL HANDLER: Caroline, how old is the baby?
CALLER: She’s twelve weeks.
POLICE CALL HANDLER: And what’s her name?
CALLER: It’s Olivia.
Caller becomes hysterical again.
POLICE CALL HANDLER: Try not to panic, Caroline. A unit will be with you very soon.
CALLER: Tell them to hurry, please! I just want my baby back. I just want my baby.
PART ONE
FRANKIE2
Chapter 1
‘Jojo, it’s me. Where the flip are you? I’ve got to be at the salon by midday, remember? If you’re not here by eleven, I’m going without you, OK?’
I hang up and place my phone face down on the table.
‘Still here?’ my eighteen-year-old brother Luca asks, making me jump.
‘It’s not polite to sneak up on people,’ I tell him as he lumbers into the kitchen, wearing nothing but a pair of grimy-looking boxer shorts.
‘As if I’d waste my time,’ he retorts, opening the fridge, then letting out a lingering belch as he peruses the contents.
‘You could at least put a T-shirt on,’ I say, scrunching up my nose in disgust.
‘Are you joking? It’s thirty-three degrees already,’ he replies, shutting the fridge and opening the freezer below. He sticks his hand into the almost-empty bag of ice cubes and pulls out a fistful, stuffing them into his mouth. 4
‘I hope you washed your hands.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not,’ he says, grinning as he crunches down on the ice.
‘You’re disgusting.’
‘Why, thank you,’ he says, performing a little bow.
I drag one of Mum’s rubbish magazines across the table towards me and pretend to concentrate on an article about a woman who’s convinced her goldfish is actually her dead husband, while Luca bangs about making toast.
Mum and Dad purposefully had Luca and me close together (there’s just eighteen months between us), in the hope we’d get on. Their plan backfired spectacularly. In fact, Mum reckons if bickering were an Olympic sport, the two of us would have a clutch of gold medals by now.
I didn’t think it was possible, but just lately Luca’s been even more of a pain than usual. He picked up his A level results last week, and despite barely revising got more than enough points to secure his place at Bristol. He’s been lording it about ever since, making out he’s God’s gift to academia.
‘You know what your problem is, Frankie?’ he says, leaning against the sink while he waits for his toast to pop up.
‘Enlighten me,’ I say, rolling my eyes.
‘You’ve got no tolerance.’
‘Now that’s where you’re wrong. I’ve got no tolerance for you, Luca Ricci.’
‘Nah, you’re the same with everyone. No wonder Jojo’s ditched you.’
‘Erm, excuse me?’
‘I heard you leaving that arsey voicemail just now.’
I close the magazine. ‘So you were eavesdropping on me?’ 5
‘Don’t flatter yourself, Frankie, you’re not that interesting. I had no choice. You’ve got a voice like a foghorn.’
‘It’s called projection,’ I snap. ‘And for your information, I wasn’t being arsey, Luca, I was being direct. Jojo’s nearly an hour late.’
I gesture at the oven clock. 10:59.
‘Maybe she went to school without you,’ Luca suggests, slathering butter on his toast.
‘And why would she do that? We had an arrangement.’
Jojo was due to call for me at 10 a.m. From here, we were going to walk to school together, pick up our GCSE results, then celebrate/commiserate* (*delete as appropriate) over a McDonald’s breakfast before my shift at the hair salon, reconvening in the early evening for a party at our classmate Theo’s house.
‘We had an arrangement,’ Luca repeats in a high-pitched voice.
I chuck the magazine at him. He dodges out of the way just in time, leaving it to land in the sink.
‘When are you going to uni again?’ I ask, standing up.
‘You’ll miss me when I’m gone.’
‘Yeah, right,’ I mutter, hoisting the slightly soggy magazine out of the washing-up bowl.
I deposit it on the table and glance back at the oven. 11:00.
‘Looks like you’re on your own,’ Luca says, wiping his buttery fingers on his boxer shorts.
‘Oh, piss off,’ I reply, picking up my phone and marching out of the kitchen.
‘Good luck!’ he yells after me. ‘Something tells me you’re gonna need it!’ 6
*
Swearing under my breath, I slam the front door behind me and set out across the green that separates our row of houses from the main road. Not that it’s especially green right now. We’re in the midst of a massive heatwave, and every patch of publicly owned grass in Newfield, the town where I live, has been bleached a dirty shade of yellow.
I thought it was amazing at first. After a damp, miserable start to the summer, I rejoiced at the rocketing temperatures and record hours of sunshine. Fast-forward seventeen days and I’m well and truly over it. I’m over waking up every morning covered in a sticky layer of sweat. I’m over the constant noisy whir of the fan next to my bed. I’m over wearing the same shorts and vest-top combinations. But most of all, I’m over feeling knackered all the time. I’ve only been walking for a few minutes and already my breathing is heavy and laboured, sweat trickling down the back of my neck. I stop walking and remove a bobble from around my wrist, sweeping my already damp long dark-brown hair into a messy topknot.
Today must be one of the hottest days so far. The air is thick and syrupy and the tarmac so hot it shines like liquid. I squint up at the sky, an ominous shade of dull blue dotted with sickly yellow clouds, and wonder if today might be the day when it finally breaks and we get the thunderstorm the weather forecasters keep promising is just around the corner.
I cross the road, and then take a left down Temple Street, before turning onto Larwood Avenue.
Only it’s blocked off by a length of police cordon tape.
I frown. If I don’t go down Larwood, I’ll have to go the long way round, and I’m cutting it fine as it is. 7
I glance behind me to check no one is looking before diving under the cordon.
I’ve walked maybe two house lengths when I hear footsteps behind me.
‘Oi! Where do you think you’re going?’ a voice calls.
Reluctantly, I turn round.
A police officer is striding towards me wearing a deep frown. ‘And what do you think you’re playing at?’ he asks.
‘I’m going to school,’ I reply with a shrug.
‘In August?’
‘It’s GCSE results day.’
‘I don’t care what day it is. Did you not see the cordon?’
‘The cordon?’
‘Yes, the cordon.’
He points. I turn around and pretend to notice the cordon tape for the first time.
‘Oh my God, I totally didn’t see it there,’ I say, shaking my head in wonderment.
The police officer folds his arms across his chest and sighs. ‘Funny that, considering I watched you duck right under it less than thirty seconds ago.’
‘Did you really?’ I say, blinking in confusion. ‘Wow, I literally have no recollection of doing that.’ I laugh a tinkling laugh. ‘I must be more preoccupied with my results than I thought.’
I give him my very best smile. (For the record, I have a great smile. ‘Dangerous’, according to my ex-boyfriend Ram. Like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, according to Maxine, my boss at the salon.) The police officer just glares back, somehow immune to its usual powers.8
‘Can I go now?’ I ask. ‘It’s just that I’m kind of running late.’
He sighs. ‘Go on, then.’
I smile – maybe he’s not so bad after all – and thank him, before continuing up the street.
‘Er, what do you think you’re doing?’ he calls after me.
I turn back to face him. ‘You said I could go.’
‘Yes. Back the way you’ve come. This street is a crime scene.’
‘A crime scene?’ I ask, screwing up my face.
‘Yes.’
I peer up Larwood Avenue. Apart from the cordon tape, a few police cars and some official-looking people milling about, nothing appears to be out of the ordinary. No blood splatters or chalk outlines or forensics tents.
‘What sort of crime scene?’ I ask.
‘None of your business.’
‘But if I don’t cut down here, I have to go all the way around.’
‘Not my problem,’ the police officer says, walking me back towards the cordon.
Chapter 2
By the time I get to school, most people have been and gone and the foyer is empty apart from Mr Devi, the head of Year Eleven, and Mrs Schulman, the deputy head.
They’re sitting at a table in front of the entrance to the main hall. They look weird in their off-duty summer clothes. I can see Mrs Schulman’s lacy bra straps peeking from beneath the straps of her sundress, while Mr Devi is wearing a pair of truly hideous salmon-coloured shorts and some Velcro sandals so ugly I can barely bring myself to look at them.
‘Frankie,’ he says as I approach. ‘Great to see you. Having a good summer?’
‘Yes, thanks, sir,’ I reply automatically.
The truth is, although I’m not having a bad summer exactly, it’s far from the life-defining fun-fest I imagined it would be. It hasn’t helped that for three weeks of it, Jojo has been ill with a horribly contagious virus. I hadn’t realized just how many 10of my summer plans revolved around her until she suddenly wasn’t available.
There are two boxes on the table. One marked A–M, a second marked N–Z. While Mrs Schulman delves into the second box, I attempt to peer into the first. Only three envelopes remain, but the box is too deep for me to make out whether one of them is addressed to Jojo or not.
‘Here we are,’ Mrs Schulman says, handing me my envelope. ‘Ricci, Francesca.’
I thank her and take it outside, sitting down on the steps. The concrete is hot against the back of my thighs.
As I turn the envelope over in my hands, I can’t help but think back to the last time I opened something so official-looking.
It was back in April and I’d just got home from school. The letter was propped up against the fruit bowl on the kitchen table, the Arts Academy’s distinctive logo printed next to the postmark. My heart racing, I rang Jojo straightaway to check if she’d got her letter too, then we put our phones on speaker and opened them together on the count of three.
I can still remember the growing heat in my cheeks as I read the contents, my disappointment red-hot. And the cooling numbness that quickly replaced it when Jojo said the three little words that I’d been so sure were destined to be part of my script.
I got in.
I shove the memory away and slide my finger under the flap of the brown envelope, pulling out the computer printout tucked inside.
My eyes scan the list of grades. 11
A three in maths.
Fours, fives and sixes in everything else.
Except drama.
For drama, I got a nine.
The very top grade. Literally, the best you can get.
‘Typical,’ a familiar voice says. ‘The second I finally nip off for a loo break, you turn up.’
I look up. My drama teacher, Ms Abraham, is standing over me, wearing a denim pinafore dress over a white vest top and a pair of canary yellow flip-flops.
I like Ms Abraham a lot. She’s older than she looks (I know for a fact she’s at least forty), but she still manages to be cool and fun at the same time as being a really good teacher. Before she did her teacher training, she was a professional actor in London, although she claims she never quite hit the big time. She reckons the closest she got was understudying Naomie Harris at the National Theatre.
‘But that’s massive,’ I said when she told us one lesson. ‘Why didn’t you just keep going?’
She just shrugged. ‘Dreams change, Frankie.’
I looked around the draughty drama studio and pulled a face. ‘No offence, miss, but this is not my idea of a dream.’
That earned me a poke in the ribs from Jojo. Not that Ms Abraham seemed to mind what I’d said. She just smiled an enigmatic smile and told me I’d get it one day.
‘What are you doing here, miss?’ I ask as she sits down beside me, tucking her dress between her legs.
‘Just helping out,’ she says. ‘It was absolute bedlam earlier.’ She nods at the piece of paper on my lap. ‘Congratulations on that nine, by the way.’ 12
‘Oh, thanks,’ I say, shoving it back in the envelope, suddenly self-conscious.
‘You should be really proud,’ she adds. ‘You worked bloody hard for that.’
I don’t say anything.
‘I mean it, Frankie,’ she insists. ‘Do you know what percentage of students manage a nine in drama?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll tell you. It’s five. Five per cent.’
‘Is Jojo also one of them?’ The question leaves my lips before I can stop it.
Ms Abraham tilts her head to one side. ‘Does it make a difference if she is or isn’t?’ she asks.
I shrug. ‘No.’
Yes.
There’s a pause. Ms Abraham has painted her toenails coral. She must have done it at home herself because it’s a bit messy, specks of polish clinging to her cuticles.
‘Frankie,’ she says. ‘I know you may not want to hear this, but I’m really looking forward to having you in my A level class this coming term. Seriously, the Arts Academy’s loss is my gain.’
‘Thanks, miss,’ I say. ‘But you really don’t have to do this.’
She raises an eyebrow as if to say, ‘Don’t I?’
‘Honestly, miss, I’m not bothered. It was ages ago now. And yeah, I wanted to get in at the time, but I’ve had the summer to think about things, and the truth is, I’m not sure it’s the right place for me anyway.’
‘Really?’ she says, continuing to look doubtful.
The Arts Academy is a free specialist arts college, the only one of its kind in the whole of the Midlands. Entrance for 13the acting strand is ultra-competitive and by audition only. Ms Abraham was the one who told Jojo and me about it in the first place; the one who encouraged us to apply for a place in Year Twelve; the one who wrote our references, and helped us pick out audition pieces.
‘Really,’ I say. ‘I mean, I’m sure Jojo will get on just fine there, but, I dunno, it just struck me as a bit regimented, you know? A bit stuck up its own arse.’
‘Oh,’ Ms Abraham says, blinking. ‘Right. Well, I have to say, I’m a bit relieved.’
I frown. ‘Relieved? Why relieved?’
‘Well, to be honest, I’ve been a bit worried about you, Frankie.’
‘Me?’ I say, screwing up my face.
‘Yes. You.’
‘Why?’
‘I know how badly you wanted to get in. I hated the idea of you getting despondent based on this one disappointment. Especially when you’ve got so much talent.’
Have I, though? Surely if I was that talented we wouldn’t even be having this conversation right now. I’d be too busy preparing for my first term at the Arts Academy.
‘Yeah, well that was then and this is now, and I’m totally over it,’ I say.
Ms Abraham continues to look unsure.
I laugh. ‘Seriously, miss, there’s no need to look so worried. It’s ancient history, I swear.’
Finally her face melts into a smile. ‘Well, that’s great to hear, Frankie,’ she says, nudging my shoulder with hers. ‘Really bloody fantastic.’ 14
My phone buzzes in my bag.
‘’Scuse me, miss,’ I say, getting it out.
It’s a WhatsApp message from Mum.
My eyes drift to the time in the top right-hand corner of the screen. I’m supposed to be at the salon in less than ten minutes. Maxine’s usually pretty good if I’m ever a bit late, but I don’t want to take the piss when she’s already given me the morning off as paid leave.
‘I’d better get going,’ I say, clambering to my feet. ‘Work.’
Ms Abraham stands up to join me. ‘Is Jojo on her way, do you know?’ she asks.
‘Why? Has she not come in yet?’
‘No. Her envelope’s still here. I assumed you’d come together.’
‘Yeah, well, that was the plan …’
Ms Abraham’s expression turns serious once more. ‘Everything’s OK between the two of you now, isn’t it?’
‘Course,’ I say. ‘Fine. Something must have come up, that’s all. I’ll give her a ring on my way to work and see what’s up.’ I pull my backpack onto my shoulders. The canvas straps are damp with sweat from where they’ve been wedged under my armpits.
‘I’m really glad we got the chance to chat, Frankie,’ Ms Abraham says. ‘I’m so pleased you haven’t taken the Arts Academy thing to heart.’
‘Course I haven’t,’ I say. ‘I mean, at the end of the day, it’s just a school, right?’15
She nods and smiles, and I know I’ve said the right thing.
We say our goodbyes and I walk briskly towards the gates, my lie reverberating in my ears.
Because it’s not just a school.
It’s the school.
And Jojo is going and I’m not.
Chapter 3
My colleagues at the hair salon have clubbed together and bought me a box of Ferrero Rocher and an oversized card with ‘Congratulations’ splashed across the front. It’s really sweet of them, but I can’t help but feel a bit embarrassed considering my pretty ordinary results. I keep the details vague to save face but can’t help letting slip about my nine in drama, my voice glittering with automatic pride.
‘Now, what’s a nine again?’ Alison, the receptionist, asks. ‘It was just A, B, C, D, E or F back in my day.’
‘A nine is like an A-plus I guess, only better,’ I say.
They all make impressed noises.
‘Just make sure you remember us when you’re rich and famous,’ Maxine says with a grin.
‘Will do,’ I promise.
Maxine’s salon isn’t remotely cool. The black and white photos of hair models hanging in the window are at least thirty years old and it caters almost exclusively for old ladies, but as 17part-time jobs go, it could be a lot worse. The work (making cups of tea, washing hair, sweeping the floor) is easy enough, and I like the other staff a lot.
I offer around the chocolates before stowing them away in the staff-room fridge. When I return, I’m straight on tea duty, making a cup of Earl Grey (not too strong, splash of milk, two sugars) for Ida, one of our regulars.
‘Absolutely dreadful,’ she says as I place it down in front of her.
‘You haven’t tasted it yet, Ida,’ I joke.
She tuts. ‘I’m talking about the baby.’
‘What baby?’ I ask, balancing a Rich Tea biscuit on the edge of her saucer.
‘The missing baby,’ Maggie – one of the senior stylists – says, pulling a comb through Ida’s pure white hair. ‘You know.’
‘No. What missing baby?’
‘The baby that’s gone missing from Larwood Avenue.’
‘Larwood Avenue? I tried to walk down it about an hour ago. It’s all cordoned off.’
‘Well, you know the petrol station?’
I nod. It’s about halfway up the road, near the alleyway that comes out onto Heaton Way. They have a Krispy Kreme fridge. Jojo and I used to go there after school on a Friday and split an original glazed (Jojo’s choice) or a chocolate-iced custard-filled (mine). I don’t know exactly when or why we stopped doing it, only that it’s been months since we did.
‘Well,’ Maggie says. ‘Someone nicked a baby right out of the back of a car parked just outside.’
‘When?’ I ask.
‘This morning,’ Ida says. ‘In broad daylight too!’ 18
‘Didn’t the baby’s parents or whoever try and stop them?’
‘That’s the thing,’ Maggie says. ‘The baby’s mum was inside at the time, getting a coffee. She says she swears she locked the car door.’
‘Only she clearly couldn’t have,’ Ida chimes in. ‘Because by the time she got back’ – she clicks her fingers – ‘the baby was gone.’
‘Isn’t it all on CCTV?’
‘No,’ Maggie says. ‘There are cameras on the pumps, but she was parked in the little car park bit, you know, round the side.’
‘Are you talking about Olivia Sinclair?’ a woman sitting at the next chair, her hair in pink rollers, pipes up.
‘Who’s Olivia Sinclair?’ I ask.
‘Keep up, Frankie,’ Maggie says. ‘Olivia Sinclair is the name of the missing baby.’
‘Oh.’
I try to decide what would possess anyone to nick a baby. Going by my baby cousins, as far as I can work out all they do is dribble, cry, sleep and poo themselves. Not my idea of a good time.
‘Awful, isn’t it?’ the woman in curlers says.
‘Horrible,’ Ida agrees.
‘Just thinking about it makes me shudder. I mean, what kind of monster takes off with someone else’s baby?’
‘God knows. There’s only so long they can hide, though. The whole country is going to be looking for them. And when they find them’ – Ida pauses for dramatic effect – ‘there’ll be hell to pay.’
‘Frankie,’ Maxine calls from across the salon. ‘Can you gown up Mrs Penrose for me?’ 19
I leave the women to gossip and grab a gown from the pegs on the wall.
By the time Maxine tells me to take my break almost two and a half hours later, I’ve had it up to here with Olivia Sinclair. It’s all any of the punters want to talk about. Not that I don’t think it’s a big deal that a baby’s been kidnapped practically on our doorstep – I just don’t see the point of going on and on about it, especially when there are so few facts to actually discuss.
I step outside and let out a sigh of relief. With its non-existent air con, the salon is pretty toasty at the best of times, but it’s been almost unbearable the past couple of weeks.
I go to the newsagents next door and buy a white chocolate Magnum with the £1.50 tip Mrs Penrose left for me, and then head up the street in search of some shade from the throbbing sun. I find it in the form of the awning outside the greasy spoon on the corner. I sit down at one of the plastic tables set out on the pavement and take out my phone.
I have five new WhatsApp messages – another one from Mum badgering me about my results, two from my friend Ella about what I’m wearing to Theo’s party tonight, one from my other friend Bex asking what booze I’m taking, and one from a boy in our year called Rory asking what time I’m planning on getting there. Quickly I tap out replies to everyone but Rory. He’s a nice-enough boy, but I’m not really interested in him like that and I’m worried a swift response will only give him the wrong idea. Tonight is about having fun with my mates, Jojo especially. The last thing I want is a boy getting in the way of precious re-bonding time, especially one I’m not even really that into. 20
I scroll down to my most recent set of messages to Jojo. It’s not just that they haven’t been read: they haven’t even been delivered, a sad grey tick next to each of them. Which means she’s either run out of battery or switched her phone off, both of which strike me as highly unusual. Unlike me, Jojo never leaves the house without a fully charged phone and she always keeps a portable charger on her. I should know; I borrow it enough. As for turning her phone off, I just can’t think why she would, unless it was by accident, and if that was the case, surely she’d have realized by now and turned it back on.
I think back to the last time I saw her face to face. It was less than twenty-four hours ago. She came over to mine yesterday afternoon and we lolled in the garden for a couple of hours, taking it in turns to choose what music to pump through my mini speakers. She looked even paler than usual, but I put that down to her still being ill. She claimed she was feeling much better but refused every offer of crisps or biscuits; she even turned down an ice lolly. She was quiet too. But then Jojo has always been prone to disappearing into her own little world every now and again so I didn’t take it to heart.
‘Are you OK?’ I asked as she sat beside me, her freckled arms slick and shiny from where she’d applied sunscreen, her loose cotton T-shirt dress pulled down over her knees.
‘I’m fine,’ she said.
‘You sure?’
She forced her lips into a smile. ‘Course.’
She paused, plucking a daisy from the grass and slicing a hole through its stem with her thumbnail.
‘Why’d you ask?’ she added. 21
‘Oh, no real reason. You just seem a bit preoccupied, that’s all.’
‘I’m probably just a bit anxious about results.’
I couldn’t help but frown. What did Jojo have to be anxious about? She already has her place at the Arts Academy. Her grades make no difference. Even if she bombed. Which she wouldn’t. Jojo has always been naturally academic, quietly sailing through her mocks with apparent ease.
I didn’t say any of this, though. I knew I’d only look petty if I did.
If it was the other way round, you’d want Jojo to be happy for you, Mum keeps reminding me.
And she’s right. Of course she is. But it’s still hard.
‘You’ll be fine,’ I said instead, scrolling through my phone for my next song choice.
‘I know,’ Jojo said. ‘I’m just being stupid.’ She wriggled her toes in the sun. ‘You know what I’m like,’ she added with a little laugh.
I did. Jojo is a worrier. She always has been, although she hides it well, burying her worries so deep the untrained eye would never ever guess anything was wrong. She can’t fool me, though. I’ve known her for too long. If she were in front of me right now, I’d get to the root of what was going on in minutes, I’m certain.
I try to remember what else we talked about. Our song choices, Luca being a pain, Theo’s party, how sick of the weather we were. Nothing important or particularly deep, just general chit-chat. I tried to get her to stay so we could watch The Great British Bake Off together, but she said she had to get back home for dinner.22
‘Next week, then?’ I said.
‘OK,’ she replied.
Before she left, we made clear plans for today, plans we then confirmed later via WhatsApp. I scroll back to our most recent exchange. It was shortly before midnight, her last words:
Which only leaves one question: where the hell is she?
Chapter 4
On paper, Jojo and I probably make a pretty unlikely pair of best friends. We’re opposites in practically every single way.
I’m tall; Jojo is petite.
I’m brunette and go brown the second I step in the sun; Jojo is a proper English rose who wears factor 50 practically all year round, even in deepest darkest winter.
I never stop talking; Jojo always thinks before she speaks.
I’m hopelessly messy; Jojo is forensically neat.
I’m impulsive; Jojo is calm and watchful.
I’m a night owl; Jojo is an early bird.
We once sat down and did one of those online personality tests. Our scores were polar opposites in every single category. Not that we were surprised. We’ve been best friends long enough to realize it’s our differences that make us such a good team.
The bottom line is: I’m the one who forgets to charge her phone, not Jojo. Overnight, everything’s gone topsy-turvy and I don’t like it one bit. 24
As I walk up Jojo’s driveway, the late afternoon sun beating down on my back, I realize that thanks to her mystery illness I haven’t been to her house in well over a month now, at least not inside.
If there’s ever a choice between which of our houses to hang out at, we almost always pick Jojo’s, mainly because she’s an only child so there are no obnoxious older brothers to contend with. Also, her mum and stepmum are really relaxed and cool and kind of just leave us to it, unlike my mum and dad who are distinctly uncool and can’t resist showing off, even in front of Jojo who has known them since she was four and isn’t the least bit impressed by their antics (although she’s far too polite to admit it).
When Jojo first messaged me to let me know she was ill, I dropped off some sweets (Maoam Stripes, her favourite) and a stack of magazines from the salon, but Helen, her mum, wouldn’t let me any further than the front door.
‘Is it really that contagious?’ I asked, peering up the stairs.
‘Afraid so,’ Helen replied, her hand resting on the door-frame. ‘Maybe next week, eh?’
Standing in the exact same spot, I realize it never dawned on me to ask exactly what was wrong with Jojo.
I ring the doorbell.
No answer.
I try again, pressing for longer this time, just in case.
Still no answer.
I kneel down and poke my fingers through the letter box, wedging it open.
‘Hello?’ I call.
Nothing. 25
The house is silent in that thick heavy way that only empty houses ever are.
I straighten up and let the letter box fall shut, then cut across the grass to the side gate. I open it and follow the paved path round to the back of the house, where Jojo’s bedroom is. I walk into the centre of the lawn and look up. Jojo’s curtains are open and I can see the silhouette of her moneybox, a big fat ceramic pink pig she’s had as long as I can remember, on the window sill. For a second I consider finding a pebble and lobbing it at against the glass, before quickly rejecting the idea.
I’m being stupid.
She’s clearly not in.
No one is.
I sigh and walk back round to the front of the house.
I ring the bell one more time for luck before admitting defeat and trudging home.
‘Frankie! Is that you?’ Mum calls from the living room as I slam the front door shut behind me.
‘Yes!’ I yell back, kicking off my flip-flops at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Can you come in here, please?’
I grin. I expect she’s bought a cake or something to celebrate my exam results and this is the grand unveiling. My parents may not be very cool but they can be extremely cute when they want to be.
‘Hang on, I’m just getting a drink,’ I say.
That’ll give her time to light the candles or sparklers or whatever.
I get myself a glass of water from the kitchen before heading into the living room. 26
But there are no sparklers. No cake. Just Mum, hovering by the mantelpiece, still wearing her uniform from the care home she works in – a generic polyester tabard – over her chinos and T-shirt, with Helen and her wife, Stacey, perched on the sofa, two untouched cups of tea sitting on the coffee table in front of them.
‘Hi, Frankie,’ Helen says with a tight smile.
‘Hi. Is, er, everything OK?’ I ask.
Helen and Stacey exchange a look too quick for me to interpret.
‘We’re sure it’s fine …’ Helen begins.
‘It’s just that we can’t get hold of Jojo,’ Stacey says, taking over. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen or heard from her today, Frankie?’
‘No, sorry,’ I say, my heart beating that little bit faster. ‘I’ve sent her a ton of messages but she hasn’t replied to any of them. Why? You don’t think anything’s wrong, do you?’
‘No, no, nothing like that,’ Helen says quickly. ‘It’s just not like her not to be in touch. And, well, we were just passing by so we thought we may as well pop in and check if she’d been in contact with you today.’
I shake my head.
‘When did you last see her?’ I ask.
‘This morning.’
‘What time? She was supposed to be calling for me at ten.’
‘Before that,’ Stacey says. ‘I had to nip over to my mum’s just after breakfast, about eight thirty, and by the time I got back, perhaps an hour later, she was gone.’
‘I was already at work,’ Helen adds.
‘Maybe she left early to get her results,’ Mum suggests. 27
‘She didn’t,’ I say. ‘Her envelope was still there when I got mine and that was about half eleven.’
‘Yes, we called to check,’ Helen says. ‘No one at the school has seen her.’
‘Did she take anything with her?’ Mum asks.
Another indecipherable look passes between Helen and Stacey.
‘Her purse and phone are gone,’ Helen says. ‘And a few other bits.’
‘Well, there you go then,’ Mum says encouragingly. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. After all, this is Jojo we’re talking about. Sensible is her middle name.’
Mum’s right. If Jojo were part of the Mr Men and Little Miss universe, she’d be Little Miss Sensible for sure. She’s the girl who never drinks, who always remembers her homework, who texts to let you know she’s home safely; the girl who makes sure to get her five portions of fruit and veg and two litres of water, and eight hours of sleep; the girl who always knows the exact amount in her bank account and doesn’t squander her pocket money on nail polish and Heat magazine and tops she’ll only ever wear once from Pretty Little Thing. She is steady, practical, reliable. She is everything I’m not.
‘She probably just forgot to charge her phone,’ Mum adds, filling the uneasy silence.
‘Maybe,’ Helen says.
She doesn’t sound convinced, though, and I don’t blame her.
As if on cue, a phone on the coffee table buzzes with an incoming message, making all four of us flinch. Helen lunges for it.
‘Is it her?’ Stacey asks, looking over Helen’s shoulder.
There’s a beat where we all seem to hold our breath. 28
‘No,’ Helen replies, her voice flat, her shoulders slumping with disappointment. ‘It’s my bank. One of those stupid automated messages.’
‘She’ll turn up soon,’ Mum says. ‘She’s got a party to get ready for, and if she’s anything like Frankie she wouldn’t miss a party for the world.’
She’s talking about the gathering at Theo’s later. A bunch of us (including Jojo) are supposed to be meeting at Ella’s house at seven for pre-party drinks and snacks.
‘Yeah, you’re probably right,’ Helen says.
Again, she doesn’t sound convinced.
There’s a pause.
Helen glances over at Stacey. ‘We should get going.’
Stacey nods and they stand up, sliding their phones back into the pockets of their denim shorts.
‘Sorry we didn’t touch the tea,’ Helen says.
‘Oh, don’t be daft,’ Mum replies. ‘It’s too hot for tea anyway. Don’t know what I was thinking.’
‘You will let us know, won’t you, Frankie?’ Stacey says. ‘If you hear anything.’
‘Course,’ I reply.
Mum and I walk them to the door together, waving them off as they head back down the path, their hands entwined.
‘Well,’ Mum says, the moment the front door falls shut behind them. ‘You can tell Jojo doesn’t do this sort of thing very often. If I went round to theirs every time I couldn’t track you down straightaway …’ She chuckles.
I stick my tongue out at her.
Mum has made an interesting point, though. I’ve always assumed Helen and Stacey are just really relaxed, but perhaps 29it’s more the case that Jojo’s simply never done anything to give them any cause for concern before now.
‘Over the top or not,’ I say. ‘It is weird. For Jojo not to be in touch like this, I mean.’
‘Maybe,’ Mum says. ‘But like I said before, Jojo is a smart girl. She wouldn’t do anything daft.’
‘Yeah, I suppose so,’ I murmur.
Mum glances down at her watch. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be leaving soon?’
‘In about an hour.’
‘OK, well why don’t you hop in the shower and I’ll make you a quick bit of dinner.’
‘There’s going to be food at Ella’s.’
Mum rolls her eyes. ‘A few crisps does not constitute a meal, Francesca.’
‘OK, fine. Just don’t make me anything stinky, OK?’
‘Oh, ’ello. Who are you planning on kissing tonight, then?’
God, she’s embarrassing.
‘No one,’ I say. ‘I just prefer not to turn up at social occasions absolutely honking of garlic, thank you very much.’
‘I’ll see what I can do. Now, go.’
Before getting in the shower, I grab my phone and compose a message to Jojo.
I press ‘send’ and reach for my towel, hoping there’ll be a reply by the time I return.
Chapter 5
The cake I’d anticipated materializes after dinner, complete with much fanfare and Mum’s trademark sparklers.
‘My clever girl,’ Dad says, kissing me on top of my head as the sparklers fizzle out, his Italian accent just as thick now as it was when he moved here from Rimini twenty-three years ago.
Luca snorts.
‘Luca,’ Mum says sharply. ‘You had your time last week – it’s Frankie’s now.’
‘No offence, I’m just not sure a three in maths is anything to celebrate,’ Luca says.
Ugh. Trust him to focus on my lowest grade.
‘She can retake if she needs to,’ Dad says. ‘Can’t you, Frankie?’
I screw up my face. The very last thing I want to think about right now are retakes. Luckily, I’m saved from answering his question by Mum.
‘Look,’ she says. ‘They’re talking about the missing baby on the news. Quick, turn it up.’31
Luca is closest to the remote control. He picks it up and points it at the TV. I twist around in my seat so I can see the screen. People may have been banging on about this all day but I’m yet to see or read anything official about it.
‘Nearly nine hours after she disappeared, there have still been no confirmed sightings of missing infant, Olivia Sinclair,’ the reporter says in a grave voice.
A photo of a sleeping baby with chubby pink cheeks and wispy white-blonde hair flashes up on the screen. Mum lets out a gooey sigh.
‘Baby Olivia was snatched from the back seat of her mother’s car shortly after nine a.m. this morning. Her parents Caroline and James Sinclair have made an emotional appeal for her safe return.’
A clip is played from what looks like a hastily arranged press conference. A blonde woman holding a wad of tissues and a man with a beard sit behind a table with a jug of water and two microphones on it, cameras popping and flashing in their faces.
‘Please don’t hurt my baby,’ the woman says directly down the lens. ‘Please.’
‘Bet they did it,’ Luca declares.
‘Oh, don’t be so silly,’ Mum says, tutting. ‘Just look at them – they’re beside themselves.’
‘Either that or they’re very good actors.’
‘Oh, come on, Luca,’ I say. ‘Why would anyone kidnap their own baby? That literally makes no sense.’
‘Does anything?’ he replies airily. ‘All I’m saying is, I wouldn’t rule it out.’
I roll my eyes. Luca is always trying to say shocking things. I doubt he means them half the time.32
‘Who on earth would steal a baby?’ Mum ponders, ignoring Luca. ‘I mean, I just can’t imagine what would make a person do such a thing.’
‘If you two as bambinos are anything to go by,’ Dad says with a wink, nodding at Luca and me in turn, ‘they’d have to be off their rockers.’
‘Shush!’ Mum says, holding up her hand. ‘The police are about to say something.’
We return our attention to the TV where a police officer is preparing to read an official statement.
‘Time is of the essence and we are urging anyone with information, however insignificant it may seem, to come forward as a matter of urgency,’ she says.
A series of telephone numbers scroll along the bottom of the screen as the camera zooms in on poor Caroline Sinclair’s tear-stained face.
‘Tenner they did it,’ Luca says, sticking out his hand for me to shake.
‘You’re such a dick,’ I reply, slapping it away.
Having polished off a slice of cake, I return upstairs. I left my phone up there on purpose in the hope I’d return to a message from Jojo. Alas, the only messages are from Ella and Bex sorting out logistics for tonight.
I remove the towel from my head and start the agonizing process of drying my hair. I’m already running late but my barnet will be a mass of frizz if I leave it to dry naturally. I’m forced to blast it in ten-second bursts, hanging with my head upside down in the gaps so it doesn’t start sticking to my neck. It’s during one of these gaps that I notice my phone glowing 33on the bed, Jojo’s caller ID (a photo of her on her sixteenth birthday clutching the unicorn balloon I’d bought for her) flashing up on the screen.
Blood rushes from my head as I whip it back and make a dive for the phone.
‘Finally!’ I say. ‘Where the hell have you been all day? I must have messaged you like twenty times!’
There’s a beat before Jojo replies, almost like there’s a delay on the line.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I only just managed to charge my phone.’
‘What about your portable charger?’ I ask.
‘Oh. I, er, I’ve lost it.’
‘Your mum and Stacey have been around and everything.’
‘What did they say?’
‘Nothing much. Just that you’d gone AWOL on them. Why? Haven’t you spoken to them yet?’
‘I’m going to ring them in a bit, straight after I’ve talked to you.’
Even though I’m irritated with Jojo for acting so blasé right now, I can’t help but feel pleased she chose to ring me first.
‘I had to go to school all by myself, Jojo,’ I say. ‘I looked like a right Billy No-Mates.’
‘Sorry,’ Jojo murmurs. ‘Um, something came up.’
‘Something more important than going to collect our GCSE results together?’
She doesn’t answer.
I sigh, but don’t push the issue. I’ll get to the bottom of this later. Right at this moment, I have more pressing things on my mind. Like finishing my hair and getting to Ella’s before all of her mum’s home-made guacamole runs out. I eye the outfit I’ve 34picked out to wear tonight – a little red slip dress hanging on the back of my bedroom door – and for the first time since this morning, start to get excited about the night ahead. I hadn’t realized quite how stressed I was about Jojo’s non-communication until she finally got in touch.
‘Listen,’ I say. ‘My mum’s offered to drive us to Ella’s. I’m running a bit late but I reckon I could be at yours for about twenty past if my hair decides to dry any time soon. That work for you?’
There’s a pause.
‘I’m really sorry,’ Jojo says, her voice oddly faint. ‘But I don’t think I’m going to make it tonight.’
‘What do you mean? This has been in the diary for ever.’
It really has. Theo’s party marks the pinnacle of the summer, the end of an era. In less than two weeks I’ll be back at school and Jojo will be at the Arts Academy and things will never be the same again.
‘Are you poorly again or something?’ I ask. ‘Is that it?’
She didn’t look great when I saw her yesterday. But if she’s still unwell, surely she would have been at home all day.
‘No, no, I’m fine,’ Jojo says.
‘What’s going on then?’
‘I’m at my dad’s.’
‘Your dad’s?’
Jojo’s parents split up when she was ten, and Helen got a place with Stacey soon after, taking Jojo with her. Jojo’s dad lives in a flat on the other side of town.
‘Yeah. I’ve been here all day.’
‘How come?’
Jojo usually spends every other weekend with her dad. 35It’s rare she spends time with him midweek, even during the holidays.
‘Um, he’s in a bit of a bad place at the moment.’
I don’t know Jojo’s dad all that well, certainly not as well as she knows mine. He’s a sales rep for a greetings card company and spends a lot of time on the road. Jojo’s mentioned he struggles with depression every now and again, but I didn’t think it was anything especially serious.
‘Is he OK?’ I ask. ‘He’s not done anything, you know, stupid, has he?’
‘Oh no. No. Nothing like that.’
‘He’s going to be OK, then?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Then you can come to the party!’
‘I can’t just leave him, Frankie!’
‘But you literally just said you think he’s going to be OK.’
‘Exactly. Going to be.’
‘But it’s results day.’
‘I know. And I’m sorry, but I …’ She hesitates for a moment. ‘I just don’t feel right leaving him.’
I can hear crying in the background. ‘What’s that noise? Is that a baby?’ I ask.
‘It’s the TV,’ Jojo says. ‘Listen, I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow or something.’
She hangs up before I have the chance to say anything else.
I stare at my phone.
I’ll call you tomorrow or something.
Or something?
Is she taking the piss?
Immediately, I call her back. It goes straight through to 36voicemail. She must be calling her mum. I continue drying my hair and try again a few minutes later. Once more, I get her voicemail. I try her another three times before leaving a message:
‘Jojo, it’s me. Listen, I hadn’t finished talking to you. Can you call me back, please?’
