‘So you’re an artist,’ he said.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘Sort of.’
He looked at me.
‘Never be ashamed to say you’re an artist,’ he said. And he looked quite noble and dashing with his school scarf flung over his shoulder like he was about to go into battle.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I won’t.’ We had reached the corner where I turn off the avenue and I said, ‘Um, I live up there.’
‘Oh, right,’ said John Kowalski. ‘I live down there.’ But he didn’t move. Instead, he got out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. I wanted to say that I didn’t like smoking, but he started telling me that he’s writing a novel about a young man who goes off to fight in the Spanish Civil War in the 1930s and becomes a bullfighter.
‘It’s about believing in a glorious ideal,’ he said passionately, waving his cigarette around. ‘About losing all physical fear.’
It sounds very dramatic. And I could probably do with losing some physical fear myself. I’m quite a coward really. Alice sometimes goes horse riding near her house and I’ve always been too scared to go because it is surprising how high up you are when you’re on a horse and they also have giant heads that are very hard to control with the reins.
I told him that my mum writes novels (I didn’t mention Ruthie O’Reilly, of course), but when I said she was Rosie Carberry he said that he didn’t read ‘crude mainstream bestsellers’. I was about to defend Mum’s books (God knows why, I think they’re pretty awful), but then he asked if I wrote anything. And even though I’ve only ever talked about this with Alice, I found myself telling him that I did write stories when I was younger, but I’ve got out of the habit of it now.
‘But if it’s in your blood,’ said John very intensely. He says a lot of things very intensely. ‘You owe it to yourself to write again. Maybe you even owe it to the world!’
Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am really destined to be a great writer. If I’m being honest with myself, I have to admit that this is quite unlikely, but when he was talking I wanted it to be true. I was going to tell him that I do write a diary and I might even have told him about the poems but before I could say anything my phone rang. And I had to answer it because it was Mum, who was ranting on about how late I was and how she was worried sick and how I had to come home this instant. So when I hung up I turned to John Kowalski and said, ‘That was my mother. She’s not writing at the moment. She’s yelling at me to come home.’
‘Ah,’ said John Kowalski. ‘I should probably be at home now too. I’ll see you at rehearsal.’
And no sooner had I said goodbye than he stamped out his cigarette and off he went down Gracepark Road into the murky evening, his scarf flowing out behind him like a banner. He was wearing his cool woollen khaki coat that sort of swept about. There’s something very dramatic about John Kowalski himself. It’s not surprising he writes about wars and bullfighters and stuff.
So I walked up in the other direction, feeling a bit funny. I rang Alice later to tell her what happened. She was very cheerful after her conversation with Bike Boy.
‘He’s so nice!’ she burbled. ‘He was saying what a shame it was that Hey Dollface were on hiatus because he thought I was a really good guitarist.’
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘Well, he’s right.’
‘But I couldn’t stay talking to him for too long because of my lift. Thanks for, you know, leaving me to it.’
‘Well, we didn’t want to disturb you,’ I said. ‘I do care about your feelings, Alice.’ I paused. ‘Um, I got talking to someone too.’
‘What?’ said Alice. ‘Who?’
‘You know John Kowalski who’s playing Mr Banks?’
‘Of course,’ said Alice.
‘Well, I got talking to him at the gates and walked down to Gracepark Road with him,’ I said. ‘And we were talking for a good bit.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Alice. ‘Is he nice?’
Is he nice? I’m not actually sure. I mean, he’s not NOT nice. But he’s not all cheerful and friendly like, well, like Paperboy.
‘He’s very interesting,’ I said. ‘But … I feel a bit guilty. About Paperboy.’
There was silence on the other end of the line. Then Alice said, ‘Well, you know, Bex, you’ve got nothing to feel guilty about.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘But …’
‘You just talked to another boy for a few minutes! Even if Paperboy was actually in Dublin, you shouldn’t have to feel guilty about that!’
‘True,’ I said. ‘But …’
‘And besides,’ said Alice, who was getting quite worked up (obviously talking to Bike Boy had over-stimulated her), ‘you have to embrace life, Bex! You can’t put everything on hold just because Paperboy went to Canada!’ She sounded a bit like John Kowalski. Everyone seems to be into embracing life this weekend.
I know she is right and I told her so and she said, ‘So you don’t feel guilty?’ And I said I didn’t, even though I do a bit. And she said, ‘I just don’t want you to, I dunno, spend all your time thinking about Paperboy and not actually, like, noticing what’s happening around you.’
Which is, I think, though I didn’t say it, an Alice-ish way of saying she doesn’t think me and Paperboy are going out anymore.
Everyone wants to convince me that me and Paperboy have split up. And I have to admit that I understand why. But still. I don’t like it. If it was official we weren’t really going out anymore, it would make me too sad. And it would also make me hate Paperboy as it would mean that he had dumped me without even bothering to tell me, which is a terrible thing to do. And I can’t believe he’s that bad.
Is he?
SUNDAY
Oh my God! I got a mail from Paperboy at last! And it looks like he hasn’t dumped me without telling me. I hope. I mean, he didn’t say, ‘Oh, Rebecca, I will love you forever.’ But then he didn’t say he didn’t. It was actually a very normal mail. He apologised for not mailing me sooner and said that everything had been mad at his new school with the trip away and everything and he’d actually forgotten it was his turn to mail me. He thought I was going to mail him and then he eventually checked and realised it was his turn. And then he told me about his school trip and how he’d got really into snowboarding. That was about it, really.
When I read it I felt very relieved that he still signed his mail with some Xs. And I feel bad about thinking he would dump me without telling me. But I can’t help thinking he shouldn’t have forgotten it was his turn to mail me. And it took him weeks to even check! To be honest, I feel kind of annoyed with him now. I’m certainly not going to mail him back straight away. I’ll make him wait and see how he likes that.
Of course, I had to read his mail really quickly. My mother hovered over me practically the whole time, as she always does. She and Dad have a computer each, but she refuses to get me and Rebecca a computer even to share. She says it’s ‘a ridiculous extravagance’, and she doesn’t approve of teenagers having constant access to the internet. So, instead, I’m only allowed go online on her or Dad’s computer for about two seconds at a time. It’s like the middle ages around here.
Anyway, after I got the mail, I rang Alice. I didn’t actually say, ‘Look, I told you we hadn’t broken up!’ but I almost did. I thought Alice would be pleased for me, and she sort of was, but then she said, ‘Hang on, do you mean you haven’t had a mail from him at all since that one where he said he was going on the school trip? That was weeks ago!’
‘I know,’ I said.
‘Oh,’ said Alice.
‘And I didn’t tell you because I was trying to stick to my rule and not bother you with my troubles,’ I said, nobly.
‘Oh Bex,’ said Alice. ‘I don’t want you to think you can’t, like, tell me stuff.’
Well, really. This was very nice of her and everything, but one minute I’m too selfish and just thinking of my own problems, and the next I’m bottling everything up! I really can’t win. I just had a bash on the sofa with my drum stic
ks to release my frustrations, but the sofa is just not the same as my drums.
MONDAY
Felt a bit odd seeing John Kowalski after our big talk on Friday. I mean, are we friends now? I have to admit I was a bit worried he’d act like nothing had happened, but he didn’t. He and Bike Boy arrived at the rehearsal at the last minute and then he was off practising with the leads so I didn’t really come into contact with him until we were all going home. He was on his way out of the hall, wearing that weird yet strangely cool old coat, but when he saw me he paused.
‘Hello, Miss Rafferty,’ he said. ‘Did you write anything over the weekend, then?’
The only thing I’d written over the weekend were big diary entries, partly about him, so I said, ‘Well, no, not really.’
‘Ah well,’ he said airily. ‘It’s only a matter of time. Go and write something brilliant. See you.’
And off he went.
I really do not know what I think of him at all.
Cass, of course, is sure she knows what I think of him. She was watching us from her prop den on the stage, and when he walked off she jumped off the stage and ran over to me.
‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘He fancies you. And I think you fancy him back.’
‘I do not!’ I said. I have a horrible feeling I went bright red. ‘He smokes!’
‘Hmmm,’ said Cass. ‘I think you do. I don’t think you care about his smoking.’
‘Oh, shut up, Cass,’ I said, but not in a mean way. I hope. Cass didn’t seem to take offence anyway because she laughed and said, ‘Well, I don’t blame you if you do. He’s not bad-looking really. Though he’s not my type.’
‘I don’t fancy anyone,’ I said. ‘Apart from Paperboy.’
But if I’m being very honest, I am not entirely sure if this is true.
TUESDAY
I keep thinking about John Kowalski. There was something about the way he called me ‘Miss Rafferty’ that made me feel a bit funny. But how can I feel anything at all about him when Paperboy is my true love? Also, he is not as good-looking as Paperboy (even when he smiles, although I have to admit that he looks pretty good when he does that). He is also much more intense and serious than Paperboy. Whenever we talked about what we wanted to do when we grew up Paperboy was always a bit vague and said he’d thought about being either a designer or a doctor but he wasn’t quite sure. But John Kowalski seems totally sure about his future as some sort of writing/acting genius. It is a bit intimidating, really.
But also quite interesting.
WEDNESDAY
Got into trouble at rehearsal today and it was all Cass’s fault. The chorus were practising in the main part of the hall, and Alice and I were at the edge of the group. Which meant we could see the side of the stage where Cass was doing mysterious set stuff, but Ms Byrne, whose back was to the stage, couldn’t.
Anyway, we were singing away (‘Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious’, as it happens) and then I noticed Cass’s head rising slowly from behind a wooden car left over from last year’s production of Grease. She made a hideous face at us and sank back down again. Alice and I both started laughing, but when Ms Byrne glanced over at us we cunningly disguised our sniggers by pretending to cough (I am very good at covering up laughter by coughing, sneezing and, in one instance, crying. You’d have to be if you sat next to Cass on a regular basis. Sometimes she lives to torment me, if by tormenting you mean ‘make me laugh in class and get into trouble’.).
That was bad enough, but a few minutes later Cass did it again, only this time she had a pair of giant sunglasses (probably left over from Grease) pushed up on her head. She looked upwards as if she didn’t know how they had got there, and sank back down again. And a few minutes later she appeared slowly from behind an amplifier wearing a paper crown and a very serious expression before sinking behind it again.
It was too much for me and Alice. Even my best coughs couldn’t hide our snickering. Basically, every time we calmed down, Cass would loom up behind a prop with something else ridiculous on her head, looking really solemn. By the time she appeared behind a lamp with a toy cactus on her head (where could it have come from?) Alice and I couldn’t stop laughing. We didn’t even bother to pretend to be sneezing or coughing and it wouldn’t have made any difference if we had because I was laughing so much my shoulders were shaking. In the end Ms Byrne snapped at us and said that if we couldn’t sing a simple song without sniggering like five-year-olds then we’d have to get out of the chorus and stop wasting her time. Cass must have heard this because she stopped looming up at us after that. So we calmed down again. I can’t believe we nearly got ourselves kicked out of the musical because Cass had a cactus on her head!
It was pretty funny though.
I talked to John Kowalski for a few minutes during the break when I passed him on my way to the loo. He was coming from the direction of the door to the bike racks. I think he might have been having a smoke.
‘So, Miss Rafferty,’ he said. ‘What was that Ms Byrne giving out to you chorus people about?’
‘Ah,’ I said. If it had been Paperboy, I would have told him all about Cass and he would have found it as funny as we did, but I had a feeling John Kowalski took things a bit more seriously. So I said, ‘Someone from the backstage crew was trying to make us all laugh.’
‘I hate that sort of messing about,’ said John Kowalski vehemently. ‘If you’re working on a project, you have to give yourself to it, heart and soul.’
‘Hmmm, I suppose so,’ I said. ‘Um, I’ll see you later.’ I suppose he is right, really. It wasn’t as if it had disrupted the entire rehearsal or anything, but we were meant to be concentrating on singing.
Still, just thinking about Cass looming up behind that car makes me laugh. I am afraid I must be a very shallow person.
THURSDAY
It finally happened! Alice and Bike Boy are an item!
I only found out at school this morning because my stupid phone battery died yesterday evening without my noticing and SOMEONE (who might possibly be Rachel) was on the landline all night so Alice couldn’t get through to me. Apparently, it happened last night when Alice was waiting for her lift. Her dad was a bit late and Bike Boy (or Richard as I really must call him now that he is Alice’s boyfriend) kindly said he’d wait with her. And that’s when it happened! Luckily they weren’t still snogging when her dad finally turned up. Anyway, Bike Boy, I mean Richard, said he’d fancied her ever since the old days when we used to see him cycling down Calderwood Road and he thinks, and I quote, she’s ‘the coolest girl he’s ever met’. Which is pretty good. Cass and I had to practically force her to tell us everything he said. She is never good at telling us when anyone has praised her.
Of course, Karen had to stick her oar in when Alice was telling us at the lockers this morning.
‘Oh, so you and that Richard are seeing each other, are you?’ she said. ‘Even though you’re both in the musical? I’d never mix business with pleasure. My boyfriend Bernard and I have sworn to always work on separate acting projects.’
Cass rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, I’m sure you’ve both had loads of Hollywood offers. It must be so difficult choosing which ones to take.’
Karen literally tossed her head and put her hands on her hips. She has got much more theatrical since the musical started; it makes her worse than ever.
‘It’s an actor thing. You wouldn’t understand,’ she said. And she marched off with Alison by her side. Ugh, I hate her.
Everyone else who heard was happy for Alice, though. And I am too. Honestly. I am not really worried that she will abandon her old pals now she has a boyfriend and I only feel a tiny bit sad about my tragically lonely state.
I really am trying to stick to my rules. I haven’t mailed Paperboy back, by the way. Let him wait. To be honest, I’ve got enough to think about right now without sending e-mails to someone who had to wait practically two months before they noticed they hadn’t been in touch with me.
FRIDAY
br /> I think Caroline and Alison might really have formed an alliance. They had lunch together today while Vanessa and Karen paraded about near the whiteboard practising their lines and doing all our heads in. In days of yore the pair of them would have just sat there gazing in adoration at their heroines, but today they basically ignored them and kept chatting to each other. I hope they keep this up. They’re quite nice really and, God knows, Karen and Vanessa deserve each other. And Emma says she’s been getting on well with Alison at those computer classes. She is much nicer when she is away from Karen.
Something surprisingly exciting happened at rehearsal today – the arrival of Mrs Limond. We were all − chorus, main cast, backstage people – just pottering about doing our different things (Alice was trying hard not to gaze lovingly at Bike Boy) when the door opened with a crash and a very dramatic lady came in.
I guessed who she was straight away. She was about a hundred years old (okay, about seventy-five) but very tall and sort of regal. Her hair was a pale lavender colour and it was swept up in this amazing sort of poofy style. And she was wearing a very dramatic black floor-length coat with giant fluffy fur trimmings.
‘Where is my cast?’ she cried in an insanely posh, old-fashioned voice, the sort that practically sounds English.
‘Mrs Limond!’ said Cathy, running over to her. ‘I’m Cathy Laverty, the director.’
Mrs Limond stared at her.
‘You?’ she said. ‘But you’re just a child!’
‘Um, I’m twenty-five,’ said Cathy. She sounded quite cross. ‘I’ve got a degree in Drama. From Trinity.’
Mrs Limond waved a hand.
‘That makes you a child in my eyes, girl. Now, where is my wardrobe assistant?’
Ellie put up her hand.
‘Here,’ she said, in a very small voice. ‘My name’s Ellie.’