'So how long have you k n o w n t h i s boy wonder?' Miranda asked. 'Or do you really know him? You're the girl who reads a lot. Maybe you're making up your own story now.'
'Yeah, like, as if a boy like t h a t would w a n t to h a n g out with the Titch!' said Alison, another new girl.
'She does know him,' said Patty Price. 'We were all in the same class in middle school.'
'So he's only our age,' said Miranda. 'Just a little boy. I never go out with boys my own age, they're so stupid and immature.'
11
'Carl isn't stupid,' I said.
'No, he's, like, ultra-brainy,' said Patty. 'He goes to Kingsmere G r a m m a r now, doesn't he, Titch? He got a special scholarship. He's great at a r t too. He painted one wall back in middle school – this Venice scene with glass-blowers, and it was j u s t like a real artist h a d done it.'
'He sounds interesting,' said Miranda. 'I want to meet him. Hey, Titch, bring him round to my place tonight.'
I stared at her. She was surely joking! All the other girls seemed equally amazed.
'Yeah, right,' I said.
'No, really. We'll have a party, it'll be great,'
said Miranda.
'Oh, can I come, Miranda?'
'Can I?'
'I'm coming too!'
'Hey, hey, I'm asking the Titch, not you lot.
Sylvie and h e r boyfriend Carl.' Miranda reached out w i t h her pointy boot and gently prodded me with it. Will you come, Sylvie?'
No one ever called me Sylvie at school a p a r t from t h e teachers. I was so surprised I didn't know w h a t to say.
I h a d to say no, of course. The very idea of Carl a n d me going to one of Miranda's parties was preposterous. But you didn't j u s t say No thanks to a girl like Miranda.
'Well, t h a t would be lovely,' I mumbled, ready to s t a r t in on some excuse.
12
Miranda didn't give me a chance.
'Great,' she said, jumping down from the wash basin. 'See you around eight. It's ninety-four L a r k Drive.'
She was off with a flounce of her short skirt before I could say another word. The others all r a n after her, still begging to come too.
I was left with my h e a r t thudding, wondering w h a t on e a r t h I was going to do now.
'Miranda Holbein's invited me to a p a r t y at h e r house tonight,' I told Lucy at t h e s t a r t of afternoon school.
'Oh yeah, like, really!' said Lucy, b r e a k i n g off a finger of h e r Kit-Kat a n d giving it to me. 'I know it's m e a n to bad-mouth people b u t I truly can't s t a n d t h a t Miranda. She's so posey, such a show-off'
'I know. But she really has invited me. And she's asked Carl too.'
'But she doesn't know Carl. She doesn't even know you, Titch.'
'I know. I don't get it.'
'Is it a big party? Do you t h i n k she'll invite me?' said Lucy, sounding hopeful.
'I thought you couldn't stick her.'
'I can't. And you wouldn't ever catch me going 14
to one of h e r parties. Honestly, t h e things t h a t go on!'
'What?'
'Well, this girl in Year Ten knows her, and her cousin went to a party in the summer, and apparently . . .' Lucy started whispering stuff in my ear.
'Rubbish!' I said uneasily. 'You're making it up. No one does t h a t anyway, not in real life.'
'You wouldn't know. You're so innocent, Titch,'
said Lucy.
I wanted to hit her even though she was my friend. I could p u t up with Miranda and her pals patronizing me but not Lucy. Her m u m and dad called h e r Lucy Locket and she h a d three Bear Factory bears, Billy, Bobby and Bernie, and she still liked watching h e r old Disney videos.
'Well, if I go to Miranda's party I won't be innocent much longer,' I said.
'You're not really going to go, are you?' said Lucy.
'Of course I am,' I said, though I h a d no intention whatsoever of doing so.
'And Carl's going?'
'Yep,' I said, wondering why toads weren't tumbling out of my lips, I was telling so m a n y lies.
'But you're always saying Carl's so anti-social,' said Lucy.
This h a s been a kind lie. When I first made friends with Lucy I wanted to show Carl t h a t I'd 15
m a n a g e d to make a good friend even though I felt so lonely and half a person without him.
I also wanted to show Lucy j u s t how close Carl and I still were. I suppose I wanted to show off.
I was m a d enough to invite t h e m both round to tea one Saturday. It was awful.
Lucy arrived in a dreadful silly-frilly dress and shoes with heels. They seemed too big for her. Maybe they belonged to h e r mother. She wore thick make-up, though she forgot she was wearing it and kept rubbing her eyes so it smeared all over the place a n d made her look like a panda. She spoke in a silly self-conscious way in front of Carl, and whenever he said anything at all, even 'Can you pass me the cakes?'
she giggled. She practically wet herself she giggled so much. I wanted to die.
Carl made a bolt for home the moment he'd finished his tea. He barely paused to say goodbye. I didn't want Lucy's feelings to be h u r t so I pretended he was going through a very shy w i t h d r a w n stage and couldn't really cope with company.
Carl was incredulous t h a t I h a d become so friendly with Lucy. For a long time he used poor Lucy's n a m e whenever he thought anything especially twee, silly or naff.
'Oh, dear God, switch t h a t programme off, it's too Lucy for words,' or 'What have you got t h a t skirt on for, it's a bit Lucy, isn't it?' or 'You don't look right with lipstick, Sylvie, it makes you look Lucyfied.'
16
It wasn't fair. I didn't really like Lucy very much either, but I needed someone to go round with at school.
'I can't see Carl wanting to go to a party with a whole lot of strangers,' Lucy said now.
'You're probably right,' I said.
I w e n t home in a daze. I was sure I wasn't really going to Miranda's. I wanted Carl to refuse, and then I could use him as a convenient excuse.
When I got home to our semi-detached houses I went down Carl's crazy-paving p a t h instead of my own. I knocked at the front door and Carl's brother J a k e opened it. He j u s t grunted when he saw me and ambled off up the stairs again, leaving the door open so I could come inside.
He w a s sixteen, in Year Eleven at my school.
He wasn't as brainy as his brother and hadn't sat for any special scholarships. He didn't look a bit like Carl. He h a d dark untidy hair and very dark eyes so you could barely see his pupils.
He'd been quite small for his age once but now he was this great lanky guy of at least six foot.
He was bright enough but he rarely bothered with much homework. The only thing he worked h a r d at was playing his guitar.
I wondered w h a t Miranda would make of J a k e . I thought he was far more h e r cup of tea, can of lager, whatever. He'd probably go for her too, even though she was only in Year Nine. I h a d a feeling Miranda was already famous throughout the school.
17
'Miranda Holbein h a s invited Carl and me to a p a r t y tonight!' I called up t h e stairs after him.
He paused on the top step. 'Cool!' he said, trying not to sound too impressed. He peered down at me. 'She's invited Carl?' He shook his head. 'He won't go.'
'I know,' I said. 'Where is he? In his bedroom doing his homework?'
'Like the nerdy little swot he is,' said Jake, pushing Carl's door open. 'Oh. Not here. His bike was round the back so he must be somewhere.'
'Don't worry, I'll look for him,' I said.
I w a s pleased. J a k e hadn't said more t h a n two consecutive words to me for years. J u s t one mention of Miranda Holbein and I seemed to have become cool by association.
I w e n t looking for Carl. I tried the living room first, t h e looking-glass twin of my own. I liked the Johnsons' so much more. I loved their crimson velvet sofa and bright em
broidered throws and big saggy cushions and the large red and blue and purple paintings on the wall.
Carl's m u m was an a m a t e u r artist and the house was like her own gallery. She'd always n u r t u r e d J a k e and Carl's artistic abilities too, encouraging them to crayon on the kitchen walls when they were little. There were a few of my own scribbles too. I'd crayoned a crazy wedding all along one wall, with me in a white meringue and Carl in a white suit so t h a t we looked like an advert for washing powder. There 18
was a long colourful row of wedding guests: my m u m a n d dad and Jake, and I'd added lots of children from school and our cat Flossie and my rabbit Lily Loppy (both long deceased) and Jake's dog Wild Thing (so wild he'd r u n away and never come back). They were all wearing big pink carnations, even the cat and the dog, and the rabbit had two, one on each ear.
Carl's m u m Jules was washing lettuce at the kitchen sink.
'Hi, Sylvie sweetheart,' she said.
'Hi, Jules,' I said.
She wouldn't let me call her Aunty Julia, let alone Mrs Johnson. She was Jules to everyone, even t h e little kids at the nursery school where she worked part time. She'd obviously been doing finger painting with t h e m today. There were little red and yellow fingerprints all over h e r big flowery trousers.
'I t h i n k Carl's down in his hut,' she said.
'Oh, great.'
'Sylvie?' said Jules. She paused, shaking the lettuce. 'Is Carl OK?'
'OK in w h a t way?'
'I don't know' She picked a little slug out of the lettuce, shuddering. 'Yuck! Any kind of way.
He j u s t seems a bit . . . quiet. You two haven't h a d a row, have you?'
'We never have rows,' I said.
We did, but I generally gave in quickly because I couldn't bear Carl being cross with me.
19
'Maybe it's something at school then,' said Jules. 'I keep wondering whether it was a good idea to uproot him and send h i m there.'
'No it wasn't!' I said.
'Oh, darling. I know it m u s t have been very h a r d for you. For both of you. But you know w h a t an old brainybox Carl is, and the g r a m m a r gets lots of boys into Oxbridge. He's keeping up with the work all right, I know that, though he's h a d a lot of catching up to do. Maybe he's j u s t tired from working so much. I don't know though. He j u s t sort of mooches about when he's at home, like he's got stuff on his mind.'
'He's always been a bit dreamy,' I said uneasily.
I felt flattered to be asked about Carl, as if I was t h e one who h a d the key to all his secrets, but I knew how he'd hate to t h i n k I was discussing him with his mum.
'Are you two still working on this book of yours?' said Jules.
'Oh yes,' I said, though we hadn't made up anything new since September, when I'd gone to t h e h i g h school a n d C a r l s t a r t e d a t t h e grammar. I'd tried working on the book on my own but it wasn't the same without Carl. I'd only written two pages and then decided they were so silly and sentimental I ripped t h e m right out of the book.
'When are we going to get to read it then?'
said Jules.
'Oh, goodness! It's kind of private,' I said.
19
Jules shrieked as she found a truly gigantic slug. She dropped the lettuce in the sink, letting the cold water rinse it.
'I feel I really should buy organic veg but, oh God, I h a t e these slimy slugs.'
'Carl h a t e s them too. He h a t e s all creepy-crawlies.'
I h a d to be chief spider-catcher in the Glass Hut. Carl wanted to be a Buddhist and not kill a n y t h i n g b u t he wouldn't h a v e m i n d e d a holocaust of the insect world.
'Tell me about it,' said Jules. 'Last time we had salad he found some little buggy thing on his plate and squealed a bit, just out of shock, I think, but J a k e and Mick were merciless. He got teased for being a wimp the entire week, poor boy.'
Mick was Jules's husband. He was a big broad m a n with a bit of a beer gut. He looked like a labourer in his scruffy T-shirts and sagging jeans b u t he was actually a lecturer in Politics at the university. He was always very kind to me b u t he teased me too. He called me Silent Sylvie because I barely said two words in his presence, and when I h a d my hair in plaits he could never pass me without pulling on a pigtail and going Ding-ding.
Carl said he sometimes couldn't stick his dad.
I said Carl was lucky to still have his dad.
T h a t s h u t him up.
My dad isn't dead. He j u s t cleared off two years ago. I used to see him every weekend for the first few months, but when his girlfriend 21
h a d their baby he stopped bothering.
Carl and I had great fun making up two warrior kings in Glassworld, one a jokey buffoon and one an untrustworthy philanderer. They donned heavy metal armour a n d fought in time to heavy-metal music, sweating inside their visors as they hacked and whacked frantically with their silver swords. They fought all day and half the night without managing to inflict a single wound, and then died within a minute of each other of exhaustion and apoplexy.
Jules gingerly batted the lettuce from one side of the sink to the other. 'Horrid little sluggery sluggers,' she said. She paused. 'Sylvie, you don't think Carl's being teased at school, do you?'
I stared at her. 'Everyone looks up to Carl,' I said. 'Everyone was j u s t desperate to be his friend.'
'Yes,, I know they made a big fuss of him at Milstead. B u t maybe it's different at t h e g r a m m a r ? All those boys . . . He says he's got friends but he never really talks about t h e m properly. I've tried asking him about it but he j u s t clams up with me. You know, "I'm fine, Mum, j u s t leave it."'
'I know,' I said. He clammed up with me too.
'Thank God he's got you for his friend, Sylvie.
But I wish he'd make more friends. He j u s t holes up in his room or down in the h u t . I wish he'd get out more.'
'Well, I've come to invite him to a party,' I said.
22
'Really! Oh wow, great,' said Jules, suddenly so happy she threw the soaking lettuce up in t h e air, showering herself with water drops.
'I don't think he'll go though,' I said. 'I don't t h i n k I'm going, It's this girl at school a n d she's so grown up and scary – goodness knows w h a t they'll get up to at her p a r t y '
I wanted Jules to come the heavy mother and forbid Carl and me to go now, but she still looked eager.
'You and Carl are sensible kids. You won't do anything too silly. And if it's at this girl's house I suppose her parents will be there keeping an eye on things.'
Miranda seemed to come from such an alien world I couldn't even imagine h e r having parents.
'Don't get too excited, Jules,' I said. 'You know Carl isn't really a party kind of boy.'
'Go and ask him!'
'OK, OK!'
I went out of the Johnsons' kitchen door into their back garden. It was the twin of ours, but Jules h a d been imaginative with all sorts of colourful plants and weird painted statues and shrubs. Wind chimes tinkled from every tree as I walked down the garden, right to the bottom behind the yew hedge, where the Glass H u t was.
It looked like an ordinary large g a r d e n h u t at first glance. It was m a d e of planks of pale wood with a latched door a n d two small windows.
They each h a d a stained-glass roundel of white-robed angels with gold wings gliding across a ruby glass carpet. I stroked t h e m gently, my finger following t h e black lead outline, our little ritual ever since Carl bought t h e m w i t h his Christmas money last year.
I knocked at the door, our special knock, Morse code for glass. Carl was supposed to knock right back. I waited. The Glass H u t was silent.
'Carl?' I called.
I h e a r d a sigh.
'Is t h a t you, Carl?'
'Not j u s t now, Sylvie. Sorry. I'm doing my homework.'
24
'I need to talk to you,' I said, and I opened the door and went inside.
/> Carl wasn't doing his homework. He didn't even have his books out of his school bag. He was lying back on the old velvet sofa, h a n d s behind his head, staring up at the chandelier.
It was a real cut-glass Victorian chandelier, a little one with twelve droplets, though three were broken, and the chandelier itself didn't actually work. Mick wouldn't let Carl have t h e h u t properly wired for it, so the only light was from the naked bulb sticking out of the wall.
Carl h a d painted it with rainbow swirls so t h a t it looked slightly more decorative.
There were five shelves r u n n i n g round two of t h e walls, originally m e a n t to hold flowerpots and seed trays. Carl kept his glass collection here, in glowing colour-co-ordinated rows: little glass animals on the top shelf, then drinking glasses, then vases, then ashtrays and paperweights, and then his precious pieces. The Glass Boy stood in the middle of the special shelf, tranquil, dreamy, his thick hair brushed forward over his forehead in s t r a n d s of glass. He didn't wear any clothes but he didn't look remotely self-conscious. He stood staring at some distant horizon, his a r m s loosely hanging, his legs braced. Maybe he was watching for something, waiting for someone.
Carl's Great-aunt Esther h a d called him h e r Cupid, b u t he wasn't a baby and he didn't have little wings or even a bow and arrow. Carl h a d 25
fallen in love with the Glass Boy on a visit to his great-aunt when he was five. She h a d fallen in love with this serious, angelic little nephew, so different from his harum-scarum brother. At the end of the visit she presented Carl with her
'Cupid'.
Carl's p a r e n t s thought this a bizarre gesture.
Even Jules was sure Carl would play with the Glass Boy and smash him into glass splinters.
But Carl kept him on a shelf and simply treasured him. When he was six he asked for a glass animal for a birthday present. He started looking for glass vases and a s h t r a y s a n d ornaments in jumble sales and s u m m e r fairs as he got older. His collection grew too big for his small bedroom so one s u m m e r he quietly started converting the garden hut.
I helped too, and went on all his glassh u n t i n g expeditions. I couldn't get properly interested on my own behalf. I liked dangling crystals w i t h their rainbow sparkles, but I couldn't see why all the other glass stuff meant so much to Carl. Still, I was very happy to be included in his glass world. I knew all about Murano glass a n d planned for us to go on a special t r i p to Venice one day – maybe for our honeymoon!