So just to shut her up, I told her a bit about Zoe. I didn’t say she’d hardly spoken to me and that she only showed me round because she had to. But I mentioned that she lived nearby. Mistake.
‘That’s great! Why don’t you ask her round at the weekend? She can come for tea or – or – a sleepover, if you like.’
‘Mum, I’m not ten any more. I’m fourteen. I’m not asking someone round for tea or a sleepover.’
Mum blinked. ‘No.’ Then she laughed at herself. ‘Sorry.’
My insides went hot. I put my arms around her. ‘No, I’m sorry. School was fine. Take me off your worry list. I’ll be all right.’
On Saturday morning, Mum had to work, so I took the bus with her into the city centre and promised to meet her for lunch. Then I sought out a shop called Dead Bouquet that I’d found by searching online. It was on a little side street off the main shopping mall and clustered around its doorway were bunches of kids, all with the most amazing clothes and hair. It was like a costume party, though I’m glad I never said that to any of them. I felt so boring and high-street that I almost turned and ran. At the same time, I felt kind of invisible, without the black, purple or red clothes, eyeliners and gelled-up hair style. But I made myself go inside.
It was a tiny shop, down a few steps, dark and smelling strongly of some kind of earthy incense. There was loud music playing that I didn’t recognise and it was hard to get to anything because even a handful of people made the shop crowded. I could see the kind of things that I reckoned Zoe would love: candles that looked like skulls, racks of dark, theatrical clothes, tarot cards, heavy silver jewellery shaped like crosses and daggers.
I wasn’t entirely sure why I was here.
I fingered a fat notebook, the cover embossed with a design of the kind of weeping-lady statues you find in graveyards, all grey except for the red of the roses at her feet. The inside pages were plain, so Zoe could use it as a sketch book, I thought. It was ten pounds, which felt crazy for a plain notebook, but I had enough money with me and without really thinking too hard I took it up to the till. I could barely find the space to put the book down because the counter was cluttered with lit candles in glass jars, their flames wavering at every movement, baskets of knotted-up jewellery and messed-up piles of leaflets and flyers.
‘I like your book,’ said a voice behind me and I turned to see Zoe.
My insides gave a little flip. ‘Glad you said that. It’s for you.’ I held it out to her and hoped I wasn’t blushing.
She didn’t take it. ‘What for?’
‘I thought you could draw in it.’
‘I can see what to do with it. I meant, why are you giving it to me?’
I felt my face grow hotter. ‘It’s – it’s to say thank you for looking after me this week. I know you didn’t want to. I suppose I was a complete pain in the neck.’
She thought about it. ‘No, you weren’t. I kind of like you. If I didn’t, I’d’ve sent you into the boys’ changing room and left you there.’
‘Right. Thanks for not doing that.’ I held out the notebook again and this time she took it.
‘I didn’t have you down as a goth,’ she said, looking at my chain store jeans and my pink hoody, which felt over-bright and completely unsuitable, like I’d arrived at a funeral wearing a clown suit.
‘I – I’ve only just found this shop,’ I said, as if that was an explanation. ‘I love the stuff, though.’
‘Want to get a drink?’
I found myself following her out into the bright morning, blinking in the faint sunshine and the breeze, and strolling towards a little cafe next to the art gallery. The scent of incense was still clinging to our clothes.
Zoe ordered a green tea with peppermint, so I did, too. I paid with the last of my money. She looked even more striking out of school. She had dark eyeliner that made her pale eyes look like pearls and she wore deep, deep red lipstick. Her hair was in two heavy plaits. Under her coat she was wearing a blood-red velvet T-shirt that I longed to stroke.
I told her I’d been reading Dracula and how much I loved it. We talked about it and then about Mary Shelley and she mentioned some books I’d never heard of. Then I burbled on for a bit about my mum and dad. Zoe told me she just lived with her mum too.
‘Do you see your dad much?’ I asked.
‘Hardly, he’s dead,’ she said.
I put my face in my hands. ‘I’m sorry.’
Zoe gave a little pout. ‘It’s fine, I never knew him. I just wish it’d been my mum who died instead. He can’t have been any worse than she is.’
I stared at her. How do you answer that? ‘That’s a pretty drastic thing to say. What’s the problem?’
Zoe shrugged and clinked her spoon around inside her mug. ‘We just don’t get on.’
I waited, but she didn’t say any more.
After that, we started hanging around together, at school and at home. I reckon Mum was a bit put off at first by Zoe’s clothes and make-up, but she was cool about it, even when I started trying to dress the same way.
‘Your grandma was really strict about clothes when I was your age,’ Mum told me. ‘I was dying to spike up my hair and wear the sort of things my friends had, but she wouldn’t let me. I always swore I
