Bookshop Girl Read online

  Correctum is now in some kind of yoga position. I’m pretty sure they call it the tree. I don’t even notice that he’s naked now; my mind is on other things. On how I could just lean over and touch Blaine.

  Holly slides me a note. I unfold it to read ‘COFFEE WITH JAMIE NEXT WEEK – OMGOMGOMG!’

  I silently mouth ‘Wow’ at her. What a smooth operator.

  I scribble ‘CAN I HAVE SOME OF YOUR MAGIC BOY-CHIRPSING ABILITIES, PLEASE? THANKS. BYE X’ and pass it back to her.

  She sticks her tongue out in concentration as she jots ‘BLAINE TOTES FANCIES YOU BACK!’

  My heart skips. Really? Does he actually like me back?

  Then a piece of thicker, heavier paper flies into my lap from the left-hand side. From HIM. From Blaine.

  I unfold it without looking at him. In scratchy, scribbly writing it says ‘PAIGE. HEY. CAN I HAVE MY CHINAGRAPH BACK, PLEASE?’

  Oh crap! I look over at him and he’s grinning. What do I write back? This is so embarrassing! I kept the pencil at home like some kind of precious artefact! I pretty much STOLE it from him like a crazed super fan! How do I tell him that? I have no idea. I spend seconds agonising over what to say. I fake-rummage for it in my pencil case, knowing it’s not in here at all. It doesn’t take a critic to know that I wouldn’t be winning any Oscars for this terrible performance. I feel his eyes on me expectantly. Okay.

  I write ‘HEY. I’M SO SORRY. I DON’T KNOW WHERE IT’S GONE! SORRY! I HAVE SOME CHARCOAL, THOUGH?’

  Charcoal? Oh, please, we both know that’s a poor compromise for the fact I’ve been hoarding that little piece of him in my room for the past week.

  Martin wobbles. He’s swaying around. It was an over ambitious pose to be honest. He can’t keep his balance on one leg so the other bare foot crashes down onto the dusty mattress. If I was actually drawing now, I’d be pretty effed off at that.

  I’m not drawing, though.

  I’m writing notes to Blaine.

  I pass my crappy response to him and open up Holly’s note.

  Only, oh God, no. It isn’t Holly’s note.

  It’s the note from Blaine, which means:

  I. Gave. Him. Holly’s. Note.

  No. No. No. No. No.

  He’s reading ‘BLAINE TOTES FANCIES YOU BACK!’ I’m looking around the studio for a gun so I can blow my brains out right here, right now.

  Oh God. It says ‘back’. That’s a black-and-white confession that I like him. Now any last scrappy chance of playing it cool is long gone.

  I take a sideways glance to see that he’s tucked the note between the pages at the back of his sketchbook and has gone back to observing Martin.

  Thanks a bunch, Martin. Look at what you made me do.

  No more notes. Draw. You silly, childish, note-passing idiot. Draw.

  Maybe I’ll just paint Martin in my own vomit. Since I feel I’d have that material to hand anytime soon. I’ve never vommed out of shame before but, hey, first time for everything.

  The rest of the session is a blur. I don’t know what’s going on.

  Why did he just take the piece of paper?

  Like, could that mean he’s okay with me fancying him?

  Or maybe he just couldn’t bear to look at it. Maybe the thought of a silly little girl like me wanting him is utterly repulsive. Oh God.

  After four more wobbly poses from Martin the lesson is over and I rush out of there quicker than I’ve ever moved in my life.

  The Shame.

  Me, Holly and Maxine tiptoe inside the window display.

  ‘It’s so dusty in here!’ I say, brushing the layer of grey fluff from my black denim knees.

  ‘Be careful not to damage those as you take them down,’ Adam warns from his spot behind us on the shop floor.

  I smile sweetly, but accidentally-on-purpose tear the NOT NECESSARILY CLOSING-DOWN SALE poster as I pull it out of the display. It feels amazing.

  We decided to get rid of these dumb posters and make a new window display. Something that is bright and happy and pulls even more people into supporting the campaign.

  I came up with an idea that I’m pretty chuffed with. We’ve moved the bookcase that was in the staffroom gathering dust into the window. Me and Holly painted big letters that spell out SAVE BENNETT’S onto old cardboard boxes and cut out each individual letter. They’re chunky and bright, and we’re arranging them on plastic stands and stacks of books on the shelves of the old bookcase. Then we made lots of paper flowers and hearts and stars cut out of old publisher catalogues and free review copies that were piled up in the corner of the staffroom. It’s looking even better than it did in my mind.

  We also cut out bits of paper that are in the shape of an open book, blank for customers, and us lot, to write reasons for why we want to save Bennett’s. We’ll stick these to the glass so people passing by can read them. We’ve made an art installation really. This is hands down much better than any project I’ve done for Mr Parker at school.

  Maxine exhales and pushes her grey fringe back off her lined forehead. ‘It’s hot in here. I’ll step outside to see how it looks.’ She’s lighting up a cigarette before she’s even through the front doors.

  Behind a cloud of smoke and on the other side of the glass she nods and gives us a thumbs up, frowning and puffing on her fag.

  Holly’s phone pings and she smiles, pulling it out of the pocket in the back of her jeans.

  ‘OooOOoooOOh! Is it Jamie again?’ I ask, dancing with excitement, careful not to destroy our bum-kicking window creation.

  ‘Yeah!’ I watch her read the screen and immediately tap a reply. Phone back in her pocket. ‘I really like him, Paige.’

  ‘And you’re so good at liking him, Holly! How can you be so cool about it? It’s like you have no problem functioning as a Normal Human Being around him, not like me …’

  ‘Are you kidding?! I was well nervous chatting to him the other night. I thought it was obvious!’

  A group of spotty teenage lads walk past and start gawping at the two of us in the window. It really must be a slow day for entertainment in this town.

  They shout all manner of politically un-correct insults at us and then one of them kicks an empty plastic Oasis bottle in the direction of the glass and it misses. They’re all ‘wheeeeeeeeey’s and tongues and not at all ready for Maxine who’s about to go for them.

  She glares at one of them and says coolly, ‘Give me your phone.’

  His cheeks flush and he hands her his iPhone just like that.

  ‘Naaaaaah! What did you do that for?!’ One of the shorter lads punches his friend on the arm and watches Maxine in disbelief.

  Maxine blows smoke rings in the air as she taps on the smartphone screen and pulls up the Save Bennett’s petition site.

  ‘Now then, matey boy.’ She takes a drag. ‘You and the cast of The Inbetweeners here are going to enter your name and email addresses on this site, okay? You’re going to do me and these girls a favour by saving our jobs, and you’re going to do yourselves a favour by paying us a visit – once you’ve calmed down – so you can attempt to read a bloody book.’ She blows smoke into his Clearasil face and smiles. ‘Okay?’

  Without even having to look at Holly, I know that her face is pressed up against the glass just like mine is. To our astonishment the other boys actually stop and get their phones out.

  One of them winks at me and I really want to make it clear that I’m not at all interested, but I’m too busy standing here with a pair of rusty scissors, in awe of Maxine’s Bad Gal Attitude.

  She throws her fag on the pavement and stubs it out under her vegan leather ankle boot, before walking back into the shop and climbing back into the window as though she hadn’t just blown our tiny impressionable minds.

  My eyes sting at the laptop screen as I sit on the edge of my bed in my pants.

  I was getting dressed, until I got completely wrapped up in an iPlayer documentary presented by Reggie Yates. He’s in Uganda.

 
; A tatty van with a faded paint job that reads MOBILE LIBRARY pulls up along a dusty road and suddenly hundreds of children run towards it. They smile and skip and dance with books clutched to their hearts. Books with damaged spines and dog-eared corners. They’re so excited to borrow these books and to read.

  How can we, here in Greysworth, say that we’ve had enough of bookshops, of libraries, of access to books? That they’re outdated and irrelevant. Unimportant. While there are children in parts of this world running towards books, how can we possibly say ‘Enough. It’s time to get rid of bookshops; it’s time to clear them from our high streets’?

  ‘Paaaaaaige!’ Mum calls from downstairs. She’s back from her early-morning trip to town. I pull a spotty sundress over my head and shut my laptop, silencing Reggie Yates as he asks a small boy what his favourite thing about school is.

  In the kitchen, Elliot spoons chocolate-flavoured cereal into his mouth and Mum holds a copy of the local newspaper. ‘Look what I picked up on my way to the jobcentre!’

  ‘OMG! Did they print it? Can I see?!’

  She dances around on the kitchen tiles before turning to the article that covers the Save Bennett’s story.

  I beam. ‘Yep, that’s us! Right between the shocking news that the 99p Store is about to reopen as a Poundland and … Oh! The fascinating story about a hat that has been found up a tree!’

  As much as the Chronicle is a bit of a joke, it’s good to get some campaign coverage in here. They’ve included a link to the petition site and there’s a photo of us in front of the new window display. I look like a right geek, grinning away at the camera. Holly is obviously trying to look pretty, and it works: one hand on her hip as she pouts, like it was taken right before a big night out. Maxine looks ferocious, evidently using the time it took to take the photo as a fag break. Adam has his eyes shut. Tony has his usual look of bewilderment and disgust on his face. We make a motley crew.

  This shot was taken just seconds before Tony got drenched in seagull poo. The obscenities that came out of his mouth at that would earn the film adaptation of my life an 18 certificate. I’m pretty sure he terrified the timid reporter who had been sent out by the Chronicle. Her name was Alison Weaver. She had sensible shoes and hair the colour of apricot Petits Filous. I held her big shiny camera while she fumbled around on her phone and signed the petition.

  Back in the kitchen. ‘Can you fetch me some scissors, El?’

  ‘Um, no. Get them yourself.’

  After thirteen years of having a younger brother, I still find it hard to accept the fact that he won’t be my pet slave.

  ‘Eugh, fine.’

  As Mum tells us about her most recent ‘farcical’ trip to the jobcentre, I snip our story out of the paper, so I can Blu-Tack it to the wall in my room.

  ‘Well done, Paigey!’ Mum puts her arm round my shoulders. ‘I’m really proud of you for getting this far.’

  ‘Yeah, well done, Paigey.’ Elliot smirks. ‘Shame they couldn’t get a photo of you where you didn’t look like a total circus freak …’

  ‘Oi!’

  I take a photo of the article and post it all over the blog, the Bennett’s Twitter page, my Instagram and Facebook profiles. I hashtag for eternity.

  I dial Holly’s number on my phone. Wait for her to pick up. She has a habit of changing her ringtone to her fave songs. I know for a fact that she delays answering, just so she can get through most of the song before it gets to voicemail. I picture her dancing along to whatever she’s set it as now and it makes me laugh.

  ‘Holly! Have you seen the paper? We’re in it!’

  ‘OMG! Yes I just saw it on Facey B. Of course, it’s not the first time I’ve been papped by The Chron …’

  It’s true. When Holly was in Year Two she won a competition to design an anti-dog-fouling poster at school. Her entry was used on signs in Abington Park and there’s a clipping in her house of a very proud eight-year-old Holly holding a felt-tip depiction of a crying turd. Her two front teeth are missing, and it’s the perfect balance of hilarious and adorable. The kind of pic they dig up from your past when you’re a celeb, making an appearance on a chat show with a cheeky host who wants to embarrass you. Holly will never be embarrassed by that story; she tells it to most people within seconds of meeting them.

  ‘Are you ready to roll if I leave my house now?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes! See you ASAP!’

  I shove my feet into the already laced-up Doc Martens near the front door. ‘Okay, Mum, I’m on my way out. Me and Holly are meeting Sue from Posers. She’s going to help us print some campaign slogan T-shirts.’

  ‘Have fun! Hope you’re not hounded by the press now that you’re a local news story! And for God’s sake make sure you’re wearing knickers if you get papped getting in or out of any flashy cars!’

  ‘If it was guaranteed to get us a thousand signatures on the petition then I wouldn’t wear any!’ I lie.

  I wouldn’t actually do that by the way.

  Sue flicks a switch on the radio and Heart FM echoes around the walls of the print room.

  ‘Thanks for agreeing to do this, Sue. Hope you didn’t mind us using your email address from the petition site to contact you.’

  ‘Not at all! I’m so happy that I can help in some way.’ She prises the lid off a tin of black ink.

  It occurred to me that we should have SAVE BENNETT’S T-shirts. All the good campaigns I’ve been obsessing over online seem to have slogan tees and I asked Holly and Adam if they thought it was a good idea. Lucky they did because I’d already placed a bid on a job lot of plain white tees from eBay.

  ‘Right then, girls, gather round.’ The two of us stand in paint-splattered aprons on either side of Sue, as she shows us how to screen-print.

  She leans over the table and pulls the squeegee in towards her chest, pushing a thin layer of paint through the stencil. ‘You’ve got to move fast and really put your back into it.’

  We watch in awe as she lifts the screen to reveal our very first SAVE BENNETT’S T-shirt.

  ‘That’s so cool!’ I gush and she stands back with her hands on her hips like I told you so.

  ‘Right, your turn. Now lay a fresh T-shirt underneath. Make sure it’s completely flat.’

  The campus security guard hovers by the door.

  Sue pretends to take over with the printing until he walks on.

  ‘I’m not really supposed to let you in here …’ she confesses as I pull the paint over the stencil. ‘You’re supposed to have had an official induction to the print room, but oh well!’ She grimaces. ‘Think of it as civil disobedience.’

  ‘Um … what’s civil disobedience?’ Holly asks, looking slightly embarrassed. I’m glad she asked, and I’m glad I’m not the only one who’s never heard of it.

  ‘It’s the refusal to comply with certain laws, as a peaceful form of political protest. It’s breaking the rules, without really doing anything “bad”.’

  I lift up the screen, chuffed with my rebellious creation and at the idea of peaceful political protest.

  Back at Holly’s house, she places her beloved first volume of the I’m a Murderer trilogy in my hands.

  She catches me wrinkling my nose at it. I’m not at all into gruesome, kill-y crime thrillers like she is.

  ‘Please just give it a go, Paige. I promise you’ll be hooked.’

  ‘Okaaaaay …’ I do my best to sound enthusiastic, turning the chunky thing over on my lap to skim-read the blurb.

  ‘I need someone else to read it so we can discuss it together. At length.’

  ‘Paula Williamson,’ I read the author’s name out loud.

  ‘Ohmygod she’s a genius. I hope she appreciates that if Bennett’s closes, it’s not only the town of Greysworth that’ll be suffering; it’s me! It’s my mental well-being! I neeeeeed to get my hands on the final part of this series when it comes out. Fat chance we’ll get it in at the school library. Far too violent.’

  I open my mouth to remind her for the
millionth time that it’s just not my kind of thing, but then Holly declares that it’s time for a photo shoot. Costume change! She spills over the cups of her bra as she finds the armholes in her T-shirt. Then she ties a knot at the front, cropping it slightly so that it obscures the logo but shows off her pillowy belly. She lays every gold-plated chain she owns from Claire’s round her neck for some activist-babe bling.

  I roll the sleeves up on mine, so it’s not quite as baggy on my pink arms. Holly provides a selfie stick, extending it dramatically like it’s a deadly weapon. Selfie Samurai Princess. She snaps us modelling our home-made, rule-breaking protest T-shirts and uploads it onto the blog.

  ‘Holly!’ I call her name as she dumps a heavy bag for life of shopping in the boot of her mum’s car.

  ‘Hey, Paige! What are you doing here?’ She frown-laughs, like it’s not normal to be hanging around the car park behind Morrison’s.

  ‘Well, I called your house earlier and Danielle told me you were here –’ I unfold the spare SAVE BENNETT’S T-shirt I brought along for her – ‘and seeing as we are so near our thousand-signature target, I was thinking that we should hit the high street. Ask people to sign up face to face. A final push to get our numbers up.’ I jump onto the kerb and sing, ‘Are you with me?!’

  ‘What, now? Today, you mean?’

  ‘Um, yeah?’ What’s her problem? ‘We need to hit that target, Holly. Remember what the Make a Change website said, about waiting five working days for a response from the council? Well, it’s Monday already, so we only have a week until the shop is due to close! We’re only one hundred signatures away from not screwing this up!’

  I wait for Holly to react to my plan of action, but she just blinks at me.

  ‘Look!’ I offer, opening the pink folder I’ve cleverly labelled ACTIVISM SHIZ. ‘We just collect the same info from them on paper. Name, email address and signature …’

  I see her mum sitting in the driver’s seat of the car as she watches our convo in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘But I can’t this afternoon, remember? I’m meeting Jamie for coffee.’