First published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Lucy Knott, 2020
The moral right of Lucy Knott to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 9781800243316
Cover design: Lisa Brewster
Aria
c/o Head of Zeus
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
www.ariafiction.com
For my Nanna; the strongest Superhero I have ever known.
Welcome Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Become an Aria Addict
‘You really think I can do it?’ I shout, my voice a touch skittish; trepidation in my tone, followed by an excited squeal. My fists are clenched, hovering by my ears in nervous anticipation. I bend my knees to give me some bounce as I balance on the tree branch without holding on. My arms are stretched out above my head, ready for take-off.
‘Of course, you can do it, Scar; we’re superheroes and superheroes fly,’ Devon yells up from the safety of the grass. I don’t think that now is the time to inform him that Captain America doesn’t fly, and neither does Black Widow. That conversation probably should have happened earlier, so instead I close my eyes tight, squeeze my fists harder, do three small bounces on the balls of my feet with my knees bent and leap into the air with an almighty roar.
When I open my eyes, I see the ground rapidly approaching. I start flapping my arms manically like a wild bird – totally not like Superman. Within half a second, I hear a loud crunch. I don’t feel any pain, yet the ground is right under my nose and the thin blades of grass are tickling my eyelashes. I exhale all the air in my lungs and that’s when it hits me.
I hear screaming but I can’t quite tell if it’s my voice, Devon’s or both. The pain in my wrists is excruciating. Tears are flooding my face, forming a puddle in the snowy, slushy, muddy earth. I can’t move. I register Devon shouting words at me but can’t make out what he’s saying. If he’s asking me if I’m OK, he’s lost his mind. I can’t feel my hands. I think I’m going to be sick. For the first time in my twelve years of existence I think I’m going to faint, but worse than that – I don’t think I believe in superheroes anymore.
*
My lips are pursed into an “o” shape and I am aware they have been stuck like this since my lunch arrived an hour ago because they are actually starting to hurt, but I’m allowed to pout. My world has drastically flipped upside down; being upset is natural.
‘Open your mouth, Scar,’ Devon says, frustration in his voice. I deepen the crease between my brows, pucker my lips a little more and defiantly shake my head. I will not open my mouth.
‘Your cape got caught on a branch, Scar, that’s all. I saw it. You jumped and it whipped you back, disabling flight mode,’ Devon explains for the tenth time this afternoon. He’s taking my no longer believing in superheroes pretty hard. I am too. I don’t want to eat, and I am mad at both Devon and Superman for making me think I could fly. I wince as both my casted wrists tingle and prickle with pain. Devon tries again to feed me from the bowl of mush, which has grown colder while we’ve argued. He brings the spoon up to my mouth.
My mum is sat at the base of my bed while Devon’s is stood by the window. Both have their lips drawn thin, no doubt individually plotting more ways to keep me and Devon apart, and thinking how they can put a stop to Devon and I watching superhero movies for good. Our parents are not close; each blames the other for our behaviour and antics. This is, after all, our second trip to the hospital this month.
Only two weeks ago we were testing out Super Strength when Devon dropped a log on his foot, breaking two of his toes. But they healed quickly, just like Devon had told me they would, because it doesn’t take Wolverine months to recover so it wouldn’t take Devon long either. They were one and the same, being one of Devon’s favourite superheroes and all; we accumulated our powers from our favourite heroes.
I shake my head again, not wanting to eat the mysterious gloop on the spoon or to talk to Devon. We’d been planning this one for months; studying our Superman DVDs, flicking through our comics and checking the aerodynamics with our action figures. We found the tallest tree and had my mum iron our capes. So what had gone wrong?
‘Scar, you can’t stop talking to me. I’m sorry you got hurt but we’ll try again. I promise it was just the branch that got in the way.’ Devon whispers so our mums don’t overhear our plans to try this stunt again. Devon’s brown eyes are watering. I hate making him sad; this is worse than the time I accidently snuck his Thor figure into the wash because I’d somehow managed to get paint on him. The wash had worked but when my mum hadn’t noticed and put Thor in the dryer I had feared my friendship would melt as quickly as Thor did. However, I got lucky and Devon only cried for two days before he started talking to me again, though only after I gave him my Thor to make up for it.
‘I don’t really think superheroes are fake. That would be stupid. Who would be out there saving people and capturing the baddies?’ I say, catching Devon’s eyes and giving in to stop his tears. He wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand and smiles. All is right with the world again. I could never really stop talking to him, not forever.
‘Best friends forever!’ he says, holding up his spoon-free hand then thinking better of it and resting his hand on my bed. In my current state I am unable to perform our usual handshake, which would – you know – involve the use of both my hands.
‘Best friends forever,’ I agree as Devon takes the opportunity of my opening my mouth to shove the spoon of cold slush in.
‘Superheroes have to eat, Scar,’ he says with a shrug, his tone caring, but with a slight sly smirk on his face. ‘And they don’t really roar like lions when they fly.’ With that he promptly bursts out laughing while I try not to spray mush all over the hospital bed sheets as giggles creep up my throat.
*
‘You don’t think this is dangerous?’ I shout to Devon who is standing at the base of the small hut that houses some equipment for the skatepark. I don’t know why I’m even asking him. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that what I’m doing is dumb, not least because it’s December and it’s icy out, yet here I am. But this is what Devon and I do. It’s a Friday night and after a day of being teased and taunted by Ruby and her gaggle of bullies at school we need to blow off some steam and, if I’m totally honest, I might be sixteen, but my childhood dream of being a superhero hasn’t faltered. I can say the same for D too.
‘No, you’ll be fine, Scar – it’s height that you need. Once you leap, tuck your board and you’ll fly for longer,’ D yells up at me. He has a beaming smile on his face, one that I notice – now that we’re in year eleven – makes some of the girls at school go all googly-eyed at him, which is really annoying. I shake my head to focus and take in a few deep breaths. I can do this.
I plant my foot firmly on the board, so I don’t roll before I’m ready, and I close my eyes to envision myself soaring into the sky, a symbol of what life will be like after seven more months of secondary school – but who’s counting? When I open them, I push off with my right foot. The sloping roof allows my board to pick up the speed that I need to accelerate into the air before I land in the bowl.
The edge of the roof is in sight and, just as my board hits the air, I hear someone shout, ‘What are you kids…’ I don’t hear the rest because the next second an all too familiar pain courses through my body, if not worse than the time before, and this time I immediately black out.
*
‘So much for spending the Christmas break drawing,’ I muse as I precariously lift my right arm, which happens to be my drawing arm, and wince as I take in my bright and shiny new cast. This time I added a broken arm to my fractured wrist.
‘At least it’s only one hand this time,’ Devon retorts from his sitting position by my legs. Our mums are out in the corridor, having been unable to keep their anger in. They were full-on shouting at each other, until the nurse encouraged them not to do so in front of us kids.
‘Well, it’s all right for you – at least I can still hold a camera with one hand. We can still practise auditions and keep adding to your acting reel, but I might need you to sketch for me. I’ve got this really awesome idea for a superhero dinosaur that finds itself in the present day. I don’t want to forget any visuals so I will have to make do with your terrible drawing skills,’ I say with a laugh and a roll of my eyes. I’m only teasing but whereas acting is Devon’s thing, I hate being in front of a crowd. Mine is art, so Devon knows I’m only playing. However, I notice that his shoulders are tense and he’s not joining in with my laughter. Devon hit a growth spurt in year ten and his shoulders grew so broad they’re hard to miss.
‘You’re acting funny. What’s up?’ I ask, wriggling a little in the hospital bed, suddenly feeling irritated, though I’m not sure why. There’s just something off about Devon not looking at me, averting his eyes to the floor. He doesn’t speak. ‘D, since when do we keep secrets? Something’s up. What is it? Don’t worry about my mum, you know what she’s like. They can’t stop us hanging out. They couldn’t when we were five and they’ve got no chance now. You’re stuck with me, big guy,’ I say, laughing again and sitting up so I can punch him in the bicep with my good hand.
But Devon still doesn’t say anything. Instead he gets up off the bed and stands by my tray of hospital food – complete distraction technique.
‘If you think I’m eating that again, you’ve got another thing coming,’ I say, chuckling to lighten the mood, though I can feel my palms begin to sweat, which isn’t pleasant for my right hand as it’s already hot in my cast.
‘Scar,’ Devon starts and I notice there are tears in his eyes. A lump forms in my throat and I swing my legs over the bed faster than the speed of Mercury so I’m facing him.
‘Scar, I’m leaving,’ Devon whispers as the tears roll down his cheeks.
‘What? Now? Sorry, D, I didn’t mean to keep you. They’re probably going to discharge me soon anyway. I won’t be here much longer,’ I ramble, feeling very strange at how our roles have reversed – Devon normally being the quick talker.
‘No, I’m leaving like for good,’ he mumbles, making me lean in closer to him to hear.
‘I don’t understand,’ I say, feeling utterly confused. ‘Leaving where? What?’ My eyes scrunch up; my vision is going blurry. I’m not a crier but watching the tears tumble from Devon’s eyes is killing me. I hate seeing him sad. It’s always been my job as his best friend to make them go away.
‘We’re moving to New York. Mum and Dad enrolled me in a theatre school there. We’re leaving Springhollow,’ Devon tells me. His words are coming out fast now, like he’s ripping off a plaster.
This is all too much for me to take in. I try to push myself up off the bed; I want to do something, to smack Devon in the arm playfully for pranking me with this ridiculous joke – or maybe to run, run somewhere far away to break this nightmare, but I gasp as the pain shoots up my arm, having momentarily forgotten to not put pressure on my very recently damaged appendage. Devon steps closer to me, his thighs grazing my knees. ‘It’s the middle of term – you can’t leave now,’ I say, my voice coming out high-pitched.
‘I’m sorry,’ he mutters. ‘I tried to argue my case. I don’t want to leave but they gave me no choice. Dad got a great job there and they said if I’m serious about acting they’ll support me, and I shouldn’t be ungrateful for this opportunity. The high schools there are amazing for the arts,’ he adds, wiping a stray tear from my cheek that falls without my consent. ‘Don’t cry, Scar, we’ll keep in touch. Just think of it like we’re going to different colleges or something. People go away to college all the time, and I’ll be back.’
His hands are on my shoulders now and I feel my skin heat. Devon and I are no strangers to wrestling around but something in me shifts. My heart is pounding, and I feel as if it’s being ripped from my chest. He’s always been the closest thing to me in every way, joined at the hip most would say. I feel cold at the thought of him not being right by my side. ‘How can you say that? You can’t leave me to face school alone.’ My stomach is starting to twist uncomfortably; just the thought of going to school without Devon makes me want to be sick.
‘When do you leave?’ I find myself asking in a daze. Devon drops his hands and shuffles a little on his feet. A few seconds pass before he speaks.
‘Tomorrow morning,’ he replies, barely audible.
I leap off the bed as the words register in my brain and I wince at the pain that shoots through my right arm but I don’t care in the slightest about my injury anymore. The coldness in my bones has turned to fire. My cheeks burn and anger boils in my blood.
‘How long have you known?’ I shout, pushing him with my good arm. This is not something you spring on your best friend.
The tears are streaming down Devon’s cheeks fast and hard now, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything.
‘I’m sorry, Scar, I didn’t know how to tell you. I don’t want to go, but they won’t listen to me.’ He pleads and I just glare at him, my breathing now heavy. My tears have dried up, any remaining wetness on my face has been harshly rubbed away with the back of my hand.
‘A month, they surprised me about a month ago.’ He mumbles.
‘You’ve known for a month? Get out,’ I yell with all my might. ‘Get out.’ I don’t have any control over it. The words just fly out of my mouth. I can’t even look at Devon. Just then the door swings open and both our mums race in.
‘What’s going on?’ I hear my mum ask, but I don’t turn around, I keep my gaze on the window.
‘Scar, please,’ I hear Devon say from somewhere behind me, but again I don’t look back.
‘Just go,’ I mutter, finding that breaking my arm and fracturing my hand was a lot less painful than the agony in my heart right now.
I step in from the cold, pulling my hoodie over my head, and shake off the chill. Though the weather is wonderfully wintry outside, my brow is sweaty, my body hot from my walk around the village trail. ‘Christmas is in the air, Eddie,’ I say to my goldfish as I make my way into my cosy living room after a quick pit stop in my kitchen to fill up my watering can and a tall glass of water for myself. I balance my sketchbook and my glass in one hand before carefully placing them both down on my coffee table and turning on my Christmas tree lights. I stand back for a moment, just staring at how they sparkle, and take a deep breath to calm my breathing. The fresh air has done me some good, but the walk certainly quickened my heart rate. It was one way to get my adrenaline pumping these days.
I water my potted cacti, which are strategically placed either side of my pink accent wall to give the room a beautiful pop of colour and natural vibe, before I take a seat on my couch to see that I get enough water myself. I nudge my sketchbook as I place down the glass and see Eddie looking at me through his little glass tank. ‘I got nothing but trees, Ed. I tell a lie; I did draw a bird today too,’ I tell my curious goldfish. He gives me a disapproving pout before swimming away. ‘Well, that’s not very nice.’ I let out a small sigh at how well he knows me. ‘It’s just a teeny bit of a rut, Ed, that’s all,’ I say trying to justify myself. ‘We’ll be out of it soon,’ I add quietly, more to myself than to my tiny golden friend.
By the time the sky has turned navy my sketchbook is safely stowed away, I’m showered, fed and curled up in my bed, going through my final idea for the Springhollow Christmas fair. Every company gets a stall each year to use as they desire. Our village likes to get creative. Where I work, at The Village Gazette, my boss encourages her employees to get involved to help decide what our stall will be. We each put forth our proposal and then put it to a vote.
I’m the person who has been planning and preparing since the beginning of November, allowing the excitement of the festive season to guide me. I’m feeling confident in my vision for this year, not because I have won the last three years in a row, but because I truly think this is my best idea yet to really bring the community together. With visions of gingerbread and fondant Santas dancing in my head, I place my notebook on my bedside table, glance out of my window and say a prayer for a white Christmas. It’s been a while since we had a white Christmas and a little magic in the air.
*
My alarm clock rings out and when I sit up to hit the button, panic floods through me at the time displayed on the clock. How many times did I press snooze? I jump out of bed, make a dash for the bathroom and shower as hastily as I can, grateful that my short hair doesn’t take up much of my time and thinking it might just have to be a no makeup kind of day. When I get to my wardrobe the efficient speed at which I am moving comes to a standstill as I look over my outfits. One side of my cupboard holds a small selection of awesome flares and vintage and faded tees, while the other is all lace and frills – appropriate workwear according to my mother. My eyes dart back and forth as I graze my hand over a particularly cosy-looking tee that I had purchased online one evening after dinner with my parents. My mum had spent the evening telling me that I should sign up for dance classes to put myself out there more and meet people. The shirt had been my way of rebelling. I have yet to wear it.
‘Arrrgh.’ I let out an agitated groan as I reach for a pink pencil skirt and white daisy print blouse. Rebelling will have to wait for another day. I’m going to be late.
I make it into work with five minutes to spare and make a beeline for my office. Candles are lit, the room is already toasty, satsuma essence is wafting itself around the air and my best friend, Hope, who also happens to be my boss, is already sat behind her desk tapping away at her keyboard with unsurprising alertness at this early hour of eight-fifty-five. When I walk in, she springs up from her chair and closes the door behind me.
‘Scarlett, we have a problem,’ she announces walking over to my vintage charity shop desk that’s on the other side of the room by the window. I stop pulling out my laptop from my bag and look to her so she can elaborate, but she’s taking her time, chewing her nails. Her eyes are wide behind her giant spectacles, which finish off her signature hipster meets casual businesswoman look. Her cropped linen trousers and loosely fitted white tee look super chic but she isn’t exuding her usual girl boss demeanour.
I don’t like being kept in the dark or when people build up to bad news; I’d rather they just spit it out and get it over with before my mind runs away from me with all sorts of horrible possibilities. I immediately start thinking about Hope’s mum and dad. They were healthy and happy last time I saw them, as was Jess, my other best friend. ‘Hope, what is it?’ I ask urgently.
‘I’ve been trying to figure it out myself for some time but we’re struggling, Scarlett. The magazine is struggling. With so much information online these days people aren’t buying it. Even some of the villagers have cancelled their subscriptions and I don’t know what to do, so I need all hands on deck. I need everyone’s ideas, including yours,’ she tells me, squeezing her hands together in a prayer-like position. I visibly let out a breath.
‘Jeez, Hope, I thought something had happened to Jess,’ I say and continue with my typical routine of switching on my laptop and getting comfortable at my desk.
‘I didn’t say anything had happened to Jess,’ she says shaking her head at me, her brow furrowed. ‘Scarlett, this is just as serious. I love this place; we can’t lose it. It’s not the same reading things on your phone – people need print. I’m panicking a little, but you can’t tell anyone out there. We can keep up the positivity, but encourage new input,’ she adds, pointing towards the door and to the office floor. ‘We have some time to salvage this thing, but I’m aiming for a solid plan that can take us into the New Year.’
‘Don’t panic, of course I won’t tell anyone you’re worried. We will save it. The villagers won’t want to see it crumble; they love this place too much, even if some of them have forgotten. We’ll think of something. Why don’t you come to mine tonight and we can put our heads together?’ I suggest. It was never my dream to work at The Village Gazette but it’s Hope’s dream and she has done so much for this magazine as well as making my working here a hell of a lot better than it used to be. As far as jobs go, it isn’t bad. I’d hate to think of what my mum would make me do if this place fell through. I like my job being Hope’s assistant. I get to work with my best friend. Who wouldn’t want that? But at one point in time I was a little girl who dared to dream, and that dream didn’t include copy-editing, organising schedules and doing general assistant work.
Springhollow being such a small village, Hope and I had applied to work at the magazine right out of college at the ripe old age of eighteen. Hope had always dreamt of being a journalist and overseeing the magazine one day, whereas I loved spending time with Hope and thought maybe a job at our village’s only magazine would appease both my creative aspirations and my mother. I could focus on sophisticated pieces of writing, report the news and leave my silly dreams to professionals more suited to it than me. However, my previous boss didn’t quite take to my writing style, for some reason. I tended to add my own twist and inspiration when it came to facts and what was going on in our small village; that may have included the odd alien or magic power.
Giving me the top stories or putting me out in the field was not on his agenda. I was better suited to making coffee and seeing to it that the photocopier never ran out of toner, is what I was told. I take a deep breath and open up my emails. It’s better these days, I’ve gotten used to organising meetings, scheduling appointments and helping Hope assign writers to their suited articles.
Since landing our jobs here at The Village Gazette, Hope has worked her way up from editing other people’s articles to becoming a manager, and she is a businesswoman to be reckoned with. I on the other hand have remained the coffee runner, only now I’m getting to do it for Hope and not Alfred, an older man who always wore a grey suit to match his grey hair, and didn’t much care for my creative flair. So really, I could take that as a win, maybe even say it was somewhat of a promotion, right?
‘Thanks, Scarlett. You’re the best. We’re just like Clark and Lois working at the Daily Planet,’ Hope says as she goes to sit down. I choke on the strong scent of satsuma and feign a smile, but I’m happy to be of service and to see that she’s smiling now. That’s what best friends are for.
‘Speaking of superheroes, will you come and watch the new DC movie with me tomorrow night? Jess was going to come but he can’t make it now – he has to attend his office’s Christmas do until late,’ Hope says looking up from her screen. Usually the minute the clock strikes nine she turns into business Hope until lunchtime. She must be feeling shaken by the possibility of the magazine closing, given the fact she is still talking to me at nine-thirteen. I’m determined to help her save it. At her question, I scrunch up my nose and try to compose my words gently, so as to not let her down.
‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ I say, with an apologetic nod, before trying to look busy pressing some keys in hope that she won’t try and persuade me.
‘Not one superhero movie in the ten years I’ve known you. Whatever will it take to bring you over to the dark side? Are Jess and I too nerdy for you? Can you not be seen out in public with us geeks?’ Hope says, mock pouting and wiggling her eyebrows my way. She knows this isn’t true. They are two of my favourite people and were a godsend in my life when I went to college.
I can feel a trickle of sweat on my top lip and pray that Hope hasn’t noticed that too.
‘You know how much I love you, both of you,’ I say forcing a causal laugh. ‘But Eddie has an appointment,’ I blurt out. For someone who once loved spending every day on other planets and using every bit of their imagination, I’m horrified by my lame excuse and cross my fingers under my desk hoping that Hope somehow buys it. She looks up at me over her laptop with a smirk on her face.
‘Should I be worried about you, Scarlett?’ she asks, the smirk fading slightly as a look of concern flashes across her kind features.
‘Why would you need to be worried about me?’ I ask, turning away and trying to focus on an email from Billy in horoscopes.
‘Oh, I don’t know, I’m just trying to think of all the possible reasons or events that would require a goldfish to have an appointment and I’m struggling to think of one,’ she says, waving a hand in the air casually, her lips curving into a grin again. If I wasn’t sweating under the pressure of getting out of movie night, I would probably be laughing right now too at the absurdity of what I just said, but there’s no turning back.
‘Oh, it’s OK, just a general check-up. Now, stop distracting me. We’ve got work to do if we’re going to save this magazine,’ I reply with confidence.
Hope hesitates for a moment, as if assessing me, then she gets right back to typing away at her laptop. My shoulders relax a couple of inches from my ears and inwardly I sigh with relief.
If I’m going to score the Christmas fair project and come up with a plan to save The Village Gazette I can’t lose focus and be out watching superhero movies. I love Hope and I can’t let all the work she has done here at the magazine be for nothing and see her dream fade, because leaving your best friend to go into battle alone is not something that I would ever consider doing.
The office is now deserted. The hum of the photocopier silent. The shuffling of paper has settled and only the odd creak of the old and rickety pipes can be heard as we walk down the stairs. It had been a super busy day, especially once Hope had informed everyone of the status of the magazine, minus the scary detail that we were on an incredibly tight schedule for a miracle to happen, but she hadn’t wanted them to fret over losing their jobs so close to the holidays. I had been answering questions with unwavering positivity and was so busy listening to people’s comments and views that I didn’t even get chance to nip out for mine and Hope’s usual lunchtime treat and afternoon coffee.
‘I’m proud of us for getting through the afternoon without our afternoon pick-me-up.’ I grin at Hope. It’s just gone five-thirty and we’re finally stepping out of the office and into the December evening. Our building sits around the edge of the village square so from my office window I can see the shops below: Mrs May’s Sweet Shop, Duncan’s Hairdressing, the post office, the library, Jenny’s Boutique, Kelly’s Pizzeria and the grocery stall. I have everything I could ever need around me.
The grass circle that stands in the centre of the square has to be my favourite part. With its gazebos and benches and decorations to match each season, I never tire from looking at it. Right now they are busy building and constructing the Christmas spectacle. It will soon be home to the most extravagant Christmas tree and lights will be strung up everywhere. I can’t help grinning as I gaze over at it while Hope locks up. It is also wonderfully convenient that my walk to and from work requires us to go past Mr and Mrs Rolph’s bakery, especially when Hope and I are having a little get-together, albeit the working kind. It certainly helps to have chocolate.
Rolphs’ Bakery has been a staple in Springhollow since 1947 when Mrs Rolph’s parents moved to the village from Italy. They bought an empty shell of a shop, very much a small hole in the wall and at first, they only served the freshest most mouth-watering bread. But as it started to grow, and they built up loyal customers, they began sharing all sorts of Italian delicacies with the village, delicacies that Mable and Jonathan still make to this day with many Springhollow originals of course, what with Mable having been born here and Jonathan’s family being born and raised here too. Jonathan became something of an honorary Italian after marrying Mable and passing the bread-making test. Despite my run-ins with Mrs Rolph when I was a kid, she’s lovely and one of a kind, as is her husband.
‘I think missing out on our treat means we can make up for it now,’ Hope says with an exaggerated wink as she links my arm and we fall into step. I’m not one for watching my weight. I take regular walks and hikes over the weekend and I don’t care for the diet fads and trends that come through via email asking about sponsorship and spots in our magazine, but I am becoming increasingly aware of getting older, mostly thanks to my mum. My body has remained lean since I was a child. Being outdoors all the time – skateboarding and running around, jumping off everything in sight – had done my body good. But my mum likes to remind me that getting older means your body has a mind of its own. Skateboarding used to be my activity of choice, but I gave it up along with most of my childhood joys many moons ago. Plus the idea of being the only twenty-six-year-old shredding makes me feel stupid, and the last hiding place my mum had hidden my skateboard sure was a doozy as I’m yet to find it.
We duck inside the bakery and are greeted with the most heavenly scent of the last few gingerbread men and chocolate-covered doughnuts that look as though they have been waiting in the display case just for us. The small square-shaped shop is simply decorated with family photos hung up on the light cream walls, an old-fashioned wooden counter where an Italian flag and a British one hang proudly from the ceiling above and to the right stands a wooden shelving structure that houses packaged goodies. It’s the cakes and bakes that take centre stage in this place. Mrs Rolph smiles when she looks up from cleaning the empty trays.
‘Evening, Mrs Rolph,’ Hope and I say in unison.
She stops what she’s doing by the big sink and walks over to the counter. ‘Evening, girls, what can I get you?’ she asks sweetly but I can’t respond. My heart feels like it has fallen out of its cage and landed with a thud on the ground and my hair feels like it’s sticking to my hot cheeks. I blink a few times and swat at my face, wondering if I’m dreaming. Behind Mrs Rolph on the bakery wall there is a poster, a poster of a man in red spandex wearing a white cape and gold boots. His brown hair is short and he’s baring a goofy bright smile.
For a ridiculous moment I think he’s the spitting image of Devon Wood, my childhood best friend. I pinch the skin on the back of my hand, fearing I’m hallucinating; it has been a long day. But my skin stings with my pinch and I snap my eyes away and shake my head.
‘Thanks, Mrs Rolph,’ Hope says cheerfully as the old lady places our box on the counter. Hope must have ordered while I was busy having an internal panic attack. I nod my head and pretend to tip my non-existent hat and mutter a thank you when Mrs Rolph narrows her eyes at me. Then a warm smile spreads across her face as she turns around to look at the poster and then back to me.
‘Have you not seen it yet, Scarlett dear?’ Mrs Rolph says.
‘Seen what?’ I retort. ‘Let me help you with that box, Hope. I’ve got it,’ I add, fumbling to take the box out of Hope’s more stable and secure grip, while taking a few steps back.
‘Our village has its very own superhero,’ Mrs Rolph answers, causing Hope to squeal with glee and me to hiccup in horror at her confirmation that the man on the poster was not just an uncanny lookalike but Devon himself. Shoot, so he did it, he really did it; he became an actor. Well good for him. I try to get my face to display a cool, relaxed, unbothered look but can’t be sure I’m nailing it because my eyebrows feel very close to my hairline and my cheeks are heating by the second.
‘Oh, Mrs Rolph, that movie looks amazing. I can’t believe I live in the same village where Devon Wood grew up. Did you know that this movie is his big break? He’s been relatively unknown until now. How lovely is that; to get your big break in a comic book franchise? Did you know him, Mrs Rolph? I’m going to see it on Wednesday night. I’ve been trying to get Scarlett to come with me but she’s no fun,’ Hope tells Mrs Rolph with all the excitement of my twelve-year-old self, but I have no time to get lost in what once was. We need to get out of here quick. Hope knows nothing of my vigilante days or of my childhood with Devon and I’d very much like to keep it that way.
‘Know him, the whole town knew him. Mind you I do hope he has grown up a touch and stayed out of trouble. He was always up to no good with this—’ Mrs Rolph starts to regale us with a mix of pride and distain.
‘Would you look at the time. Phew, it’s getting late and we have so much to think about and plan, what with the Christmas fair and saving the magazine,’ I blurt out while shooting Mrs Rolph an offended look. Devon and I were not always getting into trouble, getting into casts and hospital beds was more like it while trying to hone our skills in order to save the people of Springhollow from impending danger. With my words Mrs Rolph’s face softens and her wrinkles deepen.
‘What did you say about saving the magazine? Is it in trouble? Johnathan and I are happy subscribers; we’d hate to see it struggling, Hope,’ she says and I realise in my freaked-out state I just put my foot in it and let slip about the magazine’s possible demise, though my words have effectively distracted her from memory lane. I continue backing towards the door bowing with the box, needing to escape before I do further damage. Hope is looking at me with a befuddled look on her face.
‘No, don’t be silly. It’s in no trouble. How can it be in trouble with Hope at the helm? But be sure to keep subscribing. Please pass on our love to Mr Rolph and thank you for the treats,’ I say and push open the door, allowing the cool wind to chill my heated cheeks.
‘Thank you, Mrs Rolph, and please don’t worry about us. It’s just been a long day,’ Hope shouts after me as she walks through the door. She links my arm again in hers and doesn’t speak for a moment. We really do have so much to think about tonight. I wasn’t lying when I said we have tons to plan. With only two weeks until the Christmas fair, I need to bring my idea to Hope. I don’t want to think about the poster and what it means but it seems Hope has other ideas.
‘I truly can’t believe I’m friends with someone who hates superheroes and can’t keep a secret.’ Hope chuckles and tugs at my elbow as we turn onto my street. I shiver with a mixture of guilt and the frosty air. ‘Can you believe Mrs Rolph knew that guy? Did you know him growing up?’ Hope adds. I think I may have left my heart on the floor in the bakery, for where there should be a rhythm of healthy beats there is only a hollow feeling and a complete sense of dread about lying again to my best friend.
‘I can keep a secret just fine and she’s none the wiser about the magazine. I recovered,’ I say, crossing my toes and hoping that’s true, and that Mrs Rolph will not spread any rumours about the magazine, which would only put more pressure on Hope. ‘And err, nope, no, no not really. Our paths never crossed; he was one of the popular kids at school.’ My eye twitches. I try a casual shrug to loosen my shoulders. Devon was far from popular; he was a nerd just like I had been.
‘You know I was thinking,’ I start as I open my gate and walk up my path, really wanting to enjoy the evening with my best friend and not talk about village heroes, ‘that we should use this year’s Christmas fair as a way of raising money for the magazine. Maybe we split the sales of a raffle or think of a fun way of enticing people to subscribe again. We could maybe even get some ideas going in the build-up, have some festive activities going on before it. I haven’t quite sussed it all out in my head yet, but things are brewing and that way if we keep things fun the villagers don’t necessarily need to know about us struggling,’ I say with a smile, genuinely getting excited. Tying the fair and saving the magazine together might alleviate some of the pressure. Christmas is my favourite time of year. I love the Christmas fair because it is the one time of year when my creativity is actually needed, and I can indulge in all the crafts my heart desires away from my cramped and secret spare room.
For the past three years Hope has let me oversee our stall at the Springhollow fair and once the paint, glitter, sweets, and fondant come out, I’m a different person, like a fire has been lit in my belly. I can make this work.
‘That sounds great,’ Hope says matching my excitement as we enter the warmth of my house and shiver out of our boots and jackets. ‘I can’t wait. You always come up with the most crafty, bespoke and festive ideas. Sometimes I feel your talent is wasted being my personal assistant. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer being an artist, craftsperson, or something?’ Hope’s face suddenly goes from cheerful to sombre as she thinks about my career choices. She says this every Christmas and every year it makes me blink nervously.
‘Don’t be silly. This year will be the best year yet and the most important,’ I say chirpily and hurriedly changing the subject from where my talents lie. I don’t enjoy conversations about careers. While I appreciate that Hope sees and likes my crafts when it comes to the holidays, the “what do you want to be when you grow up” discussions only bring back hurtful memories, as I heard it enough from my mum when I was younger. Apparently, girls don’t write comic books or spend their time drawing aliens and otherworldly creatures. They needed proper jobs.
My plans of leaving school at sixteen and becoming an illustrator had been well and truly flattened when I broke my arm, fractured my hand and Devon had left. I was angry. I boxed up every toy, every pencil, every remnant from our childhood and spent the Christmas moping around in my pyjamas, going to hospital appointments and rowing with my mum. I didn’t want to do anything and totally failed my GCSEs as a result. I had no plans to go to college, not without Devon by my side, but my mother had other ideas. If I didn’t go to college and retake my Maths and English, I would be required to work with my mum at the hair salon. I went to college.
As it turns out, it wasn’t half bad, so long as I stuck with Jess and Hope who I met and instantly clicked with during the induction day. And though I was done with any notion of wanting to write superhero comics, I still loved creative writing and aced English in the end.
‘I love my job and I wouldn’t want to be doing anything else,’ I say as Hope walks into the living room. My mouth goes dry as the words leave my lips, but it’s not entirely untrue. Like I said before, I do like my job; I mean I love my boss. Sure, it’s not my dream job but then who actually worked their dream job? A vision of Devon in a white cape flashes across my mind as I hang up my coat.
‘Hey, Eddie,’ I hear Hope gush from the living room, which snaps me out of my thoughts. ‘I hear you have an appointment on Wednesday. I didn’t know goldfish got check-ups. I think it might be Scarlett who needs one, Ed.’
‘I heard that,’ I say, bringing in the treats and making myself comfortable on the couch.
Hope shoots me an innocent smile. ‘There’s something going on with you. I don’t know what it is yet, but I don’t believe it’s got anything to do with outings with your goldfish. Are you lonely? Do we need to get you dating again? Or is it the magazine? I promise I’m not about to make anyone redundant. We’ve got a bit of time to pull something together – I’m sure of it,’ Hope says, grabbing a cushion and hugging it.
‘I’m not lonely. How can I be lonely when I have Ed here? And I believe in us. We can and we will save the magazine. Now, stop the doom and gloom. I’ll plate up the snacks; you grab the notebooks and turn on the Christmas lights please,’ I say before walking into the kitchen and throwing cold water on my face from the sink, still feeling a little shaken by the poster back at the bakery and with the stress of wanting to do my best for Hope.
My nerves disappear when I re-enter my living room and it’s basking in twinkling Christmas lights. It is fully festive now. Hope and Jess helped me decorate two weekends ago. We like to decorate at the end of November so that we can wake up on the first of December to Christmas lights and the first day of our chocolate Advent calendars. It’s our tradition. Each year since we moved into our houses, we spend a full festive day at Hope and Jess’s doing their house and decorating their tree and the next day we spend at mine transforming it into a cosy Christmas wonderland. My tree stands to the left of my fireplace by the small rectangular window. It’s beautiful when the snow begins to fall outside, and the gold lights bounce off the glass. My couch is covered in Christmas throws and blankets, all homemade – some I have stitched myself, others made by our town’s seamstress.
Even in the British summer my couch is littered with blankets and throws of every design and softness. Hope wraps herself up in a deep woollen navy throw with sparkling light blue snowflakes cross-stitched into it; this one I helped make at the Springhollow craft fair a few autumns ago and it remains a favourite of mine. I place the snacks and hot chocolate on the table.
‘They look so much better than the protein snacks I’ve been researching this week,’ Hope notes, reaching for a doughnut. I take a seat next to her and pick up a notebook.
‘How’s that going? And is this why you’ve been trying to figure out social media? Because the magazine is struggling? You should have told me sooner,’ I say. Like me, Hope isn’t a huge fan of technology; however, recently with work she has been trying to keep up with what is going on in the media in order to keep our magazine interesting and inform the people of Springhollow what is going on in the world around us – or at least that’s what she had told me. She and Jess do get their weekly emails for the daily gossip in the comic book world, though Hope much prefers the subscriptions and newsletters that you can get in the post, so she’s a little more knowledgeable about the internet than I am.
These little nuggets of social media have only been a small part and new addition to the magazine, but like with anything to do with her job, Hope takes it seriously. This month she has been diving headfirst into the world of media influencers. What that means I have no idea, but she wanted to add a feature for the younger generation, hoping to draw them to the magazine with things that they could relate to. Now I know why she has been taking it so seriously.
‘I made these brownies with avocados that I saw an influencer post the other day and it was a giant no-no. I do not believe avocados should ever be cooked, baked, fried or served hot,’ she says with a grimace, sticking out her tongue for good measure, then she takes a huge bite from one of Mrs Rolph’s scrumptious doughnuts. ‘Plus, I can’t bake nearly half as well as Mr and Mrs Rolph, so I think I’m going to leave that one up to them. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I didn’t want to worry you with everything going on with the fair,’ she adds. I give an “Mmmm” in agreement through my own mouthful of chocolatey goodness.
Suddenly, I reach out for a napkin and grab the pen and notebook. Talking about recipes has given me an idea.
‘What if we collaborate with the baking competition? The winning recipe each week gets featured in the magazine and to enter you have to pay a pound. It adds an extra something exciting for the winner. We can ask Mr and Mrs Rolph if it’s something they would be interested in offering,’ I waffle to Hope, not having thought it through entirely but immediately thinking of the community spirit everyone shares each week. We might not raise a whole heap of money, but it would still be something. ‘And I’m putting forth my idea for the stall, right now,’ I say waving my hands in the air and crossing my toes. ‘I’m thinking a giant gingerbread-building competition and tons of cookies for everyone to decorate,’ I finish clapping my hands together.
‘I love it,’ Hope expresses, sitting up and reaching for her hot chocolate. ‘I really love it. I mean I’ll have to see what the others have come up with but you’re winning right now,’ she says with a cheeky grin.
We spend the next two hours on a sugar high from the doughnuts, gingerbread and hot chocolate, writing down, scratching out and scribbling good and bad ideas in our notebooks before Hope heads home around nine, leaving me and Eddie to sketch out a plan for the main stall. When I can focus on Christmas and avoid drawing any caped crusaders, drawing relaxes me.
I can’t quite believe it’s Friday. Tuesday evening saw me popping by my mum and dad’s house to stock up their fridge with the usual essentials of milk, bread and eggs with them due back from their annual Christmas holiday next week. I escaped going to the movies with Hope on Wednesday. She had told me to try and make it after Eddie’s appointment, but I genuinely lost track of time delivering some more food to my parents’ house and then I’d gotten distracted by wandering across to the park. After three laps of the gorgeous paths and winding layout, I had made myself comfy on a bench, people-watching while drawing up my final design for the stall in all its gingerbread goodness.
Hope had informed me on Wednesday morning that my idea had won for the fourth consecutive year. It gave me a little buzz and something to feel proud of. But after I’d sat in the park for a while, I realised I had completely missed the movie’s start time. Hope hadn’t been too disappointed with my excuse due to its content and the fact that she had been way too distracted by how awesome the movie was anyway to care if I was there or not.
On Thursday evening I had purchased supplies for the fair and made a start on the stencils for my cookies and had fallen asleep on my notebook thinking of sustainable ways to keep The Village Gazette alive and kicking.
Now, I pull my beanie a little tighter over my ears as I lock up my front door. Today there is a frosty nip in the air, the wind letting me know that snow could be just around the corner. I love the snow and I love a cosy beanie, especially at this time of year. My snapbacks had made their way out of my wardrobe during my college years. No matter how much Hope stood up for me I quickly got fed up of the negative comments about my fashion sense and my mum’s constant nagging that women don’t wear caps and especially not backwards, but my beanies aren’t going anywhere. Granted I’m wearing a light blue one with sparkly snowflakes on it that my mum bought for me, but at least this time she had acknowledged my love of beanies. Last year she had attempted to get me to wear some sort of French beret, telling me it looked sophisticated and demure. I am neither of those things, which displeases her greatly.
*
‘You look beautiful, Hope,’ my mum says as Hope and I walk into my house after college. I drop my bag on the kitchen table and look to my mum in shock.