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  Amanda was different. She liked writing. And she was funny too. She said she might like to write a blog about the teachers at their school and what was really going on in the staff room, but that would absolutely have to be anonymous, or she’d get expelled. Or sued. Or both. She wanted to write a blog that would shock people. Casey said she was planning to blog about boys, while Debs said she couldn’t think of anything to write about. Ruby didn’t say very much at all. She had a few ideas, but nothing she wanted to share with the others. The discussion ended with everyone pledging to start their blog the very next weekend, but, as far as Ruby knew, nobody had done anything about it.

  Noah showed her how easy it was to set up a blog. You just had to choose the type you wanted and sign up to it. It was so easy that she felt embarrassed for asking. See, that’s why she didn’t talk to him these days. He made her feel stupid and ignorant and girly. She decided there and then that she wouldn’t tell the others that Noah had helped her. She’d show them all how to create their own blogs and say she’d worked it out for herself.

  After Noah had gone home, she rang Amanda. She didn’t want the day to be a complete waste. ‘So, do you wanna go shopping?’ she asked, without introducing herself. There was no need. They spoke so often that every new call felt like an extension of a previous conversation, albeit one with a long pause in between sentences.

  ‘Hey you, I thought you were with your dad.’

  ‘Long story,’ Ruby said, flatly. ‘Actually, short story. Too boring to explain. But I’m not. So, do you want to?’

  ‘Sure, why not? I could do with some new jeans. What do you want to get?’

  ‘I have no clue,’ Ruby said. ‘The sales are on and I just feel like shopping. You know.’

  Of course Amanda knew. She was a girl, wasn’t she? She understood that you don’t go shopping because you need something. Well, of course you do, sometimes, but that’s not the only reason, and definitely not the main reason. Going shopping isn’t about having things, it isn’t about owning them, it’s about acquiring them. Because however amazing what you buy seems in the shop, however much you just have to have it because it’s perfect and it makes you look three sizes smaller, and it goes with your eyes, by the time you get it home it’s just another dress, or another top. Just a thing, like all the other things you already possess. It was, Ruby thought, a bit like being Cinderella at midnight. She wondered exactly when it was that the shopping spell was broken. Did it happen, imperceptibly, as she walked out of the shop or somewhere on the way home? Sometimes she bought things and took them right back the very next day, without even taking them out of the bag, or unwrapping the tissue paper. And sometimes, if she couldn’t find the receipt, or if she left it too long, she would stuff the unwanted item to the back of the wardrobe, tags still attached, where it would remain, undiscovered, for months.

  ‘I get it,’ said Amanda. ‘I’ll meet you on the high street in half an hour.’

  My Blog

  January 21

  I still don’t know why I took those tights. Maybe I’ll never know. All I can say is, oh my God, for a few minutes at least, it made me feel incredible, amazing, the way it must feel to win the lottery or sign a record deal. It was as if I was invincible, eight feet tall, like a supermodel or an A-list star at a premiere. I floated down the high street on a magic carpet of adrenalin, my body seemingly weightless, boneless and jointless. I didn’t even need to breathe. It was a supercharged version of the buzz you get when you buy something you really, really want, only a million times more intense and a billion times more thrilling.

  I suppose this is the part where I should say, don’t try this at home, folks, because it’s dangerous and stupid and against the law. So I’ll say it now: don’t try this at home. Stealing is wrong, it’s a crime, it’s a sin. Everyone knows that. Commandment number whatever: Thou shalt not steal.

  Anyway, I don’t know if this makes it better, or worse, but the buzz didn’t last very long. Even less time than it does when you buy something, if I’m honest. It was gone before I’d turned into my road, and by the time I had walked through my front door I felt a little sick, a bit empty, like something was missing inside me, but I couldn’t say what. I took a peek at the tights in my bag, the horrible, ugly tights, and I felt foolish for taking them. Foolish and pathetic. It wasn’t worth the risk, not for those tights. What had I been thinking? Mum noticed I was quiet and asked me what was up.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I’m just tired.’

  And I was tired, so exhausted that it was as if all the adrenalin in my system had drained out of me. Still, I couldn’t sleep. I turned and I tossed, wanting to talk to someone, to confess what I’d done, but knowing I couldn’t. Who would understand, anyway? I managed a few hours and woke the next morning with what you might call a shoplifting hangover, a dull ache of guilt and a sickly feeling in the pit of my stomach. When I opened my eyes the very first thing I thought about was the packet of tights in my bag. It was as if they were calling to me from across the room, ‘We’re in here, you can’t forget about us, we won’t let you forget about us.’ I tried to ignore them but they kept calling me. ‘Look at us! We’re he-ere! Let us out!’ I put my bag inside the wardrobe and shut the door tight, but I could still hear them. Even when I went downstairs and ate my breakfast at the kitchen table, I was aware of their muffled voices in the distance. ‘Shut up,’ I whispered. ‘Go away, leave me alone.’

  If one thing was clear, it was this: I had to get rid of those tights. It wasn’t because I was worried about anyone finding them, or because I needed to destroy the evidence, or anything like that. I just didn’t want to have them in my possession for another moment. I toyed with the idea of taking them back to the shop and leaving them where I’d found them, but that was too risky. What if I got caught putting them back? It would have been easy to hide them in the dustbin, or, if I’d wanted to be ultra cautious, I suppose I could have walked up the street and thrown them away in a litter bin or a skip. But chucking them away didn’t feel like the right thing to do. Whatever I did with them had to mean something. Otherwise, I would be not only a thief, and a stupid one at that, but a waster too.

  It took me a few hours to figure it out. I was waiting at the bus stop when I saw an old lady struggle off a bus with her trolley and about eight plastic bags. As she stepped on to the pavement one of the bags caught in her skirt, revealing her swollen legs. She was wearing tan tights with holes in. At once, I realised what I had to do. No, not give her my tights, although I was tempted for a second. Imagine what she’d have thought if I’d run after her waving a packet of spare tights, like some sort of superhero … Hosiery Girl to the rescue! No, seeing her made me think there was bound to be someone, somewhere, who needed a pair of American tan tights, maybe somebody who couldn’t afford to buy them. It struck me that I could do everybody a favour by giving my tights to a shop that did care – to a charity shop. Maybe it would even cancel out the fact I’d stolen them.

  There are about eight different charity shops in my area, so I had plenty of choice. But how do you decide between cancer and mental illness or homelessness and sick animals? Draw straws? In the end, I plumped for the one with the prettiest windows, the one where they’d made the most effort. The cancer shop had a colourful display with tinsel and paper flowers and mannequins wearing dresses that were almost trendy. Somebody had tried really hard to make it look inviting.

  I took a deep breath and pushed open the door. The shop smelled fusty, like a damp garage. ‘Hello dear,’ said the woman behind the counter. She had grey hair and kind eyes and could have been aged anywhere between forty-five and seventy; I really couldn’t tell.

  I walked up to her and cleared my throat. ‘Uh, hi. Um, I have something for you,’ I said. I realised I’d never given anything to a charity shop before and wasn’t sure how to do it. Did they even take things like tights? Would it be obvious mine were stolen? Too late now. I reached into my bag and pulled out the tights. ‘I foun
d these in a drawer,’ I continued, inventing a story on the spot. ‘They were my gran’s. She died recently.’ I crossed my fingers while I said it, to protect my both my grans, who are still very much alive. ‘We were clearing stuff out. I mean, obviously I don’t want them, but I thought you could sell them to someone. For charity.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the volunteer, who didn’t appear to notice that I was babbling nervously. She took the tights from me. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  ‘I know they’re not much, but they haven’t been worn and I will bring some other stuff in too soon. Good stuff, that is.’

  ‘We’re very grateful for any donations,’ said the woman, smiling gently. She examined the packet, noting that the seal was unbroken. ‘You’ll be surprised how well unworn hosiery sells.’

  I watched her as she peeled off a tiny white sticker from a sheet and stuck it to the top left-hand corner of the box. She paused for a second, chewing her pen thoughtfully, and wrote ‘20p’ in neat handwriting. I beamed. I didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty any more. I felt pleased with myself because, in a roundabout way, I’d personally donated twenty pence to charity (or will have done when the tights are sold), which can’t be a bad thing, right? I mean, I know it’s not a lot of money, but in the store I took them from the pack of tights was on sale for two pounds fifty, and I bet they didn’t cost half that much to produce. My dad told me that shops massively mark up the prices of the things they sell – that’s how they can afford to have end of season sales and bargain bins and still make a profit. It’s all a giant con. So, if you go into your local charity shop today and you realise you’re short of a pair of American tan tights, because you’ve just laddered yours, or you can’t afford two pounds fifty, or maybe you’re planning to rob a bank, you might just be lucky and find mine. And I’m sorry if I insulted you by being so mean about them, saying they were ugly and all. But then, I don’t suppose that many people who wear American tan tights read blogs. Do they?

  Posted by Palgirl at 5:05 PM

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  Chapter 3

  Ruby and Amanda trawled the high street for hours. They weren’t conscious of it, but over the years they had developed a pattern, a trail through the shops that they habitually followed, like ants making their way across a house. Some shops they marched straight into, while at others they stopped merely to gaze in the windows before moving on. Many didn’t merit a single glance. They snaked up the road, crossing backwards and forwards, sometimes doubling back on themselves, and all the while chatting and giggling. Most of their conversations were broken, their sentences interrupted by cries of, ‘Look, there’s a sale on at …’ or ‘I love that dress!’ but neither of them minded; it was taken as read that they’d only half listen to each other. They’d have a proper chat later, over burgers and milkshakes.

  They took armfuls of clothes into changing rooms and preened in front of mirrors trying on hats and hair slides, but they bought very little. Amanda couldn’t find any jeans that fitted right, so she treated herself to a studded belt that she found in a bargain bin at her favourite boutique, while Ruby bought a scarf decorated with pink butterflies. They made mental notes about what they’d come back for when they received their monthly allowances, but Ruby knew that if she really wanted something she had only to ask her dad for it. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had to save up, or wait, for anything. Weirdly, she thought, she missed the sense of anticipation, the thrill of waking up on a Saturday morning knowing that she would finally be able to acquire the object of her lust.

  Shopping is a tiring business. Once, as an experiment, Amanda had worn a pedometer, one of those wristbands that counts your footsteps, during a particularly vigorous shopping trip, and at the end she calculated that they had covered six miles in a single afternoon. ‘They should let us go shopping instead of doing PE,’ Ruby had said, and she was only half joking. That afternoon’s shopping trip was particularly tiring for Amanda, because she’d insisted on wearing her new platform heels, instead of her usual trainers. Her feet were covered in blisters which, oddly, only seemed to hurt when she was walking on the pavement; once inside a shop she’d spy something she liked and launch herself towards it, her limp vanishing miraculously. Anaesthetised by the lure of a new dress or bag, she’d forget all about the pain of her blisters until she was out on the street again. Ruby suggested that they go to Boots to buy some plasters for her, but Amanda said they were running out of time and the shops – the good shops – would be closing soon.

  ‘You know what?’ said Ruby, studying her watch. ‘You can cut your feet to shreds if you want, but I really do want to go to Boots. And it closes in half an hour.’ She’d remembered that she needed to buy a new mascara because the one she’d been using was drying up and flaking all over her cheeks, like black dandruff.

  ‘Fine,’ said Amanda, her limp becoming more pronounced at the thought. ‘I’m in agony. I think there’s actual blood in my shoes. Gross.’

  Once they were in Boots, Ruby left Amanda to try on some new lipsticks, while she went to get her mascara. She intended to pick up her usual brand, until she noticed that displayed alongside it was a brand new formulation in a bright purple tube. Not only was it on special offer, but it also promised to quadruple the size of your lashes (hers only doubled them) and to last for up to twenty-four hours without smudging or flaking. It was called ‘Dynamite Lashes’, a name which Ruby thought bizarre. Who wants their lashes to explode? She giggled as she imagined herself at a party, wowing the other guests … And now, prepare to be amazed, astounded and showered in black fibres … Witness my amazing exploding lashes! She decided to buy it, even though it was a pound more than her usual brand, just because it appeared to offer so much more. She took her new mascara to the checkout, passing Amanda who, shoes kicked to one side, was kneeling by a display, daubing the back of her hands in different shades of lipstick. Ruby guessed her friend hadn’t bothered to find herself any blister plasters and wondered if she should buy them for her. She was considerate enough to look, but they cost five pounds and so she thought better of it. Clearly, Amanda’s feet couldn’t hurt that much, or she’d have found them for herself, wouldn’t she?

  ‘Hey, so what do you think of this colour?’ said Amanda, when Ruby came back from the checkout. She pouted strawberry pink.

  ‘Cool,’ said Ruby. ‘Suits you.’

  Amanda grinned. ‘Thanks. I thought so.’

  ‘You gonna buy it?’

  ‘Nah, I’ve run out of cash.’

  ‘Come on then. We’ve got time for one more shop.’

  Amanda got to her feet and blotted her lips with the back of her hand, before trying to wipe away the greasy lipstick marks with a bit of cotton wool. Her hands were still stained with blotches of pink and red. Self-consciously, she pulled her sleeves down to cover them. As they walked to the exit, she grimaced with the pain of her blisters and muttered something about plasters. She was fishing for sympathy again but Ruby pretended not to have heard.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ Ruby asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m —’

  BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

  ‘Shit!’ said Amanda, under her breath.

  BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

  Ruby hesitated, unsure whether to keep going through the exit doors or to hang back. The noise was shrill and relentless and the security barrier was flashing manically in time to it. BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! She stepped backwards into the shop and the sound and light show abruptly ceased. ‘Great,’ she muttered, her heart rate increasing rapidly. ‘Why does stuff like this always happen to me?’

  ‘Excuse me, miss.’ The security guard had materialised at Ruby’s side. Tall and broad, he was expressionless and apparently emotionless. He reminded Ruby of the soldiers who guard the Royal Family, the ones in the ridiculous bearskin hats, who won’t
smile for your photos and don’t flinch if you tease them. ‘Can I check your bag please, miss?’ he asked, in a monotone. He didn’t look her in the eye.

  Ruby nodded and tried to smile innocently, but she felt breathless and her cheeks were glowing hot. She stared at the floor, certain everyone was looking at her, curiously guilty, even though she had absolutely nothing to feel guilty about. ‘I’ve got the receipt,’ she said, fumbling in her coat pocket for it.

  He barely glanced at it. ‘I’m sure you have. It’s just a formality, miss.’ The security guard opened her bag and took a cursory look inside, pushing his fingers into the inside pockets. Ruby hoped he didn’t accidentally touch the shreds of tissue or the bits of old boiled sweet that she’d meant to throw away. Not that he’d react if he did, she was sure. He removed the plastic bag containing her new mascara from her handbag, and took the tube out to examine it. ‘See here,’ he said pointing to a tab on the side. ‘They haven’t scanned this properly. Happens a lot. Take it back to the counter and ask them to do it for you.’

  Ruby tutted and rolled her eyes. She didn’t like being made to feel like a criminal when it was someone else’s fault. ‘OK.’ She asked Amanda to wait for her outside while the offending tag was rescanned. There was a queue at the checkout, but she didn’t see why she should join it and so she pushed her way straight to the front. The assistant was apologetic but, Ruby thought, not apologetic enough. She didn’t look much older than Ruby; it was probably just her Saturday job.

  As they walked away from the shop, Amanda exhaled noisily. ‘Phew!’ she said. Then she giggled. ‘For a second there I thought that was me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I thought I’d got caught.’