Authors: Fiona Foden
Cassie's Crush
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Fiona Foden grew up in a tiny Yorkshire village called Goose Eye. At seventeen she landed her dream job on a teenage magazine in Scotland, and went on to be editor of
Bliss
,
More!
and
Just Seventeen
magazines. She now lives in Lanarkshire, Scotland with her husband Jimmy and their children Sam, Dexter and Erin.
When she's not writing, Fiona likes to play her sax and flute and go out running with her mad rescue dog Jack.
Cassie's Crush
is her second book for children.
Life, Death and Gold Leather Trousers
A Kiss, A Dare and a Boat Called Promise
The Boyfriend Dilemma
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For Gracie with love
Something terrible happened to me in the night. I went to bed normal but when I woke up, one boob looked bigger than the other.
Disaster! It
was
bigger. I examined it from all angles to make sure it wasn't an optical illusion or I wasn't just imagining it because I was still half asleep and dreamy. Actually, I hoped I
was
still asleep, in the middle of a one-boobed nightmare. But I wasn't. Mum was clattering about downstairs and shouting, “Cassie, could you hurry up? I'm making breakfast and I'm not doing everyone's at different times. It's not a café, you know?”
“I'm coming,” I yelled back, resisting the urge to add, “and I know it's not a café, 'cause in cafés there's food you'd actually want to eat.” Anyway, it was just toast (I could smell it burning), so what was all the fuss?
I sat on my bed, hunched over, wondering what to do. This wouldn't be so bad if I could hibernate up here, like a tortoise, getting Mum to bring me meals and stuff until my left boob caught up. But no chance of that because new term was starting today and I couldn't just not go, could I? I knew everyone would be bragging about their
amazing
Christmas presents which cost zillions of pounds ⦠until somebody noticed my non-matching boob situation and yelled, “Hey, Cassie! What did YOU get for Christmas? Different-sized boobs? Ha ha ha!” And then my life would be HELL.
I set off and called for Marcia (who has zero body worries
and
gorgeous long, glossy nearly black hair) and blurted it all out to her on the way to school. I've been friends with Marcia since she squirted paint at me in playgroup, and I don't know what I'd do without her sometimes. She can be a bit bossy but she always knows what to do. “It looks fine,” she said, squinting at my chest as we walked along.
“It's not fine. There's something wrong, definitely. Have a proper look.”
I unzipped my coat, and she stopped and really gawped at my boob, which was a bit embarrassing, as Stalking Paul was mooching along on the other side of the street. “Cassie, there's nothing wrong with it,” she hissed. “You're just being paranoid⦔
“No, I'm not! I've gone all lopsided. What am I going to do?”
“You don't need to do
anything
,” Marcia insisted. “You're fine as you are, OK?”
I fell silent for a few moments. I didn't want to hear that I was fine. I wanted my left boob to catch up with the right one by the time we got to school â i.e., in about seven and a half minutes if we walked slowly.
“Maybe I could get some stuff to put on it,” I said, looking hopefully at Marcia.
“What kind of stuff?” she asked with a frown.
I shrugged. “Dunno. Some kind of growth cream, maybe? Something to make my, er, hormones work faster⦔ I thought about this as we walked. Does growth cream actually exist? I know men can get special lotion to slap on their heads to make their hair grow back. Dad bought some once, but he's still as baldie as ever, so I reckon it's just a con. And what if it
did
work and my left boob sprouted hair and ended up as furry as a guinea pig? Or if the little boob started growing, overtook the bigger one and swelled up like a massive balloon? I'd need a reducing operation in hospital. Then it'd go all round school that I'd had a boob op.
“You're mad,” Marcia said with a chuckle, giving my arm a reassuring squeeze. “Anyway, I read that everyone's are slightly different and the smaller one catches up eventually.”
Hmmm. I still wasn't convinced, and although I let the subject drop, I felt sick with worry by the time we got to Evie's. She's a newer friend â she moved here from Scotland a couple of years ago â and is one of those people who never seem glum or upset. She came out all bouncy and happy and matching-boobed, just like Marcia. I'm the only freak around here. Maybe I'm malnourished because of Mum's awful cooking. I wondered about stuffing some kind of emergency padding into the left side of my bra, just till it sorts itself out. But what did I have on me? Only my gym kit, and I couldn't see
that
creating a natural boob shape.
“There's nothing wrong with you,” Evie exclaimed when I told her. “You're imagining it.”
“Even if there is a teeny difference,” Marcia added, linking her arm with mine, “no one's going to notice.”
We walked on in silence. I knew they were only trying to cheer me up, but nothing goes unnoticed at Tarmouth High. Especially to do with bodies.
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Outside school, everyone had gathered in clusters and was chatting excitedly about what they'd been up to in the Christmas holidays. They'd been to ice-skating shows and on shopping sprees in the sales. Amber Leech's parents had hired a pink stretch limo to celebrate her birthday. I'd watched TV, hung out in my room and been made to do the nastiest chores by Mum. At least no one noticed my boob situation, as I'd zipped my coat right up to the neck.
We had three minutes before registration, so I forced Marcia and Evie into the loo with me. We all crammed into a cubicle and I pulled off my coat, sweatshirt and polo shirt and stood there in my little white bra with the faded polka dots. Marcia stared. Evie stared. “I told you, Cass, they look totally normal to me,” Evie said, sounding a bit less convincing now.
“They're, er ⦠fine,” Marcia agreed. “Anyway, everyone's are slightly different sizes.”
“Shhhh,” I hissed, hearing someone clattering about outside our cubicle.
“What are you lot doing in there?” came a breathy little girlie voice.
We all went dead quiet.
“
What
looks totally normal?” the voice asked. It was Amber Leech. She tries to look sixteen with her eighty-five coats of mascara but speaks in this squeaky girlie voice 'cause she thinks boys like it.
I was stuck for what to do next. If we all went out at once, Amber would spread it that me, Marcia and Evie all go to the loo together. ONLY ONE PERSON AT A TIME IN A TOILET CUBICLE is one of our mile-long list of school rules. If she reported us, what would I say? That I'd felt sick and dragged in Evie and Marcia to look after me? I looked weird, but I didn't look sick.
Evie went into silent hysterics with her shoulders jiggling up and down and her auburn curls springing around her face. “
What're
different sizes?” Amber squawked.
Being the bravest, Marcia unbolted the cubicle door and strode out, followed by Evie and finally me with my sizzling red cheeks. “Can't manage to do a pee-pee on your own, Cassie?” Amber-the-Leech widened her baby blue eyes, singling out me as usual. She's got it in for me and I can't understand why.
“We were talking private business,” I snapped.
“What about?” she asked.
“I'm not telling you. It's
private
.”
“So⦔ She sniggered. “What comes in different sizes?”
She knew, and was trying to force it out of me. I could tell she knew because she was giving me this smug stare and jutting her chest out. She must have got a new push-up bra because they were completely sticky-out, like Barbie's boobs, but not plastic, obviously. I angled my left arm over the left side of my body to cover the non-boob. “Err, shoes,” I muttered. “Shoes come in different sizes.” The Leech looked down at my tragic scuffed lace-ups that Mum refuses to replace because “there's still plenty of wear in them, Cassie”. Which means, “They're not completely crushing your feet like some medieval torture device ⦠yet.”
“Nice shoes,” the Leech snorted. “Get them for Christmas?”
“No,” I growled.
“Oh. Poor Cassie in your tatty old shoes. Didn't you get many presents, then? Your mum's dog-grooming business not going too well?”
“It's going fine,” I snapped, waggling my head at Marcia and Evie as the bell went for registration. As we hurried away, I could still hear her sniggering behind us, no doubt plotting how to ruin the rest of my life.
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Then the day, and my life â
everything
â suddenly seemed brighter. All those worries about my boobs and the Leech just evaporated from my brain because, sitting right at the front in registration, was a new boy. I glanced at him and tried to tear my gaze away as I went to sit down, but I just couldn't. “Everyone, this is Ollie Peyton,” said Mr Fielding. “He's just moved to Tarmouth so I hope you'll all make him welcome.” He said this like it was ordinary, someone new coming to our school. Like Ollie was the kind of person who'd just blend into the background and you'd hardly notice him.
But
I
noticed him. You couldn't not, really, even if Mr Fielding wasn't doing his introduction thing. New Ollie has dark brown eyes that make you think of sweet, melty chocolate. His longish light brown hair's all soft and wavy. His skin's light brown too â a goldenish colour, like he spends most of his time on sunny beaches, even in January. I could hardly stop looking. My heart felt strange, like it was pumping away at twice its normal speed. This had never happened to me before â well, not like this â and I wasn't sure if I liked it, especially as I could feel my cheeks burning up. Marcia was grinning at me and Evie pointed at her cheeks and mouthed,
You've gone red
.
“You've moved here from London, haven't you, Ollie?” Mr Fielding asked.
“Uh-huh,” Ollie said.
London. Wow. What was he doing in a clapped-out old seaside town like Tarmouth? I couldn't stop staring. You could tell he's not from around here, just by looking. He's kind of ⦠exotic. And he seemed totally comfortable sitting there, even with everyone gawping at him.
My chest felt all tight and my heart was still beating really fast. I got out my furry pencil case to fiddle with so New Ollie wouldn't think I was a staring weirdo.
“Er, what are you doing, Cassie?” Mr Fielding asked with a smirk.
“Um, nothing,” I muttered. I'd got out my hairbrush too, and was actually
brushing
my pencil case without realizing. I was acting like I was about seven years old, not thirteen and a half, making a complete idiot of myself. It was as if I'd forgotten how to be normal.
“Would you mind grooming your pencil case another time?” Mr Fielding said in a teasing voice.
Everyone sniggered as I stuffed my brush back into my bag. Great. First sighting of Ollie and already he thinks I treat my pencil case like a pet.
“So,” Mr Fielding went on, “I'd be grateful if you'd all help Ollie settle in and show him how friendly and welcoming we are at Tarmouth High.” Then he beamed round at everyone and took the register.
The first time he read out my name, I missed it. My head was too full of Ollie and how I could be friendly and welcoming. Should I offer to show him round? Be his personal guide? Ask what he does outside school? I could tell him that most people go down the street for lunch, and that Zest do great baguettes.
“Cassie Malone! Hello!” Mr Fielding called out, waving and making my cheeks burn even redder.
“Er, sorry,” I mumbled. “I'm here.”
“I can see that, Cassie. At least I can see that you're here
in body
. But I'm worried that your mind is somewhere else.” He gave Ollie a quick look and snorted through his nose.
“Sorry,” I muttered again. Evie started grinning and doing this eye-wiggling thing in Ollie's direction. Marcia caught my eye again too. She looked at Ollie and then at me, and I knew she knew exactly where my mind had drifted off to.
I was still figuring out how to
personally
help Ollie settle into Tarmouth Highâ¦
Â
English first period. My eyes kept swivelling towards Ollie like I couldn't control them.
Swivel
, they'd go.
Swivel-swivel
, even when I tried my hardest to keep my gaze fixed on my jotter. I was trying so hard to stop eye-swivelling because I didn't want Miss Rashley (demon teacher of Tarmouth High) to hate me any more than she does already. I think Ollie noticed, though, because during one of my eye-swivels he glanced over at me, and for about a fiftieth of a second we were looking at each other. Everything went sort of slow-motion and fuzzy, like in a film (maybe I was just imagining that bit). And I'm pretty sure the
tiniest
smile flickered on his lips.
My heart was crashing about and I was scared that Stalking Paul, who was sitting about three centimetres away, would hear it and think it was because of
him
. I had to force myself to get on with my work, because Miss Rashley kept glaring at me from her desk. Last parents' evening, she told my parents I have an “attitude problem” and “find it impossible to keep on task”. How can anyone keep “on task” when a crush has come on without any warning at all? If it was making me start grooming my pencil case, what chance was there of concentrating on the poetry of Ted Hughes?
