Kitten Wars (4 page)

Jazz hadn’t seemed to notice, however. ‘So – can I hold her, or what? Only, this is getting a bit . . .’ she yawned extravagantly, ‘. . .
bor-ing
.’

I frowned at Jazz and turned my attention to the poor little kitten. ‘Are you frightened?’ I asked softly.

Jaffa looked up at me. I gasped. ‘Did you see that?’ I hissed at Jazz. ‘She nodded!’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Jazz, inspecting her chewed-off nails, painted a petrol-blue today, I noted. ‘And she told me she’d like a plate of tuna washed down with a saucer of
milk. What are you like, Bertie? You were always going on about that Kaboodle like he was a human, and now you’re doing it with this cat. Anyone would think you could “talk to the
animals”,’ she crooned in a sing-song voice. ‘Where’s she come from anyway? You never said you were getting a kitten. Does your dad know about this? Won’t he
freak?’

‘It’s OK, Dad knows all about Jaffa,’ I said quietly.

Jazz raised one eyebrow sceptically. ‘And what kind of a name is
that
?’

I felt a prickle of annoyance. ‘It’s like Jaffa Cake or Jaffa oranges – you know? Cos she’s orange.’ I was not in the mood for one of Jazz’s stupid arguments.
‘Do you want to know how I got Jaffa or what?’

I went back into the kitchen and Jazz followed, huffing and puffing. I grabbed a packet of chocolate-chip cookies to get her in a better mood, then we drew back a couple of chairs and sat down.
I put Jaffa on my lap, where she promptly fell into a deep sleep, and told Jazz the whole story about Pinkella bringing Jaffa round. (I missed out the bit about Kaboodle being in charge of the
handover, obviously, as I knew Jazz would just say something along the lines of me being clinically insane.) I burbled on about our trip to Paws for Thought and all the stuff ‘Bex’ had
advised us on, and how weird it was to suddenly have to think of all these things. (I also missed out the bit about Dad batting his eyelashes at ‘Bex’, as I knew Jazz would never let me
forget it.) And I finished by saying that the strangest thing of all was that Cat-Hater Extraordinaire, i.e. Dad, seemed to have fallen head over heels for Jaffa just like that, and hadn’t
even minded when she’d peed in the sugar bowl.

‘When she WHAT?’ Jazz said, howling with laughter and causing Jaffa to twitch in her sleep.

I shrugged. ‘Yeah, well, I guess she’ll take her time getting used to living in a new place.’

‘Yes, but the
sugar bowl
?’

‘OK, I’ve had enough of that from Dad,’ I said tetchily.

Jazz pulled a face. ‘Sor-ree. Anyway, you’re not the only one with exciting news, as it happens,’ she added, tossing her head airily and crossing her arms, pretending she
wasn’t bursting to tell me her secret.

I remembered guiltily that Jazz had mentioned something on the phone earlier. ‘Oh, yes – you said. So, er, are you going to tell me about it?’ I asked.

Jazz couldn’t keep up the cool act any longer. Her eyes flashed and she leaned in towards me, every single one of her gleaming white teeth on show in a maniacal grin.

‘A family’s moving into Pinkella’s house opposite. You’re getting new neighbours . . .’ She paused for dramatic effect. ‘And I know who they are.’

I looked carefully at my friend’s flushed face. ‘Well, whoever it is, you seem pretty excited about it. Hey! It’s not Zeb Acorn from
Summer School Dance Camp
, is
it?’

‘Are you trying to be funny?’ Jazz said darkly. ‘Cos it’s
so
not working.’

Jazz has watched her DVD of
Summer School Dance Camp
so many times it’s a miracle the DVD player doesn’t just put it on automatically every time she walks in the room. She
knows every word of every song and every tiny variation of every dance move. Oh, and she’s totally in
lurve
with Zeb Acorn, one of the actors who stars in it. And by the way
she’s going to marry him. Although I’m not sure he knows that yet.

I raised an eyebrow at her and said innocently, ‘Me? Trying to be funny?’

Jazz inhaled deeply so I cut in fast to prevent one of her tirades about how I didn’t appreciate fine music, etc etc, blah-di-blah-di-blah-blah. ‘So, who
is
going to move in
then?’

Jazz put on her knowing look again and said, ‘It’s a family. With a boy. He’s coming to our school after the holidays. He’ll be in Year 9 and he’s called
Fergus.’ She sat back, a look of smug satisfaction spread across her face like a cat who’s broken into the fish shop and helped itself to starter, main course and dessert and then
scarpered before getting caught.

‘Fergus? What kind of a name is
that
?’ I said in disgust, echoing Jazz’s earlier criticism of ‘Jaffa’ as a name. Fergus. Sounded like Fungus, like the kind
of name you’d give a pet frog, I thought sullenly. And a
boy
? Why couldn’t it have been a family with a girl my and Jazz’s age? That would’ve been cool. But a boy?
And two years above? I couldn’t see what Jazz was so excited about.

‘Like you’re any good at choosing names,’ Jazz sneered. ‘Anyway, Mum’s met them, cos they came round to see their new house yesterday and Mum and Aleisha were
passing, so they said ‘hi’. Mum says the boy’s really into music!’ Jazz squeaked. ‘He’s in a band, plays guitar
and
sings. Do you reckon they need any
backing vocals?’

OK, it was all becoming clear now. Jazz was always on the lookout for a way to further her so far non-existent singing and dancing career. She was hoping Mr New Boy on the Block was going to be
her way to fame and fortune.

‘It’s probably just some gross grungy boy band full of geeks with greasy hair,’ I said. ‘Don’t you think you’d better wait until you meet him before you get
so excited?’

Jazz leaped to her feet, her excitement instantly replaced with anger. It was freaky how quickly that girl could switch her moods sometimes.

‘You’re just jealous that I found out before you did!’ she snapped.

‘Jealous? Of what? You haven’t even met the guy yet, anyway—’

‘It’s OK, I get it,’ Jazz interrupted. She always did that if she knew she was going to lose an argument. ‘You’re too busy with your new baby. Never mind.
I’ll see you around.’

She pushed her chair back noisily and made for the door.

‘Wait, Jazz!’ I called after her, shifting awkwardly so as not to wake the ball of fluff that was still snoozing on my lap. ‘Stop! I didn’t mean . . .’

I tried to ease Jaffa into my arms without waking her so that I could go after my friend.

But it was too late. She’d slammed the door.

I looked down at Jaffa. ‘Seems like a case of “three’s a crowd”,’ I said sadly. I sighed and gently rubbed the kitten’s ear.

I couldn’t sleep that night. And it wasn’t just because I had a skittish kitten careering around my room like a bolt of lightning, chasing shadows, spiders –
anything that so much as flickered in the gloom. It was also because I felt totally hollow after Jazz had walked out on me.

I had tried talking to Dad about it after Jazz had gone, but he had given me all the usual guff about, ‘You girls are always falling out – one minute you’re best of friends,
the next minute you’re not talking. You’ll get over it.’ Thanks for nothing, Dad. He didn’t give me a chance to tell him about the new neighbours, either. I wondered if he
would even care.

I wouldn’t have minded if the argument with Jazz had been worth it. But all that huffing and puffing just because some lame boy could sing a few songs? I knew what those school
‘bands’ were like. There were some acne-fied guys at our school who’d done a gig for the fair last year to raise money for charity. ‘The Skulls’, they called
themselves. Complete ear-splitting, teeth-grinding rubbish. Jazz was off her head if she thought Mr New Boy’s band was going to be any different.

I sighed and wriggled around to find a cool patch in the bed. This summer was turning out to be hotter than any I could remember. I was desperate to have the window open, but I didn’t dare
in case Jaffa got out – and she was already pawing at the glass. I sighed. Poor Jaffa, she was probably as hot as me. Especially with all that fur.

‘Jaffa? Jaffsie! Come here, cutie. What are you doing?’

I didn’t know why I kept talking to this animal. It wasn’t as if she even purred back at me. I carried her back to my bed.

‘Hey, little Jaffs, I just don’t believe you can’t speak to me,’ I tried again later, during a moment of quiet when she was sitting on my tummy, her eyes flashing like
lamps in the gloom. ‘Maybe you can and it’s just that I’m still really unobservant.’ I hesitated, willing myself to tune into Jaffa’s wavelength. ‘Maybe
you’re cross with me for taking you away from your family?’ I ventured. ‘You know, I didn’t ask for Kaboodle to bring you here – I mean, don’t get me wrong, I am
totally thrilled that you
are
here. It’s such a dream come true, I can’t tell you.’

Jaffa made a tentative move towards my face as I said this, but thought better of it and sat back down. Then just as it seemed like she might settle down and go to sleep, something caught her
eye and she was off again, whirling round the room as though she were being chased by a pack of angry dogs.

I glanced at my alarm clock. Two o’clock! This was no good. I had to get some sleep.

I scooped up the little ginger firework and crept down to the kitchen, shutting her in the utility room, thinking at least she’d have her litter tray in there. Then I tiptoed back up the
stairs so as not to wake Dad. I needn’t have worried – he was snoring for England as usual.

I snuggled back down and closed my eyes, letting my mind wander aimlessly and at last began to drift off, dreaming that Jaffa was sitting by my ear, whispering to me in a voice that sounded like
Kaboodle’s: ‘Jazz is just jealous. She’ll get over it.’

Even in my semi-awake state, I doubted that she would.

I
n the end I slept in. I was woken by Dad banging on my door, shouting at me to ‘come and help clear up the mess downstairs’. I stomped
wearily down in my PJs to find him scrabbling around with a bucket and a mop, a look of despair etched on his face.

‘So much for cats being clean creatures,’ he muttered. ‘She’s kicked most of the litter out of the tray. It gets everywhere this stuff – look!’ He pointed
through the open utility room door to where clumps of cat litter and bits of sodden kitchen roll lay all over the floor.

I went in, tiptoeing over the mess, and grabbed a dustpan and brush.

‘Where is she?’ I asked, while I swept the dirty litter into a plastic bag.

‘I think she’s skulking up there,’ Dad answered, pointing to the wash basket on top of the washing machine. ‘I’m going to make some coffee. Come and get your
breakfast. We’re due at the vet’s in half an hour.’

I’d forgotten about that. Apparently it was important to get Jaffsie vaccinated as soon as possible.

‘Found yourself a comfy bed then!’ I said softly, peering into the laundry basket. Jaffa didn’t blink; she carried on snoozing in that snuffly kittenish way of hers that
sounded almost like snoring. ‘Don’t go getting in the washing machine again now, will you?’

Dad came up behind me with a steaming mug of coffee. ‘Hello, little Jaffa,’ he said cheerily, all comments on mess and dirt forgotten, I noticed with relief.

Jaffa unfurled from her sleeping position and arched her back in a luxurious stretch and then sat back on her haunches and reached out with her front paws. It was so sweet seeing her behave like
a fully grown cat when she was still so small!

‘Aah, have you had a lovely sleep then?’ Dad twittered, giving her back a little stroke with one finger.

Jaffa blinked at Dad.

‘Not very talkative, are we?’ Dad went on. ‘Come to think of it, Bertie,have you heard her say
anything
yet?’

I stared at him. ‘What do you mean,
say
anything?’ Had Pinkella known all along that I could talk to Kaboodle? Had she said something to Dad?

Dad looked at me strangely. ‘You know – has she mewed or made any cat-like noises, howling or – I don’t know,
anything
? It’s just she seems very quiet to me.
Do you think something’s wrong with her?’

I breathed again, relieved Dad wasn’t talking about actual words. ‘Oh, no. I mean, I don’t know whether there’s anything wrong, but I haven’t heard any miaows or
anything, no. Maybe we could ask the vet about it later?’

‘Yes!’ Dad glanced at his watch. ‘Blimey – look at the time. Come on Bertie, you have to eat and get dressed now. I’ll find a box to put Jaffa in.’

I ran upstairs and hastily pulled on a pair of crumpled jeans I’d thrown on a chair the night before, found a half-clean T-shirt and pulled my hair back into a scrunchie, then I raced back
down to stuff some toast in my mouth. Dad was cradling Jaffa in his arms, stroking her head and cooing to her. ‘I’m sure I heard her purr just now,’ he said, looking up at me as I
clattered my plate into the sink and washed my hands. I ignored him. I was beginning to get a bit annoyed about his obsession with Jaffa talking. It was like when he’d suggested names for
Jaffa: it made me feel left out somehow.

Dad didn’t notice my lack of response. He was wittering on, looking lovingly at the kitten as he spoke. ‘I was thinking about how we don’t know her age. While you were lazing
around in bed I did a bit of surfing on the internet to get advice on what to do if you find a stray kitten.’

‘Jaffa’s not a stray!’ I protested, flinching at his comment about me ‘lazing around’ while he did research on
my
kitten. ‘I was
given
her.’

‘I know,’ Dad said, soothingly. ‘But Fenella didn’t know how old she was, did she? She made out that her cat had found Jaffa.’ He laughed. ‘I know she’s
a bit bonkers, but she was quite clear that she didn’t know where Jaffa had come from. And anyway, on this website I was looking at, it says that as well as getting Jaffa inoculated against
all kinds of lurgies, we need to make sure we worm her regularly. And then there are fleas and ticks, of course.’

Dad handed me Jaffa and disappeared into the cupboard under the stairs in the hallway. He re-emerged with a cardboard box with a lid – it looked like a big shoe box. ‘This will have
to do; it had my new wellies in it,’ he said, hastily puncturing some holes in the lid with a pair of scissors.