Ariana Chambers - The New Girl

Eventually, we leave the twisty turny lanes and pull on to a slightly wider road. We’re still surrounded by fields, but every so often a car passes us so I guess we must be getting closer to Fairhollow. I press my face up against the cold window. The sky is now darkening from white to grey, as if someone’s shading it in with a pencil. I feel a flutter of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. I haven’t seen Aunt Clara since she last came to visit me and Dad, when I was about six. I wonder if she’s changed much. I have a memory of her from that day, filed away in my head like an old photo. She’s standing in the back garden, staring blankly ahead, her long golden hair blowing in the wind. I think she and Dad had just had an argument. I can remember Dad marching into the house and the back door slamming. I also remember Aunt Clara hugging me when she was leaving. She smelt like rose petals. I start to relax a bit. Hopefully it will be nice living with Mum’s sister – and hopefully I can find out more about Mum.

The road starts curving up a really steep hill.

‘Soon be there,’ the driver says, looking at me in the rear-view mirror.

I nod back at him. ‘Thank you.’

Finally, we reach the top of the hill and there’s something other than fields to look at. A town is spread out far below us, in the base of a huge valley, surrounded on either side by thick ridges of woodland.

‘You from Fairhollow?’ the driver asks as the road starts cutting down through the trees.

I shake my head. ‘No. My mum is – was. I’m going to stay with my aunt.’

‘Interesting place,’ the driver says. But again, something about the way he says it doesn’t make it sound like a good thing.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ll see.’ As our eyes meet in the rear-view mirror, the anxious feeling returns to the pit of my stomach. I look out of the window. The tree branches are spread above us like a canopy and pale wintery light is filtering through them. It would have looked really pretty if the sun was shining. Finally, we emerge from the woods and I see a sign by the road saying WELCOME TO FAIRHOLLOW . Someone has scrawled something underneath in red but it’s too small for me to make out what.

The road we’re on leads directly to Fairhollow High Street. We go past a row of tall grand houses. They all look a bit faded and worn, though, with peeling paintwork and grimy windows. When the driver stops at a crossroads and a group of kids about my age cross in front of us my skin prickles with fear. Tomorrow, I’ll be joining my new school. I think of my best friend, Ellie, again and I feel a pang of sorrow. Ellie and I have gone to school together for what feels like forever. I can’t imagine lessons without her. It feels all wrong. I watch the kids as they head into a café called The Cup and Saucer. They’re all laughing and joking, deep in conversation. The traffic light turns green and the driver heads on down the High Street. It all looks really olde worlde and there’s no sign of any kind of supermarket. Then I spot Paper Soul at the very end of the road. It’s a tall thin building, three storeys high. Its sign is hand-painted, red lettering on a black background with a silver crescent moon in the corner. As the driver pulls up, I see a dimlylit display of books in the window.

‘All right, love?’ The driver looks over his shoulder at me.

I nod. But I feel anything but as I follow him out of the taxi. My head is stuffed full of what if s. What if Aunt Clara and I don’t get along? What if she doesn’t really want me here? What if I hate it here? What if I don’t make any new friends?

The driver brings me my cases and I pay him with some of the money Dad gave me this morning.

I wait until he’s driven off and then I open the door to the shop. A bell above me jangles loudly, making me jump.

‘Hello,’ I say, nervously, as I step inside.

The shop smells of a weird mixture of incense and baking bread. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I see tall alcoves lined with books on either side of me. Just in front of me, there’s a stand-alone display. I do a quick scan of the titles: Ghost Hunting for Dummies, Haunted Castles, Spirits and Spectres. I frown. Why would Aunt Clara have a display of books like that? My dad’s always said that supernatural stuff should be renamed super-stupid . He reckons that people only go on about ghosts and stuff nowadays to keep trick-or-treaters in sweets. Maybe Aunt Clara got the books in for some kind of Halloween promotion and hasn’t bothered taking them down yet. I scan the shop for a teen fiction section. But everywhere I look seems to be the same kind of stuff: Astrology, Spirituality, New Age, Healing . I feel a pang of disappointment. In my mind, I’d been picturing Aunt Clara’s shop as cosy and bright, filled with other teenagers chatting about books, but this is more like a really old library. Hopefully the café part will be a bit more cheerful.

I drag my cases past two more alcoves of books and the shop opens out into the café area. It’s completely deserted. There’s a counter running along the back, with a handful of round tables arranged in front of it. At the centre of each table there are thick, red candles with trails of wax run down their sides like bulging veins.

‘Aunt Clara!’ I call, really loud now. This place is starting to give me the creeps.

I hear a door slamming out back and the sound of footsteps. Then Aunt Clara appears in the doorway behind the counter. At least, I think it must be Aunt Clara – she looks totally different to how I remember her. Her long hair has been cut into a sharp bob that just skims her shoulders and it’s been dyed flame red. She’s wearing a long black dress, and the only splash of colour on her – apart from her hair – is the bright turquoise pendant she’s wearing on a long silver chain around her neck. She looks at me and gasps.

‘I’m Nessa,’ I say. My face instantly starts to burn. I have this really annoying habit of flushing bright red any time I’m nervous.

‘Yes, I know,’ Aunt Clara says, still staring at me. ‘You look so . . .’

She comes out from behind the counter and stands right in front of me. Her icy blue eyes are ringed with black eyeliner, making them look even more striking. She reaches out and takes hold of a lock of my hair. It probably is too long – it’s almost down to my elbows now. I know from the one photo Dad gave me that I look like my mum. I get the same anxious bubbling in my stomach that I got in the cab, but way stronger this time, so strong it’s making my legs go weak.

‘You look so much like Celeste,’ Aunt Clara whispers. But she doesn’t smile.

‘Can I – is it OK if I sit down?’ I gesture at one of the tables.

‘Of course. Yes. Do. You must be tired. And hungry. Are you hungry? I’ll get you something to eat.’ Aunt Clara seems really nervous too, and it makes me realise what a big deal this must be for her. She never got married or had any children, and now she’s been lumbered with a thirteen-year-old she barely knows – one who looks exactly like her dead sister.

Even though I’m not hungry, I nod, not wanting to upset her. She hurries off behind the counter and returns with a glass of really bright orange juice and a chocolate brownie. I smile in relief. If there’s one thing guaranteed to make me feel better it’s a chocolate brownie. I take a huge bite. Ugh! It takes all of my willpower not to spit it straight out again. It tastes vile.

‘Ah, you’re obviously not used to beetroot brownies,’ Aunt Clara says.

I stare up at her. ‘Beetroot?’ Who puts beetroot in a brownie?!

‘Yes. It’s a vegan recipe. This is a vegan café,’ Aunt Clara explains, pointing to a blackboard on the wall with Soup of the Day: Pumpkin Seed and Potato written on it in chalk.