Chocolate Box Girls Read online

  Hiya …

  They say you should write about the things you love … and there aren’t very many things I love more than chocolate! A couple of years ago I was talking to a friend whose mum had been a chocolate-maker … how cool would that be? The idea for the Chocolate Box Girls series started there!

  I’d known for a while my readers wanted a series of linked books, so they could get to know the characters and follow their stories into the future. And a series with a chocolatey theme sounded just about perfect to me … think of the research I’d need to do! It’s a tough job, chocolate-tasting, but someone has to do it …

  I decided to build the story around five sisters, part of a brand-new stepfamily where the parents have a chocolate business … there would be five books, each one told from the viewpoint of a different sister. I’ve started off with Cherry, a misfit dreamer, always on the edge of things, who suddenly finds herself moving to Somerset to be part of the cool, crazy Tanberry family. Living in a beautiful, crumbling house on a clifftop by the sea is pretty perfect … until Cherry falls for her new stepsister’s boyfriend, and everything threatens to unravel.

  I hope you like Cherry Crush … the first of the Chocolate Box Girls. It’s a story about truth and lies and life on the edge … and falling for the wrong boy. What are you waiting for? Unwrap some chocolate, curl up and try a taste of Cherry’s story … I think you’ll like it!

  Cathy Cassidy xxx

  Books by Cathy Cassidy

  DIZZY

  DRIFTWOOD

  INDIGO BLUE

  SCARLETT

  SUNDAE GIRL

  LUCKY STAR

  GINGERSNAPS

  ANGEL CAKE

  The Chocolate Box Girls series

  CHERRY CRUSH

  VANILLA SKYE

  (coming in September 2011)

  DREAMS & DOODLES DAYBOOK

  LETTERS TO CATHY

  For Younger Readers

  SHINE ON, DAIZY STAR

  DAIZY STAR AND THE PINK GUITAR

  PUFFIN

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  puffinbooks.com

  First published 2010

  Text copyright © Cathy Cassidy, 2010

  Illustrations copyright © Sara Flavell, 2010

  The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted

  All rights reserved

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-0-141-96454-6

  Thanks …

  To Liam, Cal and Caitlin as ever, for the love, the laughs and for putting up with me … and to Mum, Joan, Andy, Lori and all my fab family, both near and far. Big hugs to all my brilliant friends: Helen, Sheena, Fiona, Mary-Jane, Maggi, Jessie and everyone who has been there for chats, emails, party nights, cakes and hugs … you are the best.

  Thanks to Catriona for being a perfect PA, Martyn for doing the adding up and Darley and his angels for being all-round brilliant. A special thank you to my lovely editor Amanda for helping me uncover the story I wanted to write, and to Sara for being the best ever cover artist/designer. Thanks also to Adele, Francesca, Emily, Tania, Sarah, Kirsten, Jennie, Jayde, Lisa and the whole brilliant Puffin team, both in the UK and overseas.

  Thanks to Sophie, whose tales of a chocolate-making mum planted the seed of this idea, and to Caitlin, whose love of Japan and all things Japanese helped to shape the story.

  Most of all, though, thanks to my readers … for making it all worthwhile. You asked for a series, and here it is – hope you like it!

  Table of Contents

  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

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  1

  There are some things I will miss about Clyde Academy … things like macaroni cheese and chips, and syrup pudding with custard, and staring at the back of Ryan Clegg’s neck in art class. There are also things I will not miss, like maths tests and school stew, and Kirsty McRae. I won’t miss Kirsty McRae at all … she and her friends drive me crazy.

  They have it all … perfect hair with fancy highlights and perfect school uniform, the cool kind that comes from TopShop on Buchanan Street. They get good grades, they’re popular, the teachers like them, the boys love them.

  Everybody else just wants to BE like them … except for me. I am not like Kirsty McRae, not one little bit. I do not have perfect hair, my uniform is second hand and there’s a slightly sticky stain on the skirt where I dropped my toast and jam this morning. I don’t get good grades, mainly because I do my homework on the bus to school, and teachers don’t like me, except for my English teacher, who says I have a very vivid imagination.

  I am not totally sure if she means that as a compliment.

  I just cannot see the attraction of a girl like Kirsty.

  She isn’t even nice. When I was seven, I invited her to our flat for tea and she complained that she didn’t like bacon butties and asked why our goldfish had a dog’s name. I didn’t know that Rover was a dog’s name, back then. I guess it was Dad’s idea of a joke.

  Kirsty asked me where my mum was, and I said I didn’t have one.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she had insisted. ‘Everybody has a mum. Who cooks your tea? Who does the washing and irons your clothes?’

  ‘Dad, of course!’

  Well, he didn’t iron them, exactly. He just shook things out and laughed and said that a few creases never hurt anyone.

  ‘Are they divorced?’ she asked in a whisper. ‘Did she run away or something?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  Kirsty narrowed her eyes. ‘
Are you adopted?’ she asked. ‘Because you don’t look anything like your dad! You look … I dunno, Chinese, or Japanese, or something.’

  ‘I’m Scottish!’ I protested. ‘Just like Dad!’

  ‘I don’t think he’s your dad at all,’ she said, and when she saw my eyes brim with tears, she started to smile. When I went back to school on Monday, Kirsty had told everyone I was adopted, and that my dad swept the floor on the production line at the McBean’s Chocolate Factory.

  He did, sometimes, but still, she said it in a very mean way.

  I will not miss Kirsty McRae.

  Right on cue, Kirsty flounces into the dinner hall with her little gaggle of friends. They push their way to the front of the queue, then saunter over to the table where I am sitting alone with my macaroni cheese and chips, without even noticing I’m there. They flop down beside me with their plates of salad, flicking their hair and retouching their lipgloss and chattering about boys and dates and nail varnish.

  ‘Hey,’ Kirsty says. ‘Sorcha, I dare you to chuck a chip at Miss Jardine! Go on, I dare you!’

  Sorcha grabs a chip off my plate and flings it through the air. It lands briefly on the head teacher’s tweed-suited shoulder and then drops to the ground. Miss Jardine looks round, frowning, and her gaze fixes on me, my forkful of chips and macaroni frozen in mid-air. Her eyes narrow accusingly, but she has no proof and turns back to her dinner. Kirsty collapses into giggles, and I shoot her a frosty look.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ she scowls.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say, but my mouth twitches into a smile. Kirsty is exactly that … nothing.

  ‘Why are you smirking? You are such a freak, Cherry Costello!’ Her eyes flicker over me as though I am something small and slimy she has discovered stuck to her lettuce leaf, and for once I dare to meet her gaze. I tilt my chin and smile, and Kirsty’s face contorts with fury.

  She turns to her friends. ‘Hey, did you know Cherry’s mum thought she was such a loser that she ditched her and ran off to live on the other side of the world? What does that feel like, Cherry? To know your own mum couldn’t be bothered to stick around?’

  ‘You don’t know anything about my mum,’ I say quietly.

  Kirsty laughs. ‘Oh yes, I do, Cherry,’ she says. ‘We were at primary school together, weren’t we? Your mum’s a film star, isn’t she? In Hollywood? That’s what you told me in Primary Five. Or maybe she’s a fashion designer, living in New York. That was the story when we were in Primary Six. Let’s see, what else was there? A model, a singer, a ballet dancer … in Tokyo, Sydney, Outer Mongolia. I swear, Cherry Costello, you are such a LIAR!’

  Kirsty laughs, and I hate her then, I really, really hate her.

  ‘Leave it, Kirsty,’ Cara says, but Kirsty has never known when to leave things. She’d rather poke at them with a sharp stick until they bleed.

  ‘Your mum isn’t an actress, is she, Cherry?’ Kirsty says spitefully, and the others, even Sorcha and Cara, giggle.

  ‘No,’ I whisper, my cheeks burning.

  ‘She isn’t a fashion designer either, or a model, or a ballet dancer, is she?’

  ‘No …’

  It seems to me that the whole dinner hall has gone quiet. They want to hear what Kirsty has to say. They want to see me crumble.

  ‘They were just stories you made up, Cherry, to make yourself seem more interesting,’ Kirsty says. ‘Isn’t that right? Only it didn’t work, because you’re not interesting, not one bit. And neither is your mum.’

  There’s a pain in my chest, the hot, bitter ache of shame. I search around for something to say, a clever quip, a comeback. Nothing. I have used all of my dreams, my fantasies, already, and Kirsty has labelled them as lies. Well, maybe they were, even though a part of me believed them at the time.

  ‘Your mum is probably just a waste of space, like you,’ Kirsty says nastily.

  I push my chair back roughly, and stand. My legs are wobbly, and my hands shake as I pick up my plate. I should just take my dinner and walk away, to a different table in the furthest corner of the dinner hall, where Kirsty and her crew cannot hurt me.

  That’s what I should do.

  Then again, perhaps it’s time I showed Kirsty McRae exactly what I think of her. After all, I have nothing left to lose.

  I lift my plate of macaroni cheese and chips and tip it over Kirsty McRae’s head, watching the cheesy gloop drip down through her perfectly highlighted hair. Chips roll down her white shirtsleeves, leaving greasy trails, and ketchup spatters her creamy skin like blood.

  ‘Oh. My. God,’ Sorcha says.

  And, slowly at first, hesitantly, the whole, entire dinner hall begins to clap and cheer.

  2

  Miss Jardine is not impressed, of course. She doesn’t see it as a gesture of heroism, but more of a ‘vicious, pre-planned attack on a fellow pupil’, which is a bit much in my opinion. I mean, if I’d planned it, I’d have chosen a day when we were having stew or something. Macaroni cheese is one of my favourites.

  Still, Miss Jardine is angry, and her lips press together into a line so thin that they almost disappear.

  ‘Poor Kirsty is in the nurse’s office, having first aid,’ she tells me. ‘You are lucky she doesn’t have burns, or severe shock!’

  I raise an eyebrow. Poor Kirsty? As if. A severe shock might do her good. She could wake up and forget that she’d ever been a mean, spiteful witch. Unlikely, I suppose, but possible.

  ‘Cherry, your behaviour here has been completely unacceptable,’ Miss Jardine sniffs. ‘What has Kirsty McRae ever done to you?’

  I blink. Where do I start? Should I mention the time she flushed my PE socks down the loo, just for a laugh? Or the time she told everyone she’d seen my dad dressed up as a human chocolate bar in Sauchihall Street, handing out free samples of McBean’s Taystee Bars?

  Should I mention the things she says to other kids, the ones she REALLY doesn’t like? Last month, in art, she sliced off Janet McNally’s waist-length plait with the paper cutter. She didn’t even get into trouble. She claimed she was nowhere near the paper cutter, and somehow Janet got the blame.

  Crazy.

  ‘She called me a liar, Miss,’ I whisper.

  Miss Jardine peers at me over her glasses. ‘Liar … well, that’s a very harsh word,’ she says. ‘However, a number of teachers and pupils have commented on … shall we say … your ability to embroider the truth.’

  I blink. I think my own head teacher just called me a liar.

  ‘It does seem, Cherry, that you haven’t made the best of starts at Clyde Academy,’ she continues. ‘I have to say, I am a little concerned. I know you’ve had a rather unconventional childhood, but really, it is no excuse for your tall stories. I understand that last week you told Miss Mercier that you couldn’t hand in your art homework because a goat had eaten it. Now, really, Cherry, a goat? In Glasgow? Do you honestly expect us to believe that?’

  I honestly do, because it is the truth. We were visiting some old art school friends of Dad’s in the Borders that weekend, and I spent over an hour sitting in the sunshine making a careful pencil sketch of Dad’s fiddle. I was proud of that drawing. Then, while we were having lunch, next-door’s goat got into the garden. It ate my drawing, chewed the corner of the picnic blanket and bit my sunglasses clean in half.

  I hope it got indigestion.

  ‘If you tell too many little white lies, Cherry, there will come a point where people will stop listening to you,’ Miss Jardine goes on. ‘Have you heard the story of the boy who cried wolf?’

  ‘Yes, Miss,’ I say tiredly.

  She tells me anyway, a yawn-making story about a little boy who tells lies all the time, so that one day, when he sees a wolf and tries to tell his family, nobody believes him at all. The wolf eats him up.

  The moral of this story is clear. If I don’t stop telling fibs, I may be eaten by a wolf, and it will be nobody’s fau
lt but my own.

  ‘The tall stories will have to stop,’ she says. ‘Before they get any more out of hand. And after the summer holidays, I will arrange weekly sessions for you with the school counsellor. Today’s outburst was obviously out of character for you, but it’s worrying all the same. We want to help you, Cherry. Not just with the compulsive lying, but with your anger issues.’

  A tide of crimson seeps across my cheeks. Compulsive lying? Anger issues? What is Miss Jardine trying to say?

  ‘I won’t be here after the summer holidays, Miss,’ I say, as politely as I can. ‘My dad has fallen in love. He is giving up everything he has so we can live with his new girlfriend in a big house on the edge of a cliff in Somerset. We are going to be a proper family, and we will make a fortune selling luxury, organic chocolates.’

  Miss Jardine gives me a long, pitying look.

  ‘Really, Cherry, this is exactly the kind of thing I am talking about!’ she sniffs. ‘Of course you are not going to live on the edge of a cliff in Somerset! Your father works in McBean’s Chocolate Factory, making the Taystee Bars and sorting out the misshapes, which are neither luxury nor organic, and not likely to make anyone’s fortune, I think you’ll agree. I don’t know where you get these flights of fancy from!’

  ‘But, Miss –’

  ‘I think your father would have told us if you were leaving us, don’t you?’ she says.

  My fingers slide over the envelope in my bag. Dad’s letter to Miss Jardine has been there for five days now, getting more and more crumpled. There is an orange stain in one corner, where my bottle of Irn-Bru leaked yesterday, and a clot of sticky blue where my biro snapped. There is not much point in handing it over, not when Miss Jardine thinks the whole move-to-a-cliff-edge story is pure fantasy.

  Yes, my dad does work in McBean’s Chocolate Factory. At least he does for another fortnight, when he’ll hang up his apron and collect his last-ever wage packet and his complimentary carrier bag of misshapen Taystee Bars, the ones that somehow missed getting a layer of biscuit or a swirl of white chocolate on top or somehow ended up with a sunken, blobby kind of look. I will miss those bars.