Finding Ruby Starling Read online

  I talked that whole thing over with Mom and Dad at Pizza Prima Heaven, where we went for dinner that night, and they agreed that I would know when I was ready to want to even think about kissing another person, and that time would be when I didn’t also think about things that make me barf. It’s not you, Jedgar! I’m just 150% not ready! They also said that they knew this was coming because we are that age, and I should get more friends besides you, and I told them they were ridiculous because I have plenty of friends, even though I don’t really. I AM practically almost friends with Tink Aaron-Martin, who is mostly cool and funny and not evil and practicing to be too beautiful to exist, as though prettiness is a full-time job. Why is every other girl at our school so awful? I mean, Freddie Blue Anderson? Stella Wilson-Rawley? I can’t even imagine being friends with those girls. Or, worse, BEING those girls.

  Weirdly enough, Freddie Blue Anderson happened to ALSO be in Pizza Prima Heaven at the time, having dinner with her dad, who was texting up a storm while ignoring her completely. Mom was all, “YOU SHOULD GO SAY HI TO THAT POOR GIRL! ISN’T SHE IN YOUR CLASS AT CORTEZ?” And I was all, “I WOULD RATHER LIGHT MYSELF ON FIRE AND LEAP INTO A TAR PIT, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!” As awesome as Mom is, sometimes she just does NOT get it. Then she said, “It’s just that boy-girl friendships are fraught with drama. It would be great if you had more female friends. Female friends are SO important in life!” Which is rich, because I’m pretty sure that all Mom’s friends are male, at least all the dinosaur scientist types that she works with, and Dad and basically everyone else we know is a man.

  Anyway, I don’t think I have ever heard anyone use the word “fraught” in a sentence about me before. And I thought you would find it interesting, because you like words so much, and so I said, “Jedgar would love that word! ‘Fraught’!” My mom started laughing and Dad threw an ice cube at her, and the waiter told us to settle down because Dad actually missed and the ice cube landed on the pizza of an elderly woman in the next booth. I got the hiccups from laughing so hard, and FBA kept shooting eye-rolling glances at me across the room while she nibbled on a piece of lettuce. (Who eats lettuce in a pizza restaurant?)

  Then we started talking about dinosaur cloning.

  We are ALWAYS talking about dinosaur cloning.

  Which is OK, because it’s better than talking about how I’ve never had a girl as a good friend before, because when we talk about that, it makes me feel weird, like I forgot to do something important and I’ll never be able to catch up. It’s too late. That ship has sailed. And I will be bereft and alone forever.

  Nothing personal! You are a terrific BFF and I don’t need any girl friends anyway, so whatever! Pretend I didn’t mention it!

  And seriously, I do not want to talk about it anymore either, so let’s just let it go. Forever. (By “it,” I don’t mean “our lifelong friendship,” I just mean the thing that you said that may or may not have made our friendship fraught.)

  I will write some ideas for SHORCA! right now because it is never going to be my turn in this game.

  SHORCA!:

  The TRUE and TERRIFYING Tale of the

  Shark/Orca That Ate Everyone on the Coast of

  Oregon and Some People on Washington and

  California Beaches, Also

  Written by Ruth Quayle

  and Animated by Jedgar Johnston

  Scene One, Act One

  Show GIRL and BOY racing down the hill to the beach on a hot sunny day to sound track of hipster music, such as ukulele. BOY slips on a slug and scrapes his knee. [See what I did there? Slugs are dangerous! And should be avoided!] Show the fall in slow-mo to swelling music! Horns and cymbals!

  BOY: I’m bleeding!

  GIRL: It’s nothing! Let’s go swimming!

  BOY: It’s not like sharks will smell blood and devour me! There are no sharks here.

  GIRL (in foreshadowy voice): Well, not that you know of! Besides, everyone knows that salt water is a terrific antiseptic!

  [BOY and GIRL get to beach and run into the water, again in slow-mo.]

  GIRL: (screams)

  BOY: (screams)

  GIRL: (screams more)

  BOY: (screams more)

  (Etc!)

  SHORCA chomps up BOY and GIRL and then burps underwater — show burp bubbles rising to the music. Red swirls of blood in the water! Terrifying, etc!

  JEDWIN and ROXANNE, best friends, are watching from the shore.

  JEDWIN: Something very scary and mysterious is going on here! And I, Jedwin, and you, Roxanne, will get to the bottom of it if it’s the last thing we do! [Shakes fist at the heavens.]

  ROXANNE: We are an amazing team, even though we aren’t boyfriend-girlfriend and never will be!

  They give a teamwork fist bump and/or elaborate handshake.

  What do you think? That’s probably not up to my usual level of awesome writerliness, I know. I’m having too much internal turmoil to make it sound any good. The dialogue in Zippy was soooo stellar. I can’t believe we only got a B from Mr. M. He usually loves our stuff.

  Oh, it’s my turn for the Xbox! Gadzooks. Dad must have been distracted. Maybe there was an earthquake.

  SEND RECEIVE SEND RECEIVE SEND RECEIVE! WHY WON’T SHE ANSWER?

  Please read this e I’ve just got from someone called ‘Ruth’, from a gmail account. She sounds American. She — if it is a ‘she’ — sent it twice, to my reg mail and my school one. Do you think someone’s stalking me on the Internet?

  I knew submitting those photos to FashionForwardIsta.co.uk was the worst idea, Fi. Mum would have seriously had a wobbler if she’d seen them. I thought you deleted them when your dad discovered it! Remember how he gave us that lecture about how the entire Internet is basically where bad guys go to find girls to kidnap? This is worse than either Mum or your dad finding out. And suppose your dad is right, after all? And some madman has found my photos and made up a story of us being twins separated at birth to lure me into a false sense of security so he can strike when I’m not expecting it? Because I’d know if I had a twin. So this must be something scary and strange. It has to be!

  I mean, I am not taking it seriously. Except just a little bit. What kind of name is ‘Jedgar’? It’s a made-up name, right? I bet he just stole that from Jedward so that I’d be blinded by popstar fandom and not read too much into the details. Well, HA. I don’t even like Jedward! And I’ve never even met a Ruth who isn’t 82 years old and a friend of Nan’s. You’d think if you were going to make up a story, you’d at least make it seem like it was real.

  I’m obviously not even adopted, so why would she/he think I’d believe this daft story in the first place? Although if you look at the pictures, she does look an awful lot like me. What would you do if someone sent you pictures of yourself that aren’t you?

  What do you all think? Is it a prank or should I be scared?

  Ruby, you are being stalked!!!!!!! It is definitely stalker behaviour. Don’t you remember that film they showed us at school last term about things to be wary of, things about strange men? This is just like that!

  He’s obvs got your info from the school website, where there is that shot of you winning the spelling trophy in Year 4, and now he’s obsessed with you. That must be it. It’s quite a good photo. You look all sparkly in it. (Not that you don’t always look good, ’course you do.) (That sad fashion blog only got about a hundred hits a day! And most of them were me, checking to see if anyone had given you five stars for your fashion. Why would a stalker look at a fashion-of-the-day site, for goodness’ sake? This isn’t my fault! Can’t be!)

  What I think is that this ‘Ruth’ is trying to weaken your defences. These creeps always say ‘Oh, I’ve lost my dog, help me find it, little girl!’ and then they lure you into their unmarked white van with no windows and then … it’s all over.

  I showed the note to my dad, and he said, ‘Ooooooh, boy, what’s that all about then?’, and you just know that means he thinks it’s trouble, like he was getting a coppe
r’s sort of sense, like he does. But then he said, ‘Spam email’s getting awfully sophisticated, maybe it’s an advert? Or that phishing, like?’ But what does he know? He’s only just a constable. He never even did his A-levels. I think it’s much more likely to be a stalker who is also a Photoshopping genius who has gone mad with cutting and pasting you into scenes from some American girl’s life!

  Ruby, I’m scared for you now! You’ll have to be really cautious. Not that I think you should panic. Don’t panic. But don’t help anyone find a puppy either.

  Fi

  Gosh, Ruby, this is so exciting! What if you actually do have a twin in America? That’s fab! We lurrrrrve America. Everyone is so good-looking and posh there, with their white teeth and huge cars and things. And their really, really excellent snack foods. It’s so much better than boring old stodgy dull England. If you move there, can we visit? Specially if you live somewhere amazeog, like LA or New York! Pretty please?

  We’re jooooking! We think it’s just a prank, probs. It’s like someone’s trying to get to you ’cause he fancies you, like that spotty boy from the chip shop on Dagen’s Road. They have medicine for spots like his now, so one day he will have lovely glowing skin and maybe even decent teeth, and you’ll say, ‘Oh, why was I so awful to him when he’s such a dreamboat now?’ If you look quite closely at him, you can see he’s mostly symmetrical, and That’s Teen! mag says that symmetry is basically the same thing as beauty. So he’s actually OK, yeah.

  HOOOOooooiiiii.

  Oh, that was Chloe, she says hi. She’s laughing too hard to type properly. CHLOE, STOP IT.

  She says you should tell this ‘Ruth’ (or the Chip Shop Boy) to get stuffed. I think so too. But I’d never say that because manners are terrifically important to …

  Oh, OK. OK CHLOE. STOP.

  So, what we think is just that you should say, ‘PLEASE get stuffed’.

  Bisou! Bisou! (That means ‘kiss kiss’ in French. Très sophisticate!)

  Sophie & Chloe

  Dear Nan,

  Something strange is happening. I got a message in my email today. It’s a very bizarre message, Nan. (Yes, I know you never trusted email. And I know that opening actual letters is lovely! But people just don’t do that now. The post’s too slow, isn’t it? By the time it gets delivered, it’s already old news!)

  But THIS is a real letter that I’m writing to you! The sort you like. I hope this letter makes you happy wherever you are, because it must be somewhere, even if I think the whole idea of heaven being a big, happy field full of friendly dead relatives is mad. (That wouldn’t be ‘heaven’, it would be pretty dreadful. Imagine having to make small talk with horrid Uncle Charlie for the rest of time?)

  This email that I’m talking about is from someone named Ruth. And — you’ll probably have a laugh at this — this ‘Ruth’ says that she’s my twin sister, living in America!

  When I read that bit, though, I had this strange feeling that I was falling down, even though I was sitting on the floor. (I was in my bedroom wardrobe — you know how I’ve always loved small cosy spaces, and it’s practically a little room, like Harry Potter’s cupboard under the stairs! Except nicer — I’m leaning on the cushion you made with the rabbit on it. The rabbit is almost completely worn off now. The sad little worn-out rabbit makes me extra sad. I just so wish you were here to fix it.)

  There were all these pics attached to the email, Nan. Pictures of me, Ruby Elizabeth Starling. Only some of them weren’t of me at all, but someone who looks just exactly like a slightly smaller, crookeder, scribblier version of me. The girls say that the whole thing is probably the work of a stalker (or else the Chip Shop Boy with the spotty face!) and a good bit of Photoshopping, but I don’t know. How would that make sense? Anyway, I have one of those bad feelings that buzz round inside my brain, scaring me, and I feel like I have to stay in here and hang on tight to something, just in case.

  Remember when you died? Well, obviously you do. Shouldn’t think you’d forget that. But right before you went, you started breathing strangely, rasping and whistling and groaning and then stopping and then suddenly starting back up. My whole life feels like that right now, all stops and starts and scary sounds. I’m scared, even though ‘scared’ seems like the wrong thing to feel. A normal person would have a laugh and then move on. Not me! I think it’s something. And I’m really dreadfully afraid, and my heart is doing that twirling-around beat and my hands are sweating, like I’m on the edge of a cliff, about to jump, like I can’t stop myself from bending my knees and taking off into the nothing.

  Not that I’d ever do that, Nan! Don’t worry.

  I know you’re saying, ‘Well, darling girl, not everyone is a villain, you know’. But NAN, I can’t possibly have a twin I don’t know about! That only happens on telly or in the tabloids. I wish I had a proper family so I could show my parents and ask them what to do. But I can’t show this email to Mum. She’s only barely keeping it together since you left us, and if I mentioned this, she’d fall apart, like she did when that Dermott with the gold front tooth ditched her at the village Christmas party. Do you remember that? That was before you first got ill, before we heard about the cancer and everything turned sour. You took me shopping in London so Mum could get herself together, and I bought those fab blue suede boots. I love those. I still look at them all the time when I’m sad. The way they smell and the way the suede feels and the way, when you rub it, it changes colour. Those are the nicest boots I’ve ever had, new and everything, not from the Thrift. I wish I could have stopped my feet from growing.

  Anyway, ‘Ruth’ is obviously bonkers (or fake), because I’m not adopted, which I’d have to have been for her story to make sense. It’s not like I even could be and don’t know it, because we look exactly alike, me and Mum! (And you!) And there’s that photo in the corridor of Mum with her big stomach when she was preggers with me. She was huge! That can’t be made up.

  I wish you could write back, but I suppose you can’t. How could you get a letter to me? How many stamps does it take to get a letter from heaven? And how can someone be allowed to just email me from who-knows-where and interrupt my already-disastrous life with a bunch of photos that turn me upside down? Why can cancer just swoop through and take the best people? Why can’t all mums be really really really good at being mums, not just at, say, art? Nan, if I thought Mum would know what to do, I’d ask her, but I just don’t think she’d know, would she? Why is everything so unfair, basically ALL the time?

  I have loads of other questions too. Those are just for starters!

  Well, YOU can’t answer any of them, can you? Unless … Well, if you can, please please please do.

  Hang on, Nan. There was just a huge crash in Mum’s old studio! She’s not here, she’s at the new studio she’s renting above the gastropub, because it’s close to the library, which is where her new installation is going. Plus, she says she can’t stand to be in the old studio without you there wandering about, telling her that her latest work looks like rubbish. ‘But beautiful rubbish, darling’, you’d always say. ‘The best possible rubbish. I’m sure it’ll be lovely when it’s done’.

  Nan, was that you? Crashing? Are you trying to tell me something? Now I’m even more panicky. I’m having a hard time catching my breath! Should I call 999? I don’t even believe in ghosts!

  Love,

  Ruby

  Mum, can you pick up some paracetamol on your way home? I have a bit of a headache. It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it, if you can’t, if you’re busy. I understand. Maybe I’ll see you later, but maybe I’ll turn in early. Actually, never mind, Mum. I’m fine now.

  Hi darling, sorry, in an awful rush, heading into a meeting with the committee for final approval of this … but yes, I’ll try to remember. If I don’t, just pinch that bit between your thumb and your finger quite hard. Then count to ten or twenty. Oh, now I’ve got clay all over this iPhone! Bother.

  xooxxxoo Delilah

  Sorry, darling, aw
fully distracted. Obviously I meant to sign off as ‘Mummy’, not as ‘Delilah’! But you knew who it was! Of course. Sorry, sorry. Back to work! I’ll rush home as soon as I can. Maybe put a cold cloth on your head, you know how that helps. Feel better!

  xxoo

  Hi guys!

  I am writing you this note to say “I love you.” I think you are totes amazeballs as parents, even though you are probably looking at your screens with raised eyebrows, thinking, “I’ll translate those words later using online slang dictionaries!” (Spoiler: “Totes amazeballs” means “you are great”!)

  I just wanted to say that.

  I think maybe something MOMENTOUS, like really really big, will happen soon in all of our lives, and you might be … something about it. Like mad or sad or happy. Or I might be mad or sad or happy! Or something else! And before it all goes down, I felt like sending you this note from the couch, even though Dad is only ten feet away from me! (Hi Dad!) No, don’t worry, I am not suicidal or running away with a boy I met in a Minecraft chat room, swearsies. I’m kind of over Minecraft anyway. It gets boring after a while, and I don’t like video games when I could be making movies with Jedgar or skateboarding at the park or reading poetry or writing it or practicing ancient yoga techniques such as headstands or … doing anything else.

  I just ALSO wanted to say that you’re doing an OK job of raising me and overall things are basically pretty good around here! (A bigger allowance wouldn’t hurt. OR a pony.) So remember that, OK? If stuff gets weird.

  If you’re looking for me, Dad, I’m taking Caleb for a walk because I’m tired of watching you playing the Xbox. I’m practically getting carsick from staring at the screen while your on-screen hands swish around. You should probably step away from the TV. It’s bad for your eyes or your brain or both.

  And before you ask: Yes, I know it is hot. Yes, I will take water. Yes, I will be home for dinner. Yes, I will keep Caleb on the leash so he doesn’t run away again and show up three days later having eaten all of Mrs. Martin’s compost. Yes, my phone is in my pocket, just in case. Yes, yes, yes.