One Snowy Week in Springhollow Read online

  ONE SNOWY WEEK IN SPRINGHOLLOW

  Lucy Knott

  AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS

  www.ariafiction.com

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Lucy Knott, 2020

  The moral right of Lucy Knott to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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

  ISBN: 9781800243316

  Cover design: Lisa Brewster

  Aria

  c/o Head of Zeus

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  www.ariafiction.com

  For my Nanna; the strongest Superhero I have ever known.

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  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

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Become an Aria Addict

  Prologue

  December 2007

  ‘You really think I can do it?’ I shout, my voice a touch skittish; trepidation in my tone, followed by an excited squeal. My fists are clenched, hovering by my ears in nervous anticipation. I bend my knees to give me some bounce as I balance on the tree branch without holding on. My arms are stretched out above my head, ready for take-off.

  ‘Of course, you can do it, Scar; we’re superheroes and superheroes fly,’ Devon yells up from the safety of the grass. I don’t think that now is the time to inform him that Captain America doesn’t fly, and neither does Black Widow. That conversation probably should have happened earlier, so instead I close my eyes tight, squeeze my fists harder, do three small bounces on the balls of my feet with my knees bent and leap into the air with an almighty roar.

  When I open my eyes, I see the ground rapidly approaching. I start flapping my arms manically like a wild bird – totally not like Superman. Within half a second, I hear a loud crunch. I don’t feel any pain, yet the ground is right under my nose and the thin blades of grass are tickling my eyelashes. I exhale all the air in my lungs and that’s when it hits me.

  I hear screaming but I can’t quite tell if it’s my voice, Devon’s or both. The pain in my wrists is excruciating. Tears are flooding my face, forming a puddle in the snowy, slushy, muddy earth. I can’t move. I register Devon shouting words at me but can’t make out what he’s saying. If he’s asking me if I’m OK, he’s lost his mind. I can’t feel my hands. I think I’m going to be sick. For the first time in my twelve years of existence I think I’m going to faint, but worse than that – I don’t think I believe in superheroes anymore.

  *

  My lips are pursed into an “o” shape and I am aware they have been stuck like this since my lunch arrived an hour ago because they are actually starting to hurt, but I’m allowed to pout. My world has drastically flipped upside down; being upset is natural.

  ‘Open your mouth, Scar,’ Devon says, frustration in his voice. I deepen the crease between my brows, pucker my lips a little more and defiantly shake my head. I will not open my mouth.

  ‘Your cape got caught on a branch, Scar, that’s all. I saw it. You jumped and it whipped you back, disabling flight mode,’ Devon explains for the tenth time this afternoon. He’s taking my no longer believing in superheroes pretty hard. I am too. I don’t want to eat, and I am mad at both Devon and Superman for making me think I could fly. I wince as both my casted wrists tingle and prickle with pain. Devon tries again to feed me from the bowl of mush, which has grown colder while we’ve argued. He brings the spoon up to my mouth.

  My mum is sat at the base of my bed while Devon’s is stood by the window. Both have their lips drawn thin, no doubt individually plotting more ways to keep me and Devon apart, and thinking how they can put a stop to Devon and I watching superhero movies for good. Our parents are not close; each blames the other for our behaviour and antics. This is, after all, our second trip to the hospital this month.

  Only two weeks ago we were testing out Super Strength when Devon dropped a log on his foot, breaking two of his toes. But they healed quickly, just like Devon had told me they would, because it doesn’t take Wolverine months to recover so it wouldn’t take Devon long either. They were one and the same, being one of Devon’s favourite superheroes and all; we accumulated our powers from our favourite heroes.

  I shake my head again, not wanting to eat the mysterious gloop on the spoon or to talk to Devon. We’d been planning this one for months; studying our Superman DVDs, flicking through our comics and checking the aerodynamics with our action figures. We found the tallest tree and had my mum iron our capes. So what had gone wrong?

  ‘Scar, you can’t stop talking to me. I’m sorry you got hurt but we’ll try again. I promise it was just the branch that got in the way.’ Devon whispers so our mums don’t overhear our plans to try this stunt again. Devon’s brown eyes are watering. I hate making him sad; this is worse than the time I accidently snuck his Thor figure into the wash because I’d somehow managed to get paint on him. The wash had worked but when my mum hadn’t noticed and put Thor in the dryer I had feared my friendship would melt as quickly as Thor did. However, I got lucky and Devon only cried for two days before he started talking to me again, though only after I gave him my Thor to make up for it.

  ‘I don’t really think superheroes are fake. That would be stupid. Who would be out there saving people and capturing the baddies?’ I say, catching Devon’s eyes and giving in to stop his tears. He wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand and smiles. All is right with the world again. I could never really stop talking to him, not forever.

  ‘Best friends forever!’ he says, holding up his spoon-free hand then thinking better of it and resting his hand on my bed. In my current state I am unable to perform our usual handshake, which would – you know – involve the use of both my hands.

  ‘Best friends forever,’ I agree as Devon takes the opportunity of my opening my mouth to shove the spoon of cold slush in.

  ‘Superheroes have to eat, Scar,’ he says with a shrug, his tone caring, but with a slight sly smirk on his face. ‘And they don’t really roar like lions when they fly.’ With that he promptly bursts out laughing while I try not to spray mush all over the hospital bed sheets as giggles creep up my throat.

  *

  December 2011

  ‘You don’t think this is dangerous?’ I shout to Devon who is standing at the base of the small hut that houses some equipment for the skatepark. I
don’t know why I’m even asking him. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that what I’m doing is dumb, not least because it’s December and it’s icy out, yet here I am. But this is what Devon and I do. It’s a Friday night and after a day of being teased and taunted by Ruby and her gaggle of bullies at school we need to blow off some steam and, if I’m totally honest, I might be sixteen, but my childhood dream of being a superhero hasn’t faltered. I can say the same for D too.

  ‘No, you’ll be fine, Scar – it’s height that you need. Once you leap, tuck your board and you’ll fly for longer,’ D yells up at me. He has a beaming smile on his face, one that I notice – now that we’re in year eleven – makes some of the girls at school go all googly-eyed at him, which is really annoying. I shake my head to focus and take in a few deep breaths. I can do this.

  I plant my foot firmly on the board, so I don’t roll before I’m ready, and I close my eyes to envision myself soaring into the sky, a symbol of what life will be like after seven more months of secondary school – but who’s counting? When I open them, I push off with my right foot. The sloping roof allows my board to pick up the speed that I need to accelerate into the air before I land in the bowl.

  The edge of the roof is in sight and, just as my board hits the air, I hear someone shout, ‘What are you kids…’ I don’t hear the rest because the next second an all too familiar pain courses through my body, if not worse than the time before, and this time I immediately black out.

  *

  ‘So much for spending the Christmas break drawing,’ I muse as I precariously lift my right arm, which happens to be my drawing arm, and wince as I take in my bright and shiny new cast. This time I added a broken arm to my fractured wrist.

  ‘At least it’s only one hand this time,’ Devon retorts from his sitting position by my legs. Our mums are out in the corridor, having been unable to keep their anger in. They were full-on shouting at each other, until the nurse encouraged them not to do so in front of us kids.

  ‘Well, it’s all right for you – at least I can still hold a camera with one hand. We can still practise auditions and keep adding to your acting reel, but I might need you to sketch for me. I’ve got this really awesome idea for a superhero dinosaur that finds itself in the present day. I don’t want to forget any visuals so I will have to make do with your terrible drawing skills,’ I say with a laugh and a roll of my eyes. I’m only teasing but whereas acting is Devon’s thing, I hate being in front of a crowd. Mine is art, so Devon knows I’m only playing. However, I notice that his shoulders are tense and he’s not joining in with my laughter. Devon hit a growth spurt in year ten and his shoulders grew so broad they’re hard to miss.

  ‘You’re acting funny. What’s up?’ I ask, wriggling a little in the hospital bed, suddenly feeling irritated, though I’m not sure why. There’s just something off about Devon not looking at me, averting his eyes to the floor. He doesn’t speak. ‘D, since when do we keep secrets? Something’s up. What is it? Don’t worry about my mum, you know what she’s like. They can’t stop us hanging out. They couldn’t when we were five and they’ve got no chance now. You’re stuck with me, big guy,’ I say, laughing again and sitting up so I can punch him in the bicep with my good hand.

  But Devon still doesn’t say anything. Instead he gets up off the bed and stands by my tray of hospital food – complete distraction technique.

  ‘If you think I’m eating that again, you’ve got another thing coming,’ I say, chuckling to lighten the mood, though I can feel my palms begin to sweat, which isn’t pleasant for my right hand as it’s already hot in my cast.

  ‘Scar,’ Devon starts and I notice there are tears in his eyes. A lump forms in my throat and I swing my legs over the bed faster than the speed of Mercury so I’m facing him.

  ‘Scar, I’m leaving,’ Devon whispers as the tears roll down his cheeks.

  ‘What? Now? Sorry, D, I didn’t mean to keep you. They’re probably going to discharge me soon anyway. I won’t be here much longer,’ I ramble, feeling very strange at how our roles have reversed – Devon normally being the quick talker.

  ‘No, I’m leaving like for good,’ he mumbles, making me lean in closer to him to hear.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I say, feeling utterly confused. ‘Leaving where? What?’ My eyes scrunch up; my vision is going blurry. I’m not a crier but watching the tears tumble from Devon’s eyes is killing me. I hate seeing him sad. It’s always been my job as his best friend to make them go away.

  ‘We’re moving to New York. Mum and Dad enrolled me in a theatre school there. We’re leaving Springhollow,’ Devon tells me. His words are coming out fast now, like he’s ripping off a plaster.

  This is all too much for me to take in. I try to push myself up off the bed; I want to do something, to smack Devon in the arm playfully for pranking me with this ridiculous joke – or maybe to run, run somewhere far away to break this nightmare, but I gasp as the pain shoots up my arm, having momentarily forgotten to not put pressure on my very recently damaged appendage. Devon steps closer to me, his thighs grazing my knees. ‘It’s the middle of term – you can’t leave now,’ I say, my voice coming out high-pitched.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he mutters. ‘I tried to argue my case. I don’t want to leave but they gave me no choice. Dad got a great job there and they said if I’m serious about acting they’ll support me, and I shouldn’t be ungrateful for this opportunity. The high schools there are amazing for the arts,’ he adds, wiping a stray tear from my cheek that falls without my consent. ‘Don’t cry, Scar, we’ll keep in touch. Just think of it like we’re going to different colleges or something. People go away to college all the time, and I’ll be back.’

  His hands are on my shoulders now and I feel my skin heat. Devon and I are no strangers to wrestling around but something in me shifts. My heart is pounding, and I feel as if it’s being ripped from my chest. He’s always been the closest thing to me in every way, joined at the hip most would say. I feel cold at the thought of him not being right by my side. ‘How can you say that? You can’t leave me to face school alone.’ My stomach is starting to twist uncomfortably; just the thought of going to school without Devon makes me want to be sick.

  ‘When do you leave?’ I find myself asking in a daze. Devon drops his hands and shuffles a little on his feet. A few seconds pass before he speaks.

  ‘Tomorrow morning,’ he replies, barely audible.

  I leap off the bed as the words register in my brain and I wince at the pain that shoots through my right arm but I don’t care in the slightest about my injury anymore. The coldness in my bones has turned to fire. My cheeks burn and anger boils in my blood.

  ‘How long have you known?’ I shout, pushing him with my good arm. This is not something you spring on your best friend.

  The tears are streaming down Devon’s cheeks fast and hard now, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything.

  ‘I’m sorry, Scar, I didn’t know how to tell you. I don’t want to go, but they won’t listen to me.’ He pleads and I just glare at him, my breathing now heavy. My tears have dried up, any remaining wetness on my face has been harshly rubbed away with the back of my hand.

  ‘A month, they surprised me about a month ago.’ He mumbles.

  ‘You’ve known for a month? Get out,’ I yell with all my might. ‘Get out.’ I don’t have any control over it. The words just fly out of my mouth. I can’t even look at Devon. Just then the door swings open and both our mums race in.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I hear my mum ask, but I don’t turn around, I keep my gaze on the window.

  ‘Scar, please,’ I hear Devon say from somewhere behind me, but again I don’t look back.

  ‘Just go,’ I mutter, finding that breaking my arm and fracturing my hand was a lot less painful than the agony in my heart right now.

  1

  December Present Day

  I step in from the cold, pulling my hoodie over my head, and shake off the chill. Though the weather is
wonderfully wintry outside, my brow is sweaty, my body hot from my walk around the village trail. ‘Christmas is in the air, Eddie,’ I say to my goldfish as I make my way into my cosy living room after a quick pit stop in my kitchen to fill up my watering can and a tall glass of water for myself. I balance my sketchbook and my glass in one hand before carefully placing them both down on my coffee table and turning on my Christmas tree lights. I stand back for a moment, just staring at how they sparkle, and take a deep breath to calm my breathing. The fresh air has done me some good, but the walk certainly quickened my heart rate. It was one way to get my adrenaline pumping these days.

  I water my potted cacti, which are strategically placed either side of my pink accent wall to give the room a beautiful pop of colour and natural vibe, before I take a seat on my couch to see that I get enough water myself. I nudge my sketchbook as I place down the glass and see Eddie looking at me through his little glass tank. ‘I got nothing but trees, Ed. I tell a lie; I did draw a bird today too,’ I tell my curious goldfish. He gives me a disapproving pout before swimming away. ‘Well, that’s not very nice.’ I let out a small sigh at how well he knows me. ‘It’s just a teeny bit of a rut, Ed, that’s all,’ I say trying to justify myself. ‘We’ll be out of it soon,’ I add quietly, more to myself than to my tiny golden friend.

  By the time the sky has turned navy my sketchbook is safely stowed away, I’m showered, fed and curled up in my bed, going through my final idea for the Springhollow Christmas fair. Every company gets a stall each year to use as they desire. Our village likes to get creative. Where I work, at The Village Gazette, my boss encourages her employees to get involved to help decide what our stall will be. We each put forth our proposal and then put it to a vote.

  I’m the person who has been planning and preparing since the beginning of November, allowing the excitement of the festive season to guide me. I’m feeling confident in my vision for this year, not because I have won the last three years in a row, but because I truly think this is my best idea yet to really bring the community together. With visions of gingerbread and fondant Santas dancing in my head, I place my notebook on my bedside table, glance out of my window and say a prayer for a white Christmas. It’s been a while since we had a white Christmas and a little magic in the air.