The Offline Diaries

  First published in the United Kingdom by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2022

  Published in this ebook edition in 2022

  HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,

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  Text copyright © Yomi Adegoke and Elizabeth Uviebinené 2022

  Illustrations copyright © Tequitia Andrews and Ruthine Burton 2022

  Cover illustration copyright © Tequitia Andres 2022

  Cover design copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2022

  All rights reserved.

  Yomi Adegoke, Elizabeth Uviebinené, Tequitia Andrews and Ruthine Burton assert the moral right to be identified as the authors and illustrators of the work respectively.

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

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008444778

  Ebook Edition © April 2022 ISBN: 9780008444792

  Version: 2022-04-12

  For best friends everywhere

  E. U.

  For the younger Yomi and Elizabeth –

  we couldn’t have done it without you

  Y. A.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: Ade

  Chapter 2: Shanice

  Chapter 3: Chatback

  Chapter 4: Shanice

  Chapter 5: Ade

  Chapter 6: Shanice

  Chapter 7: Chatback

  Chapter 8: Shanice

  Chapter 9: Ade

  Chapter 10: Shanice

  Chapter 11: Ade

  Chapter 12: Chatback

  Chapter 13: Ade

  Chapter 14: Shanice

  Chapter 15: Chatback

  Chapter 16: Shanice

  Chapter 17: Ade

  Chapter 18: Shanice

  Chapter 19: Chatback

  Chapter 20: Shanice

  Chapter 21: Ade

  Chapter 22: Shanice

  Chapter 23: Chatback

  Chapter 24: Shanice

  Chapter 25: Ade

  Chapter 26: Shanice

  Chapter 27: Chatback

  Chapter 28: Shanice

  Chapter 29: Ade

  Chapter 30: Chatback

  Chapter 31: Shanice

  Chapter 32: Chatback

  Chapter 33: Shanice

  Chapter 34: Chatback

  Chapter 35: Shanice

  Chapter 36: Shanice

  Chapter 37: Ade

  Chapter 38: Shanice

  Chapter 39: Shanice

  Chapter 40: Chatback

  Chapter 41: Ade

  Chapter 42: Shanice

  About the Publisher

  Dear Diary,

  I DON’T KNOW WHY I BOTHER. I can barely hear myself think these days, even when locked away in my room. I’ve turned off the telly, kicked Funmi into Bisi’s new room (all three of us will fight about that later, but she’s out so I’m enjoying the quiet before the storm), shut the curtains, put a pillow up against the door and still – non-stop racket. Aunty Kim says my writing is important, and especially so now because, even with all the drama, I still manage to write down what I think and feel and stuff. Sometimes I agree with her, but other times I’m just like, what’s the point of trying when no one ever shuts up around here?

  You know what makes it even more annoying? The fact that I’m the one constantly getting told off for making too much noise, and for having too much attitude. By my mum, by my old teachers, probably by my new ones when I start school on Monday. Any time I say what I think, it’s, ‘Ade, you’re being disrespectful,’ or, ‘Ade, you’re being rude.’

  That’s why I write so much – when I try to say how I feel in real life, at home or at my old school, I’m told I’m ‘talking back’. It’s like, if someone is older than you, they’re allowed to talk at you, not to you. If you disagree with them, you shouldn’t respond, as they’ll say that’s rude too! Having any sort of opinion on an issue is an issue.

  At least when I’m a famous novelist, and I eventually publish this, it will be evidence of how crazy my family is. This place is a madhouse – Funmi is so hyper and so randomly demanding I don’t call her my ‘little sister’ any more because, as she claims, ‘I’m not little – we’re the same height.’ No wonder Bisi is always having a go at Funmi – she bounces around the house like an idiot ball and usually ends up in Bisi’s new room, knocking something expensive over in the process. Then Bisi shouts at her, Funmi cries and Bisi gets shouted at by Mum and, instead of crying, Bisi gets angry (or angrier) and goes back to ignoring us all.

  Bisi has a go at everyone though, to be fair; sixteen going on sixty, she’s a total killjoy and a terrible advert for getting older. She is always skulking around the house, in a mood about coursework or spots or another stupid boyfriend gone wrong (which she isn’t even allowed to have – sometimes, when she used to sneak out to see whoever it was, she’d pay me in chocolate for my silence). Bisi can and will argue with anyone. Once, when we were out shopping with Mum, I saw her square up to a mannequin she thought had bumped into her!

  And then there’s Mum. If she isn’t complaining about the dishes that have only just hit the sink, she’s pestering me about homework I don’t even have. Meanwhile, he is asking me why I seem to talk non-stop to everyone but him.

  Duh – ‘Because you’re annoying and I don’t like you! Well, I like you even less than everyone else, which is saying something.’

  And then Mum starts up again about how I have to be nice to him because he’s my stepdad, and I remind her he was her choice, not ours. Plus, it’s all his fault we had to move house in the first place. And then Bisi and Funmi pipe up that they quite like him actually, and I remind them that not everyone can be so easily bought off with Alton Towers trips and H&M vouchers.

  I swear, if my sisters didn’t look pretty much exactly like me – same slanty brown eyes and long, lanky limbs – I would think I was adopted. I’m the second youngest in this house (I’m just about to turn thirteen finally!), but half the time I feel like the only one with any sense. They all gang up on me – even Funmi takes Bisi and Mum’s side when it comes to him, although she’s only been my little sister for, oh, seven years, and known him all of ten minutes. What makes it even worse is that he will be the one sticking up for me (the suck-up), trying to make me look bad by playing the saint. Whatever. We’ll only go and have the same fight again in a few days. Same old poo, different toilet.

  Well, different poo and different toilet now, since we’re in this horrible new house, in this horrible new town, and I’m about to start some horrible new school. We’ve been here a week already and it still feels all wrong – and, to make the worst of matters even WORSE, we’re only here because he got a new job, which means we’ve had to leave everything behind just so he can be closer to it. And that means I’m further away from everything that matters to me: my school. My friends. My favourite park. The old house. Aunty Kim. Dad. The local park here is a good thirty-minute walk away and the closest shopping centre is a whole bus journey! Mum thinks the fact my room is bigger makes up for it, but I still have to share it with Funmi, and she’s still a pain, so nothing’s really changed except that things have got even more annoying.

  Today, though, there was the teeniest, tiniest of signs that maybe this place isn’t a total dump. Even in this new town, I can’t escape Mum’s endless visits to the hairdresser’s. She dragged me and Funmi along to get her hair braided yet again (she’s going for a copper colour this time, and, despite what she thinks, it doesn’t make her look any younger).

  She was recommended this place on the high street called Powers. It looked pretty dingy from the outside and even had one window blacked out with a bin liner. But, when we got inside, it was much nicer than the usual salons Mum goes to – it smelled like vanilla and shea butter, and was shiny and sleek, like a laboratory. There were two women in black aprons with Powers sewn on, in silver italics, like the sign outside; one was lathering up a customer’s hair with soapy lavender bubbles and another younger stylist was texting away on her phone lazily as she waited for something to do.

  ‘Hello, ladies!’ a booming voice greeted us from behind the counter. ‘How can I help you today?’

  It was the salon owner – Matthew – and he was tall and slim with a serious face. After showing him a picture of what she wanted, he took Mum over to one of the stylists, and she sat down wearily, prepping herself for four hours of haircare.

  At this point, I was already dreading the thought of spending the whole afternoon flicking through magazines older than I am and dodging the bogeys Funmi was flicking at me (yes, she still picks her nose – so childish). I began rummaging through my bag, so I could spend a bit of time writ
ing in my diary, and then Matthew turned to me. He glanced at the diary and grinned.

  ‘You must be around my daughter’s age,’ he said with a nod. ‘Let me introduce you to her – I have a feeling you two will get on.’

  She was sitting on a brown leather couch in the corner, and had these really cool chunky braids that stopped just below her chin. She was also scribbling in a big pink diary – a big pink diary that looked exactly like MINE! Same colour, same design, only hers wasn’t decorated with all my fab stickers and cutouts.

  ‘This is Shanice,’ Matthew said, gesturing at his daughter. She looked up, seemed to size me up and went back to writing vigorously. ‘Shanice, this is …’

  ‘I’m Ade,’ I said, shuffling on the spot. ‘New to the area.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ Shanice said, glancing up after a moment. ‘And nice journal!’ We both began to grin.

  Here comes the really cool part: since we’ve moved here, I don’t think I’ve had a real conversation with anyone I don’t already know, but Shanice and I spoke non-stop at the salon. She loves writing – like me! Her favourite colour is pink too. We don’t agree on everything, and that’s fine –

  We were interrupted every so often by Funmi doing something gross, but guess what? Shanice just laughed it off every time! Even the non-stop farting! It wasn’t even embarrassing. But, most importantly, she has a diary too, though she calls hers a journal, which sounds so mature and posh.

  I said I’d give hers a makeover – sequins, stickers, glitter, photos, the lot. I have NEVER told any of my schoolfriends about my diary because I assumed they’d think it was a bit babyish. But Shanice says it’s actually very grown-up and a good way of dealing with your thoughts and feelings and stuff. She’s really nice and the one good thing so far about this move.

  We got on so well that, by the time Mum’s hair was finished, it felt like no time had passed at all. And Mum was really happy that I’d made a friend (though it’s, like, chill out, Mum – I’ve barely known her a day, ugh). Anyway, we’re going to stay in touch and hopefully hang out soon. Today was different, and I think Shanice is a bit different too. Just sent her an invite on ChatBack. Let’s see if she accepts …

  

  Hey,

  It felt weird when Mrs P gave me this as a present on my birthday. A whole book to write stuff in. (Mrs P is a teacher at Archbishop Academy – one of the nicest in the school – and she also happens to live on our street, and used to babysit me sometimes when I was little.)

  ‘Happy birthday, Shanice,’ she said. ‘Here, this is your very own special journal – I want you to write about anything and everything in it.’

  Okay. What’s a journal? I thought to myself, and what trick is Mrs P trying to pull? She could tell I was confused.

  ‘Isn’t this a diary?’ I said.

  She looked at me with a cheeky smile like she knew a secret I didn’t. ‘Shanice Powers, you’re brimming with ideas and creativity. You need somewhere to write them all down – no more scraps of paper. Some day, one of your ideas will change the world.’

  Now it was my turn to look at her in a weird way.

  Sure. Change the world? Isn’t that what politicians do? It sounds sooo long and boring. But I guessed it was about time I graduated from scraps of paper and on to a journal. Dad says if he sees one more bit of paper in my room he’s going to flush them all down the toilet. Gosh, he can be so dramatic. He basically went ballistic last week when he found that I’d written on a ‘very important letter’ – he wouldn’t shut up about it all afternoon. How was I meant to know? If it was that important, then it shouldn’t have been left on the kitchen table. Duh.

  I’d had an idea at breakfast, and so of course I had to write it down quickly somewhere. Maybe on his ‘very important letter’ wasn’t such a great idea. But anyway I always have ideas when eating Coco Pops. I’m only allowed them once a week. (My dentist says I’m addicted to sugar. Who isn’t???)

  So this journal is the first time I’m writing stuff down all in one place. Hmmm. My head gets so full of random muddled thoughts, and I just have to get them out!!! I need to remember to carry the journal with me everywhere too. At the age of seven, I got into so much trouble when I was caught writing on walls. I saw Dad doing it first: ‘Come, child, stand up straight and let me measure you,’ he’d say, and then he’d mark my height on the wall with a pencil.

  Dad thinks the journal is a good idea, seeing as, ‘You don’t talk to anybody these days.’

  I think he sometimes wishes I was more outgoing and chatty. I overheard him on the phone to someone (I suspect Mrs P), and he called me a loner. The thing is, I just never know what to say any more, to anyone … ever since Mum …

  I just don’t understand why Dad is on my case so much. At least my bedroom doesn’t have smelly socks and empty crisp packets like my older brother James’s room. When he stays locked up in there, Dad doesn’t say anything, but if I do – it’s a problem. James thinks the world revolves round him – and it does! I’m sick of being treated differently.

  But anyway today was another Saturday sitting in Dad’s shop, which is always boring, but at least I could journal. It was either that or go to Mrs P’s house. I know she means well, but I find her suffocating at times. Plus, her dog Rufus doesn’t like me and barks too much. Maybe Dad’s right and I am a loner.

  I know my next birthday is going to be a weird one. I do want to be alone. I miss our birthday trips to the ice-cream parlour, when Dad would get me waffles with extra cream and sprinkles on top, then Mum would get fake annoyed and say, ‘That’s your lot, missy. This is all the sugar you’re getting until your next birthday.’

  Of course it never was. I used to have her wrapped round my little finger.

  Dad got me clothes this year. How boring! Who wants a T-shirt with Little Miss Misunderstood and a silver elephant on it? What am I – five? He thought it was funny too! I think I might put it in a bin when he’s not looking. The only good thing about it is that it’s pink – at least he got that right. Can you imagine walking around with a T-shirt saying Little Miss Misunderstood? Yeah, great way to make myself even more of a target at school than I already am.

  At least at the shop I can people-watch. I love observing the customers and then making up stories about them.

  This Saturday, a woman comes in with a big brown fur coat, black knee-high boots and a huge floppy hat. She looks like a spy, as if she’s hiding something. I haven’t seen her in here before, probably a newbie – she seems unsure of her surroundings. I see her whispering something to Dad, and he raises his hand to his mouth and gasps, as if they’re having a secret conversation. What did I say about my dad being dramatic? I can tell he’s trying not to laugh. I wonder what’s going on there. Why do people take hair so seriously? It’s just hair.

  If people aren’t having secret convos in here, they’re being really loud and complaining. Adults are weird. Do any of them actually like each other? Today Janet, one of my dad’s regulars, is moaning about her husband: ‘He never puts anything away. It’s like living with another child,’ she says from under the dryer.

  They never think I’m listening in – I’m invisible in the shop, and that’s how I like it.

  Just as I was starting to get really hungry, Dad walked over with a girl I’d never seen before. She introduced herself as Ade. She reminded me of one of those cool girls at school, with her hair braided up in a bun and a butterfly clip on each side.

  She spotted my journal, and her eyes lit up. ‘Is that your diary?’ she asked excitedly.

  It turned out that Ade has a diary too, and wanted to know why I call mine a journal. I told her they’re the same thing – basically for writing stuff down in. She asked why it didn’t have sequins and stickers on it – Ade is really girly. I wouldn’t mind a sticker or two, but sequins are a bit much.

  Ade seemed very confident and outgoing, maybe a little too outgoing. I told her I got my journal as a birthday present, then she started asking me a million questions about things like star signs. Mum used to be into all that stuff. I remember her telling me I was a Virgo. Ade got really excited about that: apparently, it means we’re going to get on. We chatted loads, and she told me she had just moved to the area – not sure why anyone would want to move here. Nothing interesting happens in this place … ever. Our conversation was probably the most exciting thing that had happened to me in ages. Her sister Funmi is hilarious too. What a family.