Great.
I’m torn between fantasising about making up with Amelia and forcing a confession out of George – which falters as I remember Amelia’s insistence he was at home when the SweetFreak death threat was programmed into my laptop. I feel worried for my best friend too, at how devastated she must be, and angry with Mum for not taking my side.
And, of course, I feel sorry for myself as well.
The Sound of Music is the only good thing in my life. I sit in my room most evenings, learning my lines and making sure I’m note perfect on all the songs.
It’s now three weeks since Amelia was last at school – and just two days until my own birthday. As I head to an after-school music rehearsal on the third Thursday in October I remember when I counted forward last year, the idea that I would turn fifteen on a Saturday filled me with joy: I’d have a party, I’d kiss a boy, I’d be surrounded by loads of brilliant friends.
I try not to think about how impossible any of those things now are as Mr Howard gets us to run through the scene in the nunnery where Maria arrives late. At least he’s impressed that I know all my lines. Rose, as Mother Superior, is still reading from her script.
Mr Howard hurries off to fetch the backing track so we can work on a couple of songs. I brace myself for Rose or one of the other three girls in the rehearsal to start with their snidey ‘Freak’ comments but instead Rose speaks directly to me, with something approaching a smile on her face.
‘I can’t believe you’ve learned your part already,’ she says, sitting down at the table on the stage.
‘Yeah,’ chorus Minnie and Molly, the Rose Clones who have parts as nuns. ‘Amazing.’ They sit down on either side of Rose.
I stare at them, feeling suspicious.
‘I don’t know how you remember it all,’ adds Lauren, another girl from our form, as she drifts to a seat opposite. Her part involves just one line. ‘I wouldn’t be able to remember half of it, I just know I wouldn’t.’
I gulp. Rose and the Rose Clones are one thing, but Lauren has always been nice to me, one of the few people who has carried on talking to me as normal. We’ve never been close friends or anything like that – she’s a bit of a star athlete who even ran for the county last year, though I think she’s given up the hardcore training this year – but Lauren’s nice. If this is some kind of trick, it’s hard to believe Lauren is involved.
‘I . . . I guess I haven’t had much else to do except learn lines recently,’ I say, then immediately regret it. The last thing I want is to look self-pitying in front of them. But Rose doesn’t mock or sneer like I’m expecting. Instead she makes a sympathetic face.
‘I know,’ she says. ‘It must be hard for you to have to deal with what’s happened.’
My mouth actually falls open, I’m so shocked at how nice she’s being.
A fraction later and the moment passes. Rose turns to the Clones and asks a question about homework while Lauren peers at her phone.
I gaze round at them. It’s hard to put my finger on, but something has shifted. The atmosphere feels lighter, somehow, and there’s a glimmer of an unfamiliar emotion in my chest. It takes a few seconds to work out what it is: hope.
10
After Rose being so unexpectedly nice at rehearsal I get home in a better mood than I’ve had for days. As I open the front door the sound of Mum wailing echoes out from the kitchen.
My heart sinks. What’s happened now?
‘It’s just a bird,’ I can hear Poppy saying. ‘It’s what cats do. Rumple can’t help it.’
‘I know, I know.’ Mum sniffs. She often gets super-emotional when she’s with Poppy, I’ve noticed, though she rarely cries in front of me and Jamie. ‘It just feels like the last straw. I’m at the end of my tether with everything Carey’s put us—’
I shut the front door with a bang, not wanting to hear Mum complain about me.
‘Carey?’ Mum calls. ‘Is that you?’
I hurry into the kitchen. Ugh. No wonder Mum’s freaking out. Rumple has outdone himself this time. His prey lies on the floor in front of the cat flap: a small pigeon in a pool of blood with a gaping wound at its neck. It’s clearly dead, which is at least better than when Rumple brings birds in that are half alive and flap, helplessly, across the tiled floor.
Poppy and Mum are standing on either side of the kitchen table. Poppy is running her hands through her hair, while Mum grips the back of a chair, her knuckles white. Rumple chooses this moment to stalk into view. He pads over to Poppy and rubs his side around her legs.
‘No,’ she says. ‘Bad Rumple.’
A tear leaks down Mum’s face. I’m not sure whether she’s crying for the bird or because of all the accumulated trauma of the past few weeks. A fresh wave of anger washes over me. It was one thing George wanting to get back at me, but hurting his sister and my mother is truly and unnecessarily cruel. Poor Mum.
Poppy bends down and absently strokes Rumple’s back. Her face is white. She’s always been a bit queasy around blood and that bird is pretty horrible to look at.
I force myself to do just that. It’s only a dead bird, a greenish sheen down one, torn, wing and a stump in place of its left foot.
‘We need to do something,’ Mum says and I can hear the panic in her voice. ‘Jamie’s out with Blake but Blake’s mum will be dropping him back any minute. That pigeon can’t be in here when he gets home.’
‘I’ll deal with it,’ I say.
Mum’s jaw drops. So does Poppy’s. Usually I run a mile from this sort of job, but today, after Rose’s sympathy, I feel stronger. Like I want to help.
Aware Mum and Poppy are still gawping at me, I march over to the cupboard where we keep spare plastic bags. I select two sturdy orange carriers then use one to shield my hands as I tip the bird on to the other.
I carry the pigeon through the house and outside to the wheelie bin, like I’ve seen Mum do in the past. I stand there for a second, feeling that any life passing deserves a bit more ceremony than being dumped in a bit of orange plastic with Sainsbury’s written on the front.
‘Rest in peace,’ I mutter. Just as I’m about to tip the bird into the bin there’s a honk and I look up to see Jamie racing out of a shiny white sports car. His little friend Blake waves at him from the back seat while the woman behind the wheel calls out of the window. I hurriedly shove the bird in the bin so that Jamie won’t see it.
‘Hey, Carey!’ Jamie rushes breathlessly past me, one hand raised in a wave to Blake.
‘Bye, Jamie!’ Blake’s mum calls from the car. Mrs Lockwood is, of course, also Taylor’s mother. Her blonde pixie cut shines brightly under the street lamps. I squint at her face, but it’s too shadowy to see her expression. Has Mum told her what I’m accused of? No, I’m certain Mum won’t have wanted to spread the news around. What about Taylor? Might he have said something? He probably knows about the SweetFreak messages, even though he goes to a different school from me and Amelia. Gossip like that tends to travel fast. That’s if Amelia herself didn’t get in touch. It’s even possible that the police questioned him.
I remember the night before the death threat and how Amelia asked me, almost hopefully, if I thought Taylor might be behind the earlier messages. I’d told her then I didn’t think so. And the possibility seems just as unlikely now. After all, what motive would Taylor have had for wanting to hurt her? His problem wasn’t that he hated Amelia or wanted revenge for something, like George, but that he didn’t really have any feelings about her at all.
Mrs Lockwood drives off and I walk back inside. I can hear Jamie gabbling away to Mum and Poppy in the kitchen. I follow him into the room, deep in thought.
‘So, Mummy, listen, me and Blakey went to the woods and did stick fighting just like in the best bit in Warriors of the Doom Wood!’
I glance at the floor. Mum and Poppy must have cleaned up as, thankfully, there’s no sign that the dead bird was there. Jamie’s still prattling on. It’s funny, Mum says that Jamie’s more talkative tha
n Poppy and I were at the same age. I reckon it’s because he’s had the three of us chatting to him all his life. I wonder sometimes if he’d be different if Dad had hung around. And how it’s going to affect him growing up without a man in the house.
Jamie’s probably the most affectionate person I know. Right now he has his arms around Mum’s hips, giving her an exuberant hug and still chuntering on. Mum looks over him and meets my eyes.
Thank you, she mouths, meaning about dealing with the bird.
I nod. It’s not ‘I believe you’re innocent’, but it is something.
It’s the nicest evening we’ve had in ages. For once Poppy and I don’t disappear to our rooms and the four of us settle down in front of the TV in the living room so that Jamie can watch his silly cartoons while Poppy makes us all laugh by posting on NatterSnap about how I dealt with the pigeon and giving a running commentary on the horrified responses she’s getting from her mates.
‘I’ve made you my Hero of the Day, Carey,’ she giggles. ‘All my male friends think you’re boss.’
‘Nice somebody does,’ I mutter.
Mum gives a loud sigh.
A few moments later both she and Jamie have fallen asleep. I creep out of the room, intending to go upstairs, but Poppy catches up with me before I make it to the bottom step.
‘I told Mum again earlier that you didn’t do it,’ Poppy says, lowering her voice. ‘I think she wants to believe that . . .’
‘. . . but she doesn’t.’ I feel flat again. I turn away.
‘Wait.’ Poppy catches my arm. ‘It’s hard for her. All the evidence points to you, the police are insisting it’s you and she’s doubting herself, like maybe it’s her fault, that she’s been a bad parent.’
‘Right.’ I don’t understand why Mum would think that. ‘She should still trust me.’
Poppy wrinkles her nose. ‘I think she would if maybe you hadn’t lied to her about other things.’
I shrug.
‘Anyway that’s not what I wanted to tell you,’ Poppy says. ‘There’s something I need to let you know . . .’
‘Yeah, what’s that?’
‘George came up to me today,’ she says with a sigh.
My eyes widen. ‘What did he say? Did he let anything slip about SweetFreak, or—?’
‘No, nothing like that.’ Poppy makes a face. ‘He just wanted to let me know he was going out with someone else, that he’d “moved on”.’
‘Nice of him to keep you up to date.’
‘I know.’ She sighs again. ‘I reckon he was trying to get a reaction out of me but I didn’t rise to it, instead I just asked how Amelia was.’
‘Oh?’ I lean closer, my heart suddenly thudding. ‘How is she? Is she all right? Did you say how much I miss her?’
‘I didn’t get a chance,’ Poppy explains. ‘George just said that how Amelia was, was none of my business but – and this is what I wanted to tell you – it turns out she’ll be back at school tomorrow.’
My breath catches in my throat. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, word is she’s still depressed but her mum couldn’t take any more time off work and they’re worried about her missing any more school so . . .’
‘OK,’ I say, butterflies suddenly zooming around my stomach. ‘Thanks.’
I head up the stairs, a massive smile on my face. I’m scared to see Amelia again, but I’m also hopeful. Maybe she’ll be prepared to talk to me, to give me another chance.
To be friends again.
The next morning I set off early for school and walk through the cool autumn air with a real spring in my step. All I can think about is how great it will be to see Amelia again, how today could be the start of everything getting better. Maybe I’ll even be able to persuade her to celebrate my birthday with me tomorrow night. I get to school stupidly early so I hang around behind the caretaker’s hut near the entrance, waiting for Amelia to arrive.
She walks in on her own, just five minutes before registration is due to start. She’s left it to the last moment, probably so that she doesn’t have to answer lots of questions. I get it, Amelia, I think to myself. I know what it’s like to want to avoid attention.
She’s walking fast, head down, so she doesn’t see me as she passes. Part of me wants to call after her, but a group of boys from Poppy’s year are just behind her and I don’t want to draw attention to us. Amelia goes inside. I hurry after her, but inside the entrance hall there’s a group of year sevens, chattering at the tops of their voices and clearly about to head off on a trip somewhere. If I was taller I’d be able to see over their heads, but shortie that I am, it’s impossible. I push through the group, but by the time I emerge on the other side there’s no sign of Amelia.
My throat tightens. If she’s gone straight to our form room then I’m going to have to see her for the first time in front of the rest of our class, which was not how I saw our reconciliation happening.
Hopefully she’ll have chosen to dump her bag in the locker room first. I speed up. There are too many teachers about to run – the last thing I need is to get hauled over and given a time-wasting talking to for ‘moving in a reckless rush’ as Mrs Marchington likes to refer to it.
There’re only two minutes left until registration when I turn the corridor that contains the locker room. Amelia is standing outside it, searching her bag for something. My heart thuds as I approach.
I open my mouth, just metres away, to call out to her. But before I can speak Amelia goes inside the locker room. I glance around me. The long corridor is almost empty now, everyone on their way to class. Amelia will have to hurry if she’s going to make registration. Or perhaps she’s been given a reprieve for today. I haven’t of course. I’ll be marked late if I’m not there, which is crazy considering how early I got to school and frankly the last thing I need.
It doesn’t matter. Making up with Amelia is more important.
I take a deep breath and open the door. Amelia is standing beside her locker, her back to me, still fumbling in her bag. Rose Clones Minnie and Molly are in the room too. Their backs are turned and they’re whispering to each other, presumably about Amelia, who is studiously ignoring them.
My heart goes out to her. I know what it feels like to have people gossiping and pointing behind their hands at you. The girls see me and turn away, busying themselves with their own lockers.
‘Amelia?’ My voice cracks as I say her name.
She spins around, blinking with surprise. ‘Carey.’ For a second I get a glimpse of the old Amelia, eyes full of fun and friendship. And then the wary mask comes down again.
I can’t bear it. ‘Hey.’ Tears spring to my eyes.
Amelia offers me a weak smile. She tilts her head to one side, her fingers brushing over the heart on the end of her necklace.
‘Hi.’ It’s just one word, but it leaves me feeling the happiest I’ve been in weeks.
Amelia turns back to her locker. It’s unlocked – it was cleared out the day after the death threat and has been empty and unused the whole time she’s been away from school, a constant reminder every time I come in here of how much I’ve lost in losing our friendship.
But now, maybe, this is a first step back.
And then Amelia opens her locker and a second later her hands fly to her mouth and her bag drops to the floor.
‘Aaagh!’ She lets out an ear-splitting scream.
‘What?’ I run over but Minnie and Molly are there before me, blocking my view. Molly lets out a high-pitched shriek even louder than Amelia’s.
‘Oh, that’s disgusting!’ Minnie gasps.
‘Aaagh! Aaagh!’ Amelia is still screaming.
‘What is it?’ My pulse drums against my temples as Amelia swings round, a fresh fury in her eyes.
‘How could you?’ she yells.
I stare at her blankly. She swoops down, snatches up her bag and hares out of the locker room.
The other two girls are both talking at once. I don’t hear a word they say. Because I�
��m now looking into Amelia’s locker. And what I see, lying on top of the orange plastic bag I used to dispose of it yesterday, is the same bloodied, torn-winged, single-footed pigeon that Rumple brought in and that I put in our wheelie bin.
11
I stare, mystified, at the dead bird. Its scent drifts towards me: sweet and yet sour too. How on earth did it get from the wheelie bin outside my house to inside Amelia’s locker? How did anyone even know it was there?
My first thought is Poppy, but I’d have seen her if she’d arrived at school while I was waiting outside so there’s no way she could have got to the locker room before me. Anyway, I don’t believe Poppy is SweetFreak any more. She wouldn’t frame me like this; she’s spent the past month defending me to anyone who’ll listen.
The bell for registration sounds. As its sharp-edged note fades away I realise Minnie and Molly have stopped talking. The room is silent. I tear myself away from the pigeon and look around. I’m alone. Amelia and the others have gone, probably to find a teacher.
How could you?
Amelia’s words echo around my head. She clearly thinks I put the bird here.
But I didn’t. I didn’t. My own panic rises. If anyone discovers this pigeon came from the bin outside my house . . .
I force myself to focus. There’s no reason for anyone to make that connection. Amelia’s made an assumption, but there’s nothing to prove she’s right. Only me, Mum and Poppy know about the bird. Well, whoever put it here does too but I can’t think about that right now.
Right now I need to do something to protect myself.
For the second time in less than twenty-four hours I brace myself to pick up the wretched bird. The orange plastic of the bag sticks to my hot, clammy palms as I grab the edges and lift the bird. Another whiff of its decaying scent fills my nostrils. For a second I think I might puke, then I grit my teeth. There’s a fire door just along the corridor with a bin outside. If I put the pigeon there, it will look like I’m trying to protect Amelia from having to see it again, won’t it? The act of a good friend.
I need to hurry. The bell is the signal for registration. I should be in my form room right now. I take a step towards the locker room door, the bird and the bag balanced in my hands. As I reach the door it opens. Mrs Marchington sweeps in, Amelia in her wake. The teacher takes in the scene, her gaze darting from me to the bird held out in front of me, like an offering. She draws in her breath sharply.
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