‘So ugly.’
‘If I looked like that I’d top myself.’
I walked those corridors looking straight ahead. Trying not to see kids at the side of me, reacting to my face. I pretended to myself the sides of my eyes didn’t work, imagining I was in blinkers, like one of Selina Baker’s horses.
In the distance, down the corridor, I saw the New Head in the distance, carrying a tray with frilly plates and a teapot and saucers.
I abandoned my blinkers plan and darted into the classroom to my left. I knelt behind the door, so no one could see me through the glass window. I only stood up again when one of my legs went dead, a few minutes later, and I was pretty sure the New Head must have gone.
I headed outside and went to find Lewis playing football because – well. It seemed wrong all the other kids had seen my face and Lewis hadn’t.
Lewis looked so normal as he waited to be passed the ball, his hands on his hips. Not that it mattered if he was normal or not anymore. I’d take him as my friend any day. Cape, magic tricks – the lot.
I coughed. ‘Lewis.’
He turned slowly. He looked at me.
I waited.
‘Wasps?’
I nodded.
‘The big bush in the park?’
I nodded again.
He shrugged.
‘My finger. I pushed the nest with it.’
Lewis didn’t react.
‘Mum was furious I left school at lunchtime.’
‘Why did you leave school?
‘To find the newspaper man who wrote about Danielle’s death. And Mum destroyed my phone, Lewis! Can you believe that?’
‘You’re still investigating Danielle.’ He didn’t even sound angry – just tired. ‘Even though I begged you not to. Even though you promised me.’
I looked at my feet. I could feel him looking at me, making his face all disappointed parent, and felt my cheeks going red. My skin started prickling, in waves. It was nothing to do with wasp stings, this time. I was going red and prickly, from the inside out.
The feeling of letting down Lewis was worse than the wasps.
I stood there, prickling. ‘I’m going to listen to you from now on.’ I spoke into my shoes. ‘You know better than me. You know better than me about everything.’
‘I would certainly never run into a wasps’ nest.’
‘Exactly. I should listen to you more. And I will, from now on.’
I waited. I looked up.
‘You’re too hard to be friends with, Fi.’
I nodded. I scuffed one of my shoes into the other.
‘But you’re not going to stop investigating, are you? So you really want to know about Danielle?’
I looked up. The prickling stopped. ‘What?’
There was a long pause.
‘What do you mean, Lewis?’
Lewis shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘Asthma.’
I waited. ‘Asthma?’
‘Your sister died at the fair, but not because of the fair. She died of asthma.’
I stared at him.
‘I’ve always known. Mum told me ages ago.’ He looked right in my eyes. ‘Your parents didn’t tell you because they don’t want you scared you’re gonna die.’
A tennis ball bounced off the wall next to me, but I didn’t move.
Asthma.
Asthma, asthma, asthma. I said the word over and over in my head. So it made sense, and then it didn’t. And then it did again.
You can die of asthma?
Despite the sun beating down, I pulled my coat flaps closer round me. ‘I’m going to die.’
‘You’re not going to die.’
‘But I’ve got asthma, Lewis.’
‘Yours is nowhere near as bad. Danielle’s was a really dangerous kind and it was a completely different situation, and I know that because Mum promised me. But I always made sure you had your inhaler with you.’ He didn’t even sound angry. ‘And now you know everything, you don’t need to investigate anymore, do you?’ Lewis turned away. ‘And you can finally leave me alone.’
I stumbled away and round the school field, through the corridors, bumping into people, half blind from my own thoughts.
Asthma.
I tried the computer-room door. Locked.
I turned towards the main block.
People don’t die of asthma. They just get a tight chest and use inhalers to get better.
I reached the library, but it was shut. The sign said Closed for Stocktake.
I banged on the door anyway. ‘I want to look up asthma!’
No answer.
I headed back outside.
You can die of asthma.
I could die of asthma.
And Lewis knew, all along.
I did another loop of the tennis courts. I saw my group of girls, back standing in their old place, eating their pickled onion crisps. Their new group looked so much like the old group – it was like I’d never been there at all.
Asthma.
I walked round daisy-chainers and football players. I walked round kids sitting on jumpers, kids with fortune tellers. I walked around kids bouncing tennis balls and kids standing in groups that were just the right size.
After I’d gone everywhere else in school a person could possibly go, there was only one place left.
I took a big breath and knocked on the door. I opened it.
Dr Sharma sat at her desk, hunched over a pile of exercise books, writing with a red pen. She wore Princess Leia headphones, the wire connected to something in her drawer.
She pulled one headphone speaker slightly away from her ear. ‘Make sure you don’t get crumbs on the desk.’
She let the headphone speaker spring back. She continued marking.
I headed for my usual stool. I sat there for a moment, listening to the kids screeching and laughing outside.
I slid my lunch box from my bag and opened it.
I set my pickled onion crisps to one side. I didn’t even like pickled onion.
I took one last look at Dr Sharma, and picked up a sandwich and started to eat.
41
People don’t always like being told they’re in the right.
(paradox)
Two days to the fair
After school, I looked into the mirror in the lounge, arranging my scarf around my face. Trying to make it hang in a way that made me look OK.
Mum and Dad were both home. Both just sitting there, on the sofa. Both off work, on a weekday. Because of me.
I didn’t want to think about that. ‘Can I go and see Lewis?’
Dad was eating toast and jam. He swallowed as Mum said, ‘Absolutely not.’
‘Just to apologise? He hates me.’
‘He doesn’t hate you.’
‘He definitely does.’
Dad put his half-eaten toast down. ‘You know it can’t possibly be your fault Geoff left home. Not everything’s about you, sweetheart.’
‘It is my fault. A little bit.’
I brought my pack of French playing cards out of my bag. Lewis had always loved them. ‘I was going to take him these. They say D for Duchess instead of Q for Queen.’ I waited. ‘Am I allowed to go to his house?’
Dad glanced at Mum. ‘You’re going straight there?’
I nodded.
‘And straight back?’
I nodded.
‘And definitely not visiting any wasps’ nests on the way?’
‘I won’t be doing that again,’ I said quietly.
I knocked at Lewis’s door.
Mrs Harris opened it and blinked. ‘Oh! I’d heard, but I never believed they’d be that bad.’
I pulled the scarf higher up my cheeks.
Mrs Harris stare
d. ‘A scarf’s not going to cut it, you need a balaclava to hide those, hon. And it’s Geoff’s afternoon. Lewis is off playing mini-golf with his dad.’
I held up the pack of cards. ‘I brought him a present. They say D for Duchess instead of Q for Queen. They’d be good for,’ I made my lips say it, ‘magic tricks.’
‘That’s thoughtful.’ Mrs Harris stepped back and held the door open. ‘Why don’t you come in?’
Mrs Harris eyed my face from the other side of the table.
She picked up her mug. ‘How come the wasps didn’t mind their own business?’
‘I pushed on their nest. With my finger.’
‘Ah.’ She took a sip of tea. ‘That’d do it.’
I wobbled my glass of blackcurrant accidentally. Some purple jumped out of the glass. ‘Sorry.’
‘No bother.’ Mrs Harris tore off a piece of kitchen roll to dab the spill. She moved a pile of letters out of the way. The top one said Mr Geoffrey Harris.
‘I meant to hand those to Lewis to give his father this afternoon. I forgot.’ Mrs Harris started ripping the kitchen roll absentmindedly. ‘You kids won’t make fun of Lewis, will you? For his parents splitting up?’
I frowned. ‘Never.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course. It will make him better, if anything.’
‘Better?’ Mrs Harris was leaving paper confetti all over the table. She didn’t seem to notice. ‘Better, how?’
‘A lot of the best kids don’t live with both parents,’ I said. ‘And now he’ll get a new rucksack and pencil case whenever he wants.’
‘No, he won’t.’
‘That’s what happens, though.’
Mrs Harris picked up her cup jerkily. ‘That definitely won’t be happening.’
‘And Lewis will be pleased his dad moved out in the end. He didn’t like the way Mr Harris spoke to you. The way he acted like you weren’t as clever as him.’
Mrs Harris slammed her cup down on the table. She put both hands over her face.
‘Mrs Harris?’ I said carefully.
She gave a kind of yowl.
I looked at my lap uncertainly. ‘I just don’t think he is cleverer than you.’
‘Oh God,’ Mrs Harris moaned, her hands still over her face. ‘I’m so humiliated.’
‘You were definitely better at TV quizzes.’ I wasn’t sure what she wanted to hear. ‘That time when he said a baby horse was a pony. When he said it was a herd of camels and you were wrong because it can’t be a caravan, caravans have wheels, Lisa.’ I shook my head. ‘You should have been the one telling him what to do.’
‘No one should be telling anyone else what to do!’ Mrs Harris pulled her hands away. ‘Maybe Lewis would be your friend again if you didn’t tell him what to do all the time. Have you thought about that?’
I looked down.
‘Sorry,’ she said.
‘He told me, today, that my sister died of asthma.’
‘Oh.’ She was about to take a sip of her tea, but stopped. ‘Then your mother’s going to wring my neck.’
‘It’s good he told me. Because I thought she’d been got by a paedo. Or murdered. Or both.’
‘Christ.’ Mrs Harris shook her head at her cup. ‘It was definitely asthma.’
‘Lewis said Danielle’s asthma was worse than mine. But was it? And how do I know without asking my parents?’
‘Please don’t ask your parents.’
‘Am I going to die?’
‘No.’
‘Then how do they know her asthma was worse?’
There was a long silence.
‘If your mother ever finds out I said this, please explain the circumstances.’
I nodded. It seemed everyone was afraid of my mum.
‘I gather Danielle had lots of attacks before that one.’ Mrs Harris put her drink down. ‘Bad ones.’
‘Am I going to—’
‘No. And Lewis said you’ve barely needed your inhaler in all the time he’s known you.’
I thought about this. It was true. I’d usually only take a puff to make a point, or for something to do.
‘From what I’ve learned,’ Mrs Harris said, ‘because I’ve never actually asked your parents, obviously – your sister had a chest infection. It was a humid day. And something to do with pollen. All the bad stuff just came together for her.’
‘I can ask my parents.’
‘Please don’t ask your parents.’
‘So it wasn’t the fair that killed her.’ My voice was breathy.
‘It happened at the fair. It’s the one place that really upsets them,’ Mrs Harris said. ‘So why would they ever want to go?’
I thought about this.
‘And you wouldn’t want to upset your parents by asking again, I’m sure.’
I swallowed. Mrs Harris had a higher opinion of me than I did.
But maybe she was right. After all I’d done, there was no way I could ask about the fair again now.
Mrs Harris got up. ‘I need to get on with making tea.’
I stood up too. ‘Can you give Lewis the pack of cards and say he can show me magic tricks with them? As long as we’re on our own. Tell him I’ll be nicer from now.’
‘It’s hard to change.’ Mrs Harris gave me a look. ‘Personalities get set early on.’
‘You think I can’t be nicer?’
She picked up her mug and my glass and placed them in the sink. ‘You can’t just say you’re going to change. Fine words butter no parsnips.’
‘Parsnips?’
‘But I don’t think your personality’s set,’ she gave me another look. ‘Not if you don’t want it to be.’
While I walked home, I thought about what Mrs Harris had said about personalities setting.
Maybe that meant I wasn’t completely bad. My personality couldn’t be completely set. The old Fiona wouldn’t have given Lewis my best pack of cards.
But then, old-me Fiona had never poked at a nest full of wasps for no reason. So if my personality was just setting, I hoped it didn’t set exactly this week.
At bedtime, in my pyjamas, I sat on my bed reading the leaflet.
The phone rang and I heard the up-and-down of Mum talking to someone.
I kept on reading.
Do not use:
If you are allergic to salbutamol or the other ingredients of this medicine (listed in section 4)
If you unexpectedly go into early labour or threatened abortion
Warnings and precautions
Talk to your doctor, nurse or pharmacist before using if you have any of the following:
Any diseases affecting the heart or blood vessels
Any infection in your lungs
Overactivity of the thyroid gland
Low levels of potassium in your blood
Diabetes
Dad stood in the doorway, a sheet of sandpaper in one hand. ‘Can I come in?’
I put the leaflet down. ‘Yes, please.’
Dad put the sandpaper down on the bed. ‘You’re reading your inhaler leaflet?’
I nodded.
He sighed. ‘Mrs Harris has just phoned. We know she told you about Danielle’s asthma.’
‘Don’t tell her off.’
‘We won’t tell her off.’
‘At least I know Danielle wasn’t murdered now.’
‘Dear God.’ There was a hiss of breath outside the room. ‘Murdered.’
Dad saw my face and frowned. ‘What?’
‘Mum’s listening outside the door. And making snake sounds.’
‘She is?’ Dad turned to face the door. ‘Didn’t we agree you’d leave us to it, Gail?’
Through the gap at the side of the door, I saw a flash of blue. I heard Mum’s foot
steps go down the stairs and into the kitchen.
‘Has she gone?’
I nodded.
‘We didn’t tell you because we didn’t want you to worry. Are you worried?’
‘Mrs Harris said my asthma’s not as bad.’
‘Nowhere near as bad.’
‘How do you know, though?’
‘Danielle had lots of other attacks. We had to go to hospital a lot. It was terrifying.’ Dad stared at the worn knees of his jeans. ‘But we didn’t want to stop her doing fun things. We wanted her to have a normal life.’
I squeezed his hand.
‘She was a kid. It felt like the right decision.’ Dad kept staring at his jeans. ‘We didn’t want you to be scared and we don’t like talking about this.’
‘Because you want to talk about Danielle’s life, not her death.’
Dad smiled. ‘You’re a good girl, really.’
I wondered whether Danielle got you’re a good girl, or you’re a good girl, really.
I looked at the sandpaper on the bed. ‘What’s that for?’
‘To get rid of the swastika,’ Dad said. ‘Your dad’s about to do some DIY. Unless you want a Nazi symbol on your dressing table for ever?’
I shook my head.
He smiled. ‘That’s a relief.’ He knelt down on the carpet and looked at the carving. ‘What did you do this with anyway? Kitchen scissors?’
‘Compass.’
He touched the carving. ‘It’s all blue.’
‘I coloured it with a biro.’
‘Course you did.’
Dad put the sandpaper to the dressing-table leg and started scratching. Dust puffed into the air.
After a minute or two, he sat back on his heels. Where he’d sanded, the wood was a lighter colour.
Dad looked up hopefully.
‘It looks awful,’ I said.
‘We can stain it later.’ Dad picked up the bin. ‘Here, get this bin out of the way so your dad can get a better angle.’
He glanced in the bin as he passed it over. Suddenly, he stopped. He pulled the bin closer and reached inside.
I waited, but he didn’t seem to be passing me the bin anymore.
I let my hand drop. ‘I’m just going to read for a bit.’ I got under the covers. ‘I’ll definitely clean my teeth before I switch the light out.’
I made myself comfy. I rearranged my pillows, punching them, getting them fluffed up right.
All the Fun of the Fair: A hilarious, brilliantly original coming-of-age story that will capture your heart Page 26
