Nan used to say I shouldn’t be embarrassed about sleeping with my ribbon – she said it was just like a teddy, or a comfort blanket – but who needs a comfort blanket when they’re nearly thirteen years old?
Chapter 2
It was a struggle to get out of bed the next morning. I wondered if I could pretend to be ill to get out of my meeting with Mrs Palmer, except I knew Mum would never go for it, not unless I actually threw up or had a raging temperature. Charlie only has to cough for Mum to keep him at home but it’s a whole different story with me.
I dragged myself up and out of the house on automatic pilot. It usually takes me about twenty minutes to walk to school, but much longer when I go extra slow on purpose. I slowed down even more when I got to the corner of Banner Road, just in case the new boy Kieran Black was there. He’s been on my case ever since he joined Church Vale in January, winding me up, calling me stupid names like “Maddie Mouse”.
I kept my head down as I came up Banner Road, relieved there was no sign of him – praying he’d get sick of picking on me if I managed to stay out of his way. Gemma was waiting for me just outside the main gates looking as neat and tidy as usual, her thick brown hair tied into two perfect plaits.
“Hurry up, Maddie!” she called out, running to meet me. “Did you finish your comprehension? It took me hours and hours to do mine and it was soooo boring. I nearly gave up to be honest, but seriously, you know what Miss Owen’s like…”
She chatted non-stop all the way into school, flicking her plaits over her shoulders as we made our way down the corridor towards our lockers. Gemma and I have been best friends for ever. We were paired up in our very first lesson at Church Vale and we’ve been pretty much inseparable ever since – the sort of friends who share everything.
If I had to describe Gemma in three words I’d say she’s clever, clever and clever! She’s easily the cleverest girl in Year Eight. Some of the others think she’s a swot, especially in maths and science – always getting the best grades, always the first to hand in her homework – but they’re just jealous. It’s not as if she ever shows off about it.
She was brilliant when I first told her about Nan; she actually cried on the phone when I explained what had happened. I was off school for ages – two weeks before Christmas plus an extra two weeks for the holidays – but she rang me nearly every day to see how I was feeling and to fill me in on all the gossip. She said she couldn’t wait for me to come back, but that I was lucky I’d missed my end-of-term assessments, especially one of Madame Dupont’s killer French tests.
It really helped to talk to her, and even to laugh about the test, but for some weird reason, once I was back at school, neither of us mentioned Nan again, almost as if it never happened. We went straight back to talking about rotational symmetry and history projects and how much we both hate Kieran Black – and I have no idea how to tell her that I don’t really care about any of that stuff any more, that I’m not even listening half the time.
I might seem okay on the outside, but on the inside I’m still struggling to understand how everything can change from one split second to the next.
There were the usual announcements at registration: one of the boys’ toilets was blocked up; the guitar teacher was ill so there wouldn’t be any lessons. I wasn’t paying much attention to be honest, but then, just before the bell, Mrs Palmer called my name and asked me to stay behind for a few moments.
“It’s nothing to worry about, Maddie,” she said, as the others filed out. “I just wanted to remind you that we’re meeting today at lunchtime…”
She paused for a moment as if she expected me to say something. Anything. I practised the words in my head – Okay, Mrs Palmer. Don’t worry, I won’t be late. It should’ve been so easy, but thinking the words wasn’t the same as actually saying them. I opened my mouth and closed it again, my face growing hot. It’s been like this ever since Nan died. A panicky feeling whenever people are waiting for me to speak, like the words are stuck in my throat and something bad might happen if I dare to let them out.
“In my office at twelve then,” she said eventually, a sorry look in her eyes. “It won’t take long.”
I hate it when she looks at me like that, like I’m a massive let down. She used to say I was one of her best students, an asset to the class. At the end of my first half-term in Year Eight she described me as a happy, chatty, likeable girl who always tries her best. I stared over her shoulder wishing I could turn the clock back, wishing I could make her proud of me again…
There was a sign on the wall with one of those motivational quotes.
Talking about your goals is the first step towards achieving them.
I was talking about my “goals” when Nan collapsed. Going on and on about my ribbon and how I was going to give it up. I remember how happy I felt as we walked into town that day, chatting away without a care in the world, looking forward to Christmas, and then – BAM!
“Maddie? Maddie! I said it won’t take very long…Maddie? Are you okay?”
I dragged my eyes away from the sign and back to Mrs Palmer’s face, forcing myself to focus on what she was saying; nodding to show her I was fine, that I was listening.
“I’ll see you at lunchtime,” she said slowly. “Off you go or you’ll be late for class.”
Gemma had saved me a place. She leaned over to ask me what was going on but Miss Owen shot her a warning look and held a finger up to her lips. No one messes about in Miss Owen’s lessons, apart from Kieran Black; they wouldn’t dare. She’s the sort of teacher who gives out detentions for breathing.
We’ve been doing autobiographical accounts this term – researching famous autobiographies like Nelson Mandela’s A Long Walk to Freedom. It was a really good topic to start off with, especially the Nelson Mandela bit, but now we’re supposed to be writing our own autobiographies – or, as Miss Owen put it, a lively and interesting account of our lives so far including important events and significant milestones.
I’d written loads about Charlie being born. How he had to spend the first three months of his life in the special baby unit. How many times he stopped breathing. How he was too small to fit into any of the normal-sized baby clothes or normal-sized nappies. How Mum had to use a special machine to breastfeed him. How she and Dad were up at the hospital so much Nan had to move in to look after me.
It was Nan who settled me in to Banner Road Nursery, the second significant milestone in my life. Charlie was home by then but he still needed lots of extra care. Nan said I screamed the place down on the first day, clinging onto her like a limpet – and that I carried on like that for weeks and weeks. She said the first time I ran into the classroom without a backwards glance she stood in the middle of the playground with the other mums and cheered.
I started to doodle the word LIMPET across the top of the page. I tried to make the letters cling onto each other like a real limpet clings onto a rock, adding little shells and starfish as I went along, shading the starfish using this special technique we’ve been learning in art to make them look more three-dimensional and lifelike.
I’d almost got all the way across the page when Gemma nudged me. I glanced up and realized Miss Owen was standing right in front of me with her arms folded, tapping her foot.
“Maddie Wilkins, are you with us, or do I have to send out a search party?” she said, not even trying to hide her sarcasm.
A few of the others began to laugh. She’d probably said my name at least four times by then. “I said I’d like you to read out the beginning of your autobiography, please.”
I scraped my chair back and stood up, wiping my palms on my skirt, staring down at my book. My opening paragraph seemed very personal suddenly. I didn’t want to tell everyone about Charlie being premature and there was no way I was going to say the word “breastfeed” in front of the entire class.
“Come on then, Maddie,” said Miss Owen. “We don’t need to hear the whole thing, just the first couple of sentences will do
. Beginnings are so important.”
I knew I was going to cry. I could feel the tears building up. Reading my work out in front of the others has become a total nightmare. I swallowed hard, trying to clear the lump in my throat, blinking very fast to stop the tears coming, but just at that moment Kieran Black yelled “DRUM ROLL!” and started to bang his hands on the table.
I closed my eyes waiting for him to stop but the banging got louder and louder. It got so loud I had to put my hands over my ears. Miss Owen swung round to face him. “Pack it in, Kieran!” she yelled over the noise but he just laughed at her and carried on banging as if he was playing the drums in a band.
He doesn’t care what Miss Owen or any of the other teachers think of him – the only thing he cares about is winding me up, like he’s made it his life’s mission or something. I have no idea why, it’s not as if I’ve ever done anything to him – maybe he’s just desperate to get a reaction from Maddie Mouse, the quietest girl in Year Eight.
Miss Owen had to send him to the head, Mr Rawlins, in the end. She barked at us to carry on with our writing and followed him out to make sure he didn’t disappear. As soon as she left the room I sank back down, relieved it was over, burying my face in my book.
“He’s such a loser,” said Gemma, trying to make me feel better. “I’d like to hear the beginning of his autobiography – his parents probably took one look at him and ran away screaming!”
I’d only ever been in Mrs Palmer’s office once, back in September, when she met with us one at a time to talk about settling into Year Eight. It was just over eight months ago but it felt more like eight years. It was very neat and tidy, with alphabetical files on the shelves and framed photos of her family on the walls.
“Sit yourself down, Maddie,” she said, pointing to the chair facing her desk. “It’s much cooler in here, thank goodness. Can you feel the breeze?”
I nodded, and sat down quickly, tucking my skirt under my legs. Mrs Palmer sat opposite me, and opened a brand-new green folder with Maddie Wilkins written across the front. I stared at it nervously; it looked so official.
“I wanted to have a little chat about how things are going,” she started. “I’ve seen your mid-term assessments, obviously, but it’s not just your grades I’m concerned about. I’ve heard from other members of staff that you’re finding it very difficult to speak in class, that you never put your hand up any more or join in with discussions…”
She was giving me the sorry look again. I stared down at the folder, wondering what was in it.
“You’ve always been one our best students,” she went on. “Hard-working, confident, chatty. But if I’m honest, you seem to be struggling at the moment.”
I wanted to say I was sorry, that I couldn’t help it, but my mouth was too dry.
“I was just wondering if there was anything in particular bothering you, at home or at school? I know that you lost your nan recently, Maddie, and I do understand how hard it can be to concentrate on your work if you’re feeling upset. How much it can get in the way…”
I raised my eyes to look at her again. Mum had phoned in to tell her about Nan when it happened back in December, when I was off school. But how was I supposed to explain that I was worried all the time – that I had a constant knot of anxiety in my tummy like I’d swallowed too many sour sweets in one go and they’d got all clogged up inside me.
“Now I can’t force you to talk to me,” said Mrs Palmer gently. “But we’d love to see the old Maddie back, the old happy Maddie…”
She paused for a moment, nodding and smiling, as if I could somehow pull the old Maddie out of a hat, right there and then in her office – as if it was as simple as that.
“So the thing is, Maddie,” she went on when I didn’t say anything, “I’ve decided to put together a small Year Eight nurture group.”
A nurture group? What on earth was a nurture group?
“I’ll be calling your mum and dad later today, to talk to them about your progress in general and about the group, and to get their permission for you to attend, but a lady called Vivian is going to come to the school twice a week for the next six weeks, until we break up for the summer holidays. She’s a trained counsellor and she’ll be meeting with you and one or two others from Year Eight. It will be very relaxed and informal, so there’s really nothing for you to worry about.”
A counsellor? Did I really need to see a counsellor? And why did Mrs Palmer have to talk to Mum and Dad? They didn’t even know about my assessments yet – they’d be upset enough about that. I could just imagine what Mum would say, how disappointed she would be.
“I know it might sound scary, the thought of talking to a stranger, but in my experience it’s never a good idea to bottle things up.” She opened the folder and started to write something down. “This will be the first time we’ve run a nurture group at Church Vale,” she said, scribbling away, “but I’ve got a feeling it might be just what you need.”
I sat very still, my whole body burning up, trying to work out what she was really saying. A nurture group. What did it actually mean? Who else would be in it? Would everyone know? Vivian’s special group. We’d be like the freaks of the class.
“Do I have to do it?” I whispered, forcing the words out, my heart hammering against my chest.
She paused for a moment, glancing up. “I would like you to give it a go, but please don’t think of it as a punishment, and it’s certainly nothing to be ashamed of. We all need a little bit of help sometimes, Maddie.”
I stared down at my lap, willing my heart to slow down. Mrs Palmer was right, I did need help. But no one could undo the past or change what had happened, however well trained they were.
“The first meeting will be next Monday at nine. It means you’ll miss registration, but we’ll let you know if there are any important announcements. The meetings will take place in the Blue Room just along the corridor from the art supplies cupboard. Do you know where I mean?”
Of course I knew – everyone knew. The Blue Room was where all the “special needs” sessions were held.
I went to look for Gemma and found her having lunch in the canteen.
“What did Mrs Palmer want?” she asked, shifting up to make room for me. “You’re not in trouble are you?”
I shook my head, glancing round the canteen. I really wanted to tell her, but it was so embarrassing, like admitting out loud that there was something seriously wrong with me. Most of the Year Eights were sitting in big noisy groups, all trying to speak over each other. It was difficult to imagine they had a single worry between them.
I closed my eyes for a moment, wishing I had my purple ribbon with me. I’d do anything to be as happy and carefree as they seemed to be, to feel normal again, even for five minutes, but there was no way I could go to a nurture group.
How was I supposed to open up to a complete stranger when I couldn’t even talk to my best friend?
Chapter 3
Gemma wanted to hang out after school. A few of the others were going to the park to get ice creams from the cafe and she was desperate for us to tag along. She pressed her hands together under her chin, practically pleading with me to go, but I couldn’t face it – pretending to have fun while Mrs Palmer was probably calling Mum right that minute to tell her about the nurture group and my grades and how badly I was doing.
“Come on, Maddie,” she said when I shook my head. “We don’t have to stay for long. Just for a bit, please.”
“I’m sorry, Gem, I can’t. I’ve got way too much homework, stuff I didn’t do over half-term. I haven’t even started my history project…”
“Why don’t I come back to yours then? I’ve nearly finished mine but I really don’t mind helping you…”
I shook my head again, searching for another excuse, but she turned to go before I could think of anything. Why was she so desperate to hang out at the park anyway? We used to spend all of our free time together, on our own.
“Suit yourself,”
she said, her voice flat. “I’m going anyway. I’ll see you later.”
She walked off in the direction of the park without looking back. I felt terrible. I should’ve just told her about the meeting with Mrs Palmer and the nurture group; it’s not as if she’d laugh at me or anything. But then she’d want to know why I had to join and who else was in it and a million other details and I’d already decided I wasn’t going, even if I had to beg Mum to write me a note or tell Mrs Palmer when she called.
I trailed home down Banner Road and through the cemetery, stopping to sit on my favourite bench. It’s one of those really ancient cemeteries filled with old, faded gravestones and a huge weeping willow. It’s nearly always empty during the week apart from maybe one or two people visiting a grave, or cutting through from Morley Avenue to Banner Road.
Mum was worried at first when she realized the route I took to and from school was straight through the cemetery. She thought it might upset me, walking past Nan’s grave every day, but it’s just the opposite. I like going there. I don’t talk to her or anything; I just find it comforting to know she’s still close by.
I remember asking Nan once if she believed in heaven. We were at the funfair on a ride that went so high you could almost touch the sky.
“Do you believe it’s like a real place,” I said, “with angels and harps and pearly gates?”
Nan opened her mouth to answer but just at that moment the ride plunged back down to earth and we clung hold of each other, eyes shut tight, screaming our heads off.
“I’ll tell you what, Mads,” she said later as we sat on the grass eating warm, sugary doughnuts, our hands sticky with jam. “I don’t know about pearly gates and angels, but jammy doughnuts on a summer’s day with my favourite granddaughter – that’s my idea of heaven.”
I’m not sure how long I’d been sitting on the bench when I noticed a woman coming through the old, rusty gate. She was about Mum’s age, wearing jeans and trainers with a blue silk scarf wrapped tight around her head, covering her hair. I pulled my legs up under my chin and watched as she began to pick her way through the graves, stopping to read each one in turn.
Tangled Secrets Page 2
