Angels Next Door

by Karen McCombie

  SURPRISE SCHOOL BABY!

  This week, Mrs Sharma shocked herself and everyone by having a baby in Mr Bradley’s office, after student Riley Roberts locked them both in and couldn’t open the door.

  ‘I’m not a hero,’ Riley told this newsletter. ‘I just talked to Mrs Sharma about pants.’

  Luckily Mr Bradley came to the rescue and phoned for an ambulance. Mrs Sharma and her baby are doing very well, in spite of everything.

  As the class round me howls with laughter, I keep re-reading the words.

  ‘Riley Roberts locked them both in’ – no I didn’t!

  ‘In spite of everything’ – meaning me?

  And I’m not even going to go near the pants …

  I turn round and look for Lauren. There she is, raking her fingers through her hair and giving me a ‘whatever’ shrug.

  ‘All a bit of fun,’ Mr Forbes mumbles unconvincingly as the end-of-lesson bell trills and he waves his hands to quieten us down. ‘Can I remind you all that you need to go to the library now to get more details of tomorrow’s school trip from Mr Thomlinson?’

  With rumbles, scrapes and squeaks of chairs, we’re all up and filing out.

  Then I suddenly hear a cheeky wolf-whistle – coming from Joelle.

  ‘Looking good in your photo, Riley!’ Lauren says with a grin.

  Nancy just sniggers over her bitten black fingernails.

  There’s such an almighty squish of people in the corridor – with ALL the various Year 7 classes spilling out of classrooms and heading for the library – that I can’t do what I really want, which is to peel off and go and hide in the loo. There’s no point in me even being at the meeting, because I am NOT going on the trip. I’m going to fake being ill tomorrow and celebrate my birthday by moping in bed …

  But, stuck shoulder to shoulder in the solid river of students, I let myself be reluctantly dragged along in the current – till I feel a stare boring into my head.

  ‘Yes?’ I mumble at Kitt.

  What, is she going to talk to me now? Well, that’s strange, considering she said exactly nothing all the way to school this morning, looked at the homework project I showed her sisters without a single word.

  ‘That photo of you was bad.’

  OK, so I get that Kitt doesn’t like me. Maybe she’s jealous of her sisters meeting someone new, or maybe there’s something deeply unpleasant about me that I’m unaware of. Whatever the reason, I don’t need the snidey remark. That’s a Lauren tactic, and after what just happened in Mr Forbes’s class I’ve had about as much of Lauren as I can take today.

  Make that this week.

  Actually, this term.

  I stare down at the ground, hiding the fact that my eyes are stinging, that tears are looming. If she hasn’t got anything nice to say, why doesn’t she just leave me alone?

  As if she can read my mind, Kitt slows down and slips backwards, swallowed by a tidal wave of blazers and ties.

  Meanwhile I find myself unwillingly propelled into the library and quickly try to squash myself against the back wall, wishing myself invisible in case the other Year 7 classes have already seen the online newsletter and want to have a laugh at my expense too.

  ‘Come on, everyone – take a seat or find a space, please!’ Mrs Mahoney shouts, with an accompanying clap of her hands. ‘I want complete silence before Mr Thomlinson gives you your instructions for tomorrow!’

  There’s never usually complete silence this fast, but, as it’s our properly strict deputy head who’s going to be doing the talking, the quiet that descends is impressive.

  Yet, just along from me, Sunshine, Kitt and Pearl are having a full-on whispered conversation. Only their whispers are so amazingly soundless that they might as well be lip-reading each other.

  For a few minutes, while Mr Thomlinson drones on (and I don’t listen), I try to fathom the Angelo girls’ mute chat. From their body language it seems like Kitt’s telling the others what to do, but what’s new? She talks, they listen, nod, add a comment or two.

  What is going on with those gi–

  ‘Riley?’

  No! It’s happening again.

  I’ve drifted off with my thoughts and not realized that a teacher, or a librarian in this case, is saying my name.

  Please, please don’t single me out! I plead silently with Mrs Mahoney. I don’t want the whole of my year group to turn and stare at me …

  ‘Riley Roberts?’ Mrs Mahoney persists.

  ‘Here she is!’ someone booms in my ear, and I turn to see Woody from Y7A holding both his arms up, his hands pointing down at me. His goofy grin fades as he checks out my expression and realizes I’m neither grateful nor amused.

  ‘Ah, there you are!’ Mrs Mahoney beams, while rifling through a pile of something on her desk. ‘I thought you’d disappeared on us, Riley!’

  ‘I wish …’ came a snidey remark (Lauren), followed by two matching sniggers (Joelle and Nancy).

  ‘Shush, now!’ Mr Thomlinson orders, before any other giggles can ripple around the library. ‘Let’s listen to what Mrs Mahoney has to say, shall we?’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Thomlinson. Well, now that we’ve heard all about tomorrow’s exciting trip, I just wanted to use this opportunity to thank everyone in Y7C – the form class I’m looking after – for getting their holiday projects in. I’ve had a quick look through, and there’re lots of very interesting pieces of writing.’

  Oh no! Did it have to be written? I didn’t realize that! I’ve messed up; I’m going to get hauled up about it and laughed at again.

  ‘But I wanted to say a word about your submission, Riley. The way you’ve chosen to present it, it’s really very powerful.’

  ‘Pffff!’ comes a snort from one particular person.

  But it’s quickly lost in a shuffle of feet and a screech of furniture as the whole of my year leans forward to see better.

  Help! I want to curl up and die …

  They’ll read the six words of the title and think I’m pathetic. I mean, How Do I Be Only Me? It sounds like I’m totally sorry for myself, doesn’t it?

  ‘Hmm … yes, these are very good, Riley!’ Mr Thomlinson agrees, peering through his glasses at the big board of black-and-white photos. ‘And, as with your self-portrait on the wall, I really like that slight silvered effect you use.’

  What? I don’t use a silvered effect, or silvered photo paper … But, looking over at my photo on the library wall, I see that it does seem to have a faint shimmer to it.

  Is it to do with the way the sun’s streaming in the library windows? Cos it’s having an odd effect on quite a few of the pictures Blu-tacked up there. For instance, Tia’s bright chalks have faded to something more pastel. And Lauren’s face … I don’t know what kind of paint she used but it’s as if it’s melted or something, distorting her prettiness into something odd, like a twisted reflection of a fairground Hall of Mirrors.

  Or am I doing my usual trick of imagining things that can’t be true?

  I shake my head a little and get ready to look again, but I’m distracted by a loud burst of noise.

  It’s the sound of someone clapping.

  And the sound is coming from the direction of Sunshine, Kitt and Pearl.

  They’re gazing over at me, one scowling, one smiling, one grinning, but they’re all applauding me.

  And now Woody’s joined in, with a whoop on top, which gets everyone – with the exception of three people – to join in.

  A room, a huge room of people rooting for me … it’s the opposite of being invisible, and I’m not sure I like it, but then again I’m not sure I don’t either.

  It feels kind of good to be cheered on. Like there’s a … tiny glow deep inside me. I glance around at all these interested, smiling faces, and suddenly feel, well, a little bit stronger.

  ‘Quite right. Well done, Riley! Much deserved!’ Mr Thomlinson booms, clapping along too, before holding his hands out for calm. ‘And it’s actually reminded me, I have a message fo
r you from the headteacher.’

  Bang goes my sudden confidence; my insides have just turned to half-set, watery jelly.

  What have I done?

  ‘He’d like you to take a bouquet of flowers to Mrs Sharma at the hospital at lunchtime, on behalf of all the staff and students,’ Mr Thomlinson explains. ‘And you can choose a friend to go with you.’

  OK, now there’s my problem.

  I don’t have a friend.

  In a panic, I blink my way around at all the gawping Year 7s, knowing that all of them are aware of the fact that the one person I’d choose is a few thousand miles away.

  Unless …

  I mean, what if …?

  Maybe I don’t have to be just me.

  I look over at Sunshine, Kitt and Pearl.

  They’ve stopped clapping and have dropped their arms by their sides, their job done.

  They’re all staring directly at me, in a blaze of blue eyes.

  ‘Mr Thomlinson?’ I say hesitantly.

  ‘Yes, Riley?’

  ‘Can I take three friends, please …?’

  ‘Ooh!’

  It’s as if the flowers are talking.

  But of course it’s Mrs Sharma, who’s disappeared behind the vast bouquet I’ve just presented to her from the staff and pupils at Hillcrest.

  It’s an amazingly beautiful jumble of cream lilies and peach roses and all sorts of other stuff I don’t know the names of. (My mum, Annie – the florist that she was – would have taught me them, I expect, if she was still around.)

  ‘Who’s a lucky girl, then?’ says a nurse, noticing that Mrs Sharma has been eclipsed by a greenhouse-worth of petals. ‘Here, let me take them from you and I’ll try to find you a vase big enough!’

  As the flowers and the nurse disappear, I get a proper look at Mrs Sharma, and blush. It just seems wrong to see a teacher in their pyjamas, like visiting your dentist and finding they’re wearing their swimsuit.

  ‘Thanks again, Riley, they’re gorgeous,’ she says. ‘And what a lovely surprise to see you two here!’

  Yes, there are two of us, not four like I’d dumbly hoped for back in the library …

  ‘Yeah, well, I nearly wasn’t – I’m the substitute!’ says Woody, doing one of his funny but lame jokes that used to get Tia groaning, though I can’t say I mind them too much.

  ‘Well, I’m very glad to see you, Woody, however it’s come about!’ Mrs Sharma laughs as she leans over and scoops a baby bundle from the see-through plastic crib by her side. ‘And exactly how did it come about?’

  I hunch down deeper in the padded visitor’s chair as Woody – perched happily on the end of the bed – launches into his explanation.

  ‘So the head wanted Riley to visit you today, and she was told she could bring a friend,’ he begins. ‘Then she asks these three new girls in her class to come along; only they say no, so Mrs Mahoney suggested me, since I’m your favourite-ever geography student!’

  Woody had told me that in the taxi on the way over here, the one the school office had organized for us. Mrs Sharma might be the form teacher for our class, but she was Mrs Sharma of the geography department to Y7A.

  ‘Oh, so my daughter’s not the only new girl in town?’ Mrs Sharma interrupts with a joke of her own. ‘Here – you can hold her, Riley, while you tell me about your new friends.’

  ‘They’re not my friends,’ I tell Mrs Sharma, tentatively taking this three-day-old person in my arms.

  I can’t make any sense of the way Sunshine, Kitt and Pearl act with me, and I’m tired of trying. One minute they seem to be interested in me, on my side even. Wasn’t that what the applauding was all about?

  Next minute, I’m being told ‘No thank you – we’re not going to come with you’ by Kitt, in front of everyone in the library.

  Can you imagine how that felt?

  ‘Why don’t you tell me about them anyway?’ Mrs Sharma says chattily to me.

  ‘Uh … they’re called Sunshine, Kitt and Pearl – they moved into Tia’s house.’

  ‘Interesting names!’ says Mrs Sharma, raising her eyebrows ever so slightly. ‘So are they triplets?’

  ‘Foster sisters,’ I say, and feel a pang of sympathy for the Angelo girls, and whatever sad stories brought them into care. But then I remember that very public no thanks and fizzle with hurt and humiliation again.

  ‘So … might they develop into friends, do you think?’ Mrs Sharma asks, sounding hopeful on my behalf.

  Well, Sunshine and Pearl maybe. In fact, today in the library, they seemed pretty disappointed when Kitt had barked out her no thanks. But as neither of them spoke up against her I guess that means what Kitt says goes.

  ‘I don’t think so, no,’ I reply in a small, sad voice.

  ‘Yeah, but they’re all right, though,’ Woody butts in. ‘They don’t seem to be phased by you-know-who, eh, Riley?’

  ‘Who’s that?’ Mrs Sharma turns and asks me, sounding like the concerned form teacher she is, when she’s not busy having babies, that is.

  ‘It’s just … well, Lauren Mayhew’s been a bit, y’know,’ I say, not sure where to start.

  ‘Is this what you’re talking about?’

  Mrs Sharma lifts her mobile from the bedside cabinet, and holds it up for me to see. The screen is displaying the News Matters article.

  ‘Mmm,’ I mumble, wincing at the sight of my awful photo.

  ‘Oof,’ groans Woody, sliding up the bed to take a look. (Great.)

  ‘Lauren hasn’t quite got the details right, has she?’ Mrs Sharma comments. ‘And as for that photo … oh dear! It’s not quite up to your standard, is it, Riley?’

  For a second I think of Kitt and her snidey remark about the bad photo. Did I get defensive and cut her off too soon? Like Mrs Sharma, was she maybe about to make the point that my photos were really good in comparison to Lauren’s? Hmm, probably not …

  ‘You should’ve seen Riley’s project today, Mrs Sharma,’ Woody adds. ‘She’s done these brilliant prints of her and Tia up on Folly Hill, with the Angel and everything. They’re awesome.’

  ‘Really?’ says Mrs Sharma, raising her eyebrows, at either Woody’s over-the-top compliment or my over-the-top blushes. ‘Well, why don’t you offer your photography services to the school newsletter team, Riley?’

  What Mrs Sharma is saying is very flattering, but:

  a) I can’t see Lauren being overly excited by me joining the News Matters team too, and

  b) I’m not properly listening to her.

  That’s because there’s a bloke with a ponytail hovering at the entrance to the room.

  ‘Here we are!’ says the nurse, breezing back over to Mrs Sharma’s side. ‘One beautiful bunch of flowers in water, plus another visitor!’

  ‘Mrs Sharma – we spoke on the phone earlier,’ says the ponytail guy, suddenly holding up a professional-looking camera. ‘Would it be all right to take a photo of you and the baby now for our feature?’

  Mrs Sharma nods. ‘Oh yes! And you couldn’t have timed it better. Riley, this is Jamie from the Herald. And, Jamie, this is Riley, who came to my rescue when I went into labour.’

  ‘Yeah?’ says ponytail guy, who I had already figured was from the local newspaper, since I just caught sight of his identity card dangling from a lanyard round his neck.

  ‘Perfect!’ he says. ‘Riley – could you stay exactly as you are, holding the baby? And, Mrs Sharma, if you could lean over in your bed a little towards Riley. And, Riley, lean your head towards Mrs Sharma …’

  This position he’s putting us in, it’s going to come across so stiff and corny. If I was taking the photo, I’d ask questions, get us talking, so we’d seem relaxed and happy in the shot. Not like two human Leaning Towers of Pisa.

  Uh-oh – Woody is snickering, so I’m now sure this pose looks as stupid and awkward as it feels.

  ‘Any chance of a smile, Riley?’ ponytail guy quips.

  But my mouth isn’t cooperating. Help … this is going to be as bad
as the photo in the school newsletter! It’s just going to be a chance for even more people to see some silly schoolgirl who didn’t do anything special or heroic.

  Even the baby knows I’m a fraud; she’s starting to wriggle and grizzle.

  Oh to be able to close my eyes and dream up my mum’s voice telling me it’ll be all right.

  Instead I’ve got to stare down the lens of a camera while fighting the urge to get up and run away.

  And then …

  And then I feel prickles of tickles as a cool hand softly strokes, strokes, strokes my arm, and I start relaxing in spite of myself.

  I turn to give Mrs Sharma a quick thank-you glance for her comforting touch, and see that her hand … well, it’s nowhere near me. In fact, both her hands are clasped together in her lap.

  Snap!

  ‘That was lovely, Riley, with you looking up at your teacher,’ the photographer says encouragingly. ‘Very natural!’

  Ha.

  Just like lots of things happening this week, it’s more like supernatural …

  I’m good at imagining things.

  And sometimes that upsets me.

  But the comforting touch I imagined at the hospital earlier, it made me happy.

  I haven’t had much experience of that sort of thing, but it felt like a mother’s touch. So it’s no surprise that I haven’t been able to get Mum out of my mind since then …

  ‘What are you looking for?’ asks Hazel as I scrabble about in the cabinet in the living room.

  ‘I think there’s an old frame in here,’ I mutter as I move around piles of ancient DVDs, unidentified cables and only-come-out-at-Christmas posh placemats.

  ‘Uh-huh? And what are you going to put in it?’

  The frame I’m thinking of has been in here since before Hazel came to stay, same as all the stuff in here. I don’t think it’s really any of her business, but since she asked … ‘My mum’s photo,’ I tell her.

  My head might be inside a cabinet, but I can picture the disapproving look on her face. Especially since she’s gone silent.

  ‘Got it,’ I say, grabbing the pretty white wooden frame that’s only slightly bashed at one corner and closing the cabinet door against the now teetering contents inside.