Simon turns to me. “Can we at least walk you home?”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I’m only just up the hill. I’ll be okay, really.”
“I thought you said you didn’t live around here,” the woman says with a frown.
Stupid me. I hold my breath, desperately trying to scramble together an explanation.
“God, Mom would kill me if she thought I was telling people I just met on the street where we lived. You know, stranger danger and all that stuff.”
The woman opens her mouth to speak, but Simon interjects.
“I understand,” he says. “If I had a daughter I wouldn’t be able to let her out of my sight the way things are going in this city.”
I nod. “Besides, you’ve already been so great chasing him away from me and stuff. Thanks so much.”
“Just a minute,” Simon says, opening his satchel. He pulls out a brown leather wallet. “Here’s my card in case the police want to speak to us at all. They’ll likely want to.”
He hands me a business card. Emblazoned across a red background is a blue and white logo that reads: chestnut estate agents: where your home is our home. In the bottom is the name simon thompson, estate agent.
“Take care of yourself, Susie,” Simon calls over his shoulder as they cross the street.
“I will,” I say, tucking the card into the front pocket of my jeans. I need to keep Simon’s contact information safe. After all, there’s no telling who I’ll have to turn to for help if Mom doesn’t show up soon.
CHAPTER 11
I try to contain my tears as I walk to school the next day. I spent last night alternately sobbing and pressing a cold, wet facecloth against my eyes in a desperate attempt to get rid of the puffiness and red blotches. The last thing I want is for anyone at school to suspect something is wrong — especially teachers.
Mom didn’t come home. I lay awake most of the night, listening to distant sirens and the occasional murmur of conversation that floated through the walls of my bedroom from the flat next door. At some point early in the morning my fear and sadness was overtaken by exhaustion and I fell into a fitful sleep.
I think about my situation as I walk. Should I go to the police? There’s no doubt now that something serious has happened. Mom might be hurt and lying unconscious in a hospital somewhere, unable to be identified. Maybe she had a head injury or amnesia or something.
I chew on my bottom lip, blinking back tears once more. We’ve been through so much together and now this. It seems unfair. If I go to the police, they might take me away, even if Mom is found safe. There’s no way I’m going to risk that. Not yet.
I stare up at the sky. Once again the day is slate grey, the sky hanging as low as a pregnant cat’s belly. The clouds look like they could fall any moment, crushing all the frantic activity happening on the streets below. It feels strange to be going to school, considering that I have no idea where Mom is. But I realize the safest thing to do right now is to act completely normal so that no one suspects anything is wrong.
To say the school day is beginning badly would be a massive understatement. It turns out Ms. Bryans is still absent, but rather than being greeted by the anxious grimace of yet another supply teacher, Mr. Middleton is standing at the front of the classroom as we file in. He’s leaning casually against a desk, his arms folded across his chest. The entire class takes their seats and sits silently.
“As all of you are aware, our guest teacher, Ms. Thelwell, was treated in a shameful manner yesterday.” He pauses for a moment and slowly scans the room.
“Due to this, today your classes will be covered by Windrush teachers. And, since all of you have seen fit to inconvenience the hard-working staff at this school, I’ve decided that all of you will serve detention for an hour with me today.”
This is met with groans and sucking of teeth. Mr. Middleton’s words barely register with me. I don’t care. Not now. My eyes are firmly glued to the container sitting on top of the filing cabinet behind Ms. Bryans’s desk. It’s the charity can she was holding the other day when Jermaine and I were in detention.
There’s at least eighty pounds in there. A chart at the front of the room shows how close we are to our goal of raising two hundred pounds to establish a girls’ school in Afghanistan. Ms. Bryans must’ve really been feeling sick if she forgot to hide it away under lock and key before leaving the school. Eighty pounds could keep me eating for at least two weeks and cover the travel costs necessary to search for Mom.
I need to get my hands on that money.
Finding Mom will be like trying to find a contact lens in a sandbox. London is so much bigger and a million times busier than Toronto. The map of the subway looks like a rat’s nest of jumbled-up wires, with all the different colours criss-crossing each other.
Having to search London by myself to try and find Mom terrifies me. I have no idea where to even start. However, the thought of never seeing her again scares me even more. I have to get that money before someone else in the class gets the same idea.
Morning classes pass excruciatingly slowly. I try to concentrate on the work in front of me, but competing waves of fatigue and worry make it too difficult. By the time the lunch bell rings though, I’m ready. I’m getting that money over the next hour. If Ms. Bryans returns tomorrow, there might not be another chance.
First, I need to get my lunch from the cafeteria. That way at least a few people will see me doing my usual thing at lunch. I purchase a salad and some curried chicken with rice and go sit with Savitri and Keisha.
“Hey, girl. We were just discussing what a bloody cow Ms. Thompson was to us today,” Savitri says. “Didn’t she give us enough work to last a week?”
I can’t actually remember much about the work Ms. Thompson, who was usually our physical education teacher, had assigned. Every teacher that covered our class this morning took their frustration out on us.
“And she didn’t have to be such a bitch,” Savitri adds, spooning curry into her mouth. “I asked her if I could go to the toilet and she said no! What if I had to change a tampon or something?”
Keisha laughs. “I wish that had’ve happened.Then if she said no and you’d had an accident, we could’ve gotten her sacked for sure!”
“Thanks,” Savitri says, narrowing her eyes at Keisha. “Then I would’ve died of embarrassment as well.”
I nod in agreement. There aren’t many worse things that could happen to a girl in front of the whole class.
“Don’t be stupid. I don’t actually wish that happened to you. Besides,” says Keisha, taking a sip of her Coke, “it really isn’t right that your whole class is getting punished for just a few twats like Rodney. I wish Mr. Middleton would just punish the people involved.”
As we talk, I aimlessly move the mound of congealing curry and rice around on my plate and try to think of an excuse to leave the table without Keisha and Savitri thinking I’m ditching them. After all, it feels good to be making some friends at Windrush, especially considering the mess my life is in at the moment.
“Hey, I hate to cut things short, but I need to go and do a few things before class starts,” I say, glancing at my watch.
“What’s popping?” Keisha asks.
“I’ve got to get a few things for my mom. She’s busy with work today.”
“Are you going to Tesco?” Savitri asks. “If you are, I’ll come with you. I’m starving. I hate the rubbish they try to pass off on us as food here. Much rather a bag of crisps.”
“Great,” I reply. “I just need to get something from my locker first.” I pause for a second. “Money. I have to get my money.”
“You’re awfully nice to go to the shops for your mum, Edie,” Keisha says as she reaches for Savitri’s discarded plate. “Miss Posh here,” she adds, pointing her fork toward Savitri, “seems to think any school dinner that’s not cooked by Jamie bloody Oliver himself isn’t good enough for her.”
Savitri waves a dismissive hand at Keisha. I pick up my tray and get up from the ta
ble.
“Be back in a minute,” I say.
“You best be quick about it, Edie!” Savitri replies. “Middleton will have our heads if we’re late for any classes today!”
I walk quickly along the hallway toward the classroom. There’s a strict rule at Windrush banning students from being in the halls over lunch without a pass from a teacher. I hope the door has been left unlocked. If Ms. Thompson locked it at lunch dismissal, then I’ll have to kiss that money goodbye. But I don’t want to think about that because it means no money to search for Mom or to buy food when the groceries left at home run out.
I grab the metal doorknob, hold my breath, and turn it firmly to the right. It’s unlocked.
Stepping inside, I close the door carefully behind me and walk over to the filing cabinet. The tin of money is still there. I reach up, grab it, and shove it into my knapsack.
“Oi! What are you mucking about in here for, eh?”
I swing around, my heart pounding in my ears.
Jermaine Lewis is leaning against the door, arms folded across the front of his black hoodie. He smirks at me, clearly pleased he’s caught me so off-guard.
“Nothing,” I stammer. “I thought I left something in here.”
“Really? Where’s your hall pass, then?”
I pause. It hits me that I’m alone in a closed classroom with someone who is supposedly a murderer. And no one knows I’m here.
“Where’s yours?” I ask. “And who died and made you hall monitor, anyway?”
Jermaine laughs. The way he’s looking at me makes my face flush.
He opens his right palm, revealing a hall pass.
“You’re funny,” he replies. “Did you find what you came for?”
“What?”
“The thing you forgot that you needed to come back to class for? Did you get it?”
“Oh. Yeah, I did. It was just some book … I’ve got to go.” My tongue is working faster than my brain. What a stupid thing to say.
Cheeks burning, I walk past Jermaine and into the hall. Once I’m outside the school, a rush of adrenaline floods my body. I have the money. Now the real challenge begins. Now I need to find Mom.
CHAPTER 12
I try not to be too hopeful as I walk into the flat, but I can’t help visualizing Mom waiting on the couch for me to come home with some crazy story to explain her disappearance. I’d listen. We’d laugh. And then Mom would make dinner.
That doesn’t happen.
Instead, I walk in, drop my knapsack, and listen. The flat is silent. The steady ticking of the wall clock in the kitchen beats in time with my heart. I wait a few more seconds, standing completely still like a jungle animal stalking its prey. Listening. Waiting.
Then I go upstairs. She hasn’t been back. It’s obvious. As I walk into my mother’s room, my composure shatters. I kick the door shut behind me, rip the duvet off the bed, and scream.
My rage frightens me. I’m so angry with Mom for disappearing and at him for causing my life to turn out this way. The next target for my frustration is an assortment of cosmetics, various papers, and a vase of tulips on top of Mom’s dresser. With one violent sweep of my arm, I send the entire mess flying. A container of taupe eyeshadow smashes against the wall, leaving a smear of flesh-coloured powder behind. The broken stalks of the tulips lie on the floor surrounded by a pool of water. But I don’t care.
Finally my anger gives way to sadness and I collapse in tears, pulling the duvet around me. I lay down on Mom’s bed and rock back and forth, trying to ward off the dampness that never seems to subside in this place. I hate London. It’s a cold, damp, and miserable place and I’m completely alone.
There’s no one in the city I can contact to help me. I flirt briefly with the thought of calling Janice, but don’t want to worry her. Besides, it’s not like she can stop her whole life in Canada and fly over here to help me look for Mom. And Mom has no family left, aside from a half-sister who lives in Ireland. I’ve only met her a couple of times when I was much younger. Mom’s father and stepmother died in a car accident two years before I was born. We haven’t had much contact with any family since we went on the run. I think Mom is kind of ashamed of how things turned out. Still, she must have kept Aunt Siobhan’s number somewhere. If I don’t find out what happened to Mom in the next few days, I’ll try to contact her.
The next morning I wake up feeling tired but hopeful. It’s Friday, which means I can spend the weekend searching for Mom without anyone getting suspicious. By not missing any school, no one will think anything is wrong. Besides, I’m now eighty-one pounds richer thanks to the charity fund. I figure that will give me enough money to live on for at least a month if I’m super careful. Last night I walked to Sainsbury’s and stocked up on Pot Noodle, milk, apples, and cereal. Having a full stomach makes me feel stronger and more able to face things.
On the way to class I run into Keisha coming out of the one of the shops on the main street near school. A sign taped to the door reads: no more than three schoolchildren at any time. There’s at least a dozen students from Windrush crammed in there, though, some of them rummaging through magazines, others hanging around the chocolate bar racks.
“All right, Edie?” Keisha asks, grinning widely as the falls into step with me. “Fancy some?” She offers up part of a Jamaican patty.
I wonder if she can tell something is wrong with me.
“No thanks. I had a huge breakfast.”
“God! Aren’t you bloody lucky! I never have time to eat at home.” She stuffs a corner of the yellow pastry into her mouth. “I’ve got four little brothers and sisters to get ready for school and then I have to walk them there before I even get to think about me.”
“Why do you have to get your brothers and sisters ready?” I ask. “Does your Mom go to work early?” Though I’m afraid Keisha will think I’m being too nosy, I ache to confide in someone about my own situation. Maybe if she’s being left alone and responsible for her younger siblings, she might not think it’s all that bad that Mom leaves me alone all night to go to work.
Keisha snorts through a mouthful of yellow pastry. “Edie, my mum would get sacked the first day she even tried to be at a real job!” She rolls her eyes. “I left her on the sofa this morning with her second favourite thing in the world — an empty bottle of Appleton’s.”
“What’s her first?” I ask.
Keisha laughs. “A full bottle of Appleton’s rum!”
I decide not to tell Keisha about Mom. Suddenly I feel sick and desperately want to change the subject. Mom is a great parent. She’s taken care of me during the worst situations. I always came first. I don’t want Keisha thinking my mom is anything like hers.
As we approach the school gates, Imogen comes running up to us.
“Have you heard?” she asks breathlessly. “Ms. Bryans and Mr. Middleton are raging mad! Somebody nicked the charity money yesterday!”
It’s the first time I’ve seen any colour in her pale cheeks. Imogen finishes speaking and begins scratching distractedly at a line of raw, sore-looking pimples that run in a crooked ridge across her forehead.
“You’re joking!” I say, hoping I sound sincerely shocked.
“God, I’m not surprised,” Keisha snorts. “That money was practically asking to be nicked. I would’ve taken it myself except I don’t need to. My mum gives me loads of pocket money every week.”
“Our class is never going to be allowed to go to the disco now for sure!” Imogen sighs.
“Were you planning on going then?” Keisha asks, a smirk dancing on her lips. “Did you have a date all lined up?”
Imogen scratches at her forehead again. She lowers her eyes away from Keisha’s gaze. “I dunno. But even if I wasn’t, I still don’t want our whole class to be banned from everything nice.”
“I agree,” I say. I don’t like Keisha’s attitude. Despite her weirdness, Imogen is harmless and I hate seeing people get bullied. Bullies remind me too much of him. “We’ve had
nothing but lectures for days now and I bet you today’s going to be the worst. If I’d known England was going to be like this, I’d have stayed away.”
“Bloody hell, Edie!” Keisha laughs. “This place is absolute rubbish! You should’ve known to stay away, full stop!”
I turns out I wasn’t wrong about the lecture. Mr. Middleton is waiting at the front of the class again. This time Ms. Bryans stands beside him, mimicking his stern stance, both of them with their arms crossed firmly over their chests.
As soon as we’ve taken our seats and are quietly reading novels or finishing homework assignments, Mr. Middleton strides over to the door and shuts it with a bang that is as sharp as a gunshot. Several students jump in their seats. I swear I see Ms. Bryans smile. Just for a second.
“I need everything off your desks and your attention firmly up here,” Mr. Middleton begins. He waits until everyone is watching him.
“I regret having to say this, but the situation with this homeroom has gone from bad to worse,” he says, shaking his head at us to reinforce the point. “As a class you are representing Windrush School very poorly. We already have a tenuous — to say the least — reputation in the borough. I’d expect all of you to behave with even more diligence because of that. Now, I’m not saying all of you were involved in the goings on of late, but, as a class, you are a team.”
I dig my fingernails into the fleshy pad of my palm, distracting myself with the pain. Mr. Middleton is so wrong. Did he really forget what it’s like to be a teenager? We’re hardly a team. It’s more like survival of the fittest. Not a day goes by where someone isn’t bullied, whether online or in person.
“We strongly suspect,” Ms. Bryans says, “that the culprit took the money during the lunch hour yesterday. According to Ms. Thompson that money was — without question — still on the filing cabinet when she left the room.”
Mr. Middleton nods. “However, Mr. Ravi did not see the tin the following period when he came to teach your first afternoon class.”
Since You've Been Gone Page 5
