George looked disappointed. “I've got a Mars bar, too,” he shouted after me. His chat-up technique wasn't the greatest.
I walked as fast as I could toward Geena and Jazz without actually running. “Let's get out of here,” I said. George was coming directly after me, a determined look on his face.
“Oh, bless,” Geena remarked. “He's been waiting here all this time.”
“Don't start,” I snapped. “Don't you want to know what Arora said to me?”
“I can guess,” Jazz broke in. “He told you to go home and think about things—”
“And then come back and discuss it with him,” Geena finished.
I was amazed. “How did you know?”
“Because that's what Mrs. Kirke told me,” Geena said.
“And Mr. Lucas the same,” Jazz added.
“What's going on?” I asked. “Why are they being so nice?”
“When, in fact, we want them to scream at us and give us lots of detentions,” Geena sighed. “It's a mystery.”
“We'll turn up the heat,” I said, glancing round to check that we'd shaken off Botley. He was skulking off home—which, thankfully, was in the opposite direction. “Things had better get a bit wilder.”
“Oh, good.” Jazz looked pleased with herself. “I've had a fab idea for Mr. Khan's class tomorrow.”
“What?” Geena asked.
“I'm not telling you,” Jazz sniffed. “You might copy me.”
“Jazz, this isn't a contest,” I said.
“No, it isn't,” Geena agreed. “Anyway, listen to what I did today. My English teacher, Miss Davies, told us to write a story, and I wrote every word back ward. You should have seen the look on her face when I handed it in.”
“Hey, that was my idea!” I yelled. “I told you I was going to do that.”
Jazz examined her fingernails. “What were you saying about this not being a contest?” she inquired.
I elbowed her in the ribs and then the tedious round of pushing and shoving and hitting each other with bags began. Geena joined in too, just for the fun of it. While I was defending myself, I thought about what had just happened. I got the feeling that Geena and Jazz were sneakily starting to enjoy themselves. Worryingly, that was how I felt. Was it a contest? Were we really trying to outdo each other? The point of all this was trying to get Auntie and Mr. Arora together. Wasn't it?
We battled our way past Mr. Attwal's shop. This time he saw us and waved the textbook he was reading.
“An Idiot's Guide to Computers,” Geena said, parrying a thrust from Jazz with her left arm. “Well, I suppose he's got to start somewhere.”
“Truce,” I added, giving Jazz's ponytail a final pull.
“Ow.” Jazz lunged at me. But she spotted something over my shoulder that made her pull up sharply.
“Hi.” Leo was poised on his cycle in the road next to us, standing up on the pedals. We stared at him as he held out the evening paper to me.
“Er—yes,” I said helplessly, taking it. “Thank you.”
Leo grinned and pedaled away, doing a rather spectacular wheelie.
“Watch it, Amber,” Jazz said. “George will be getting jealous.”
“Shut up unless you want another fight,” I threatened.
“Look, Dad's home again,” Geena broke in. “There's his car.”
“This is getting way out of hand,” I said, as we reached our gate.
“And there's Mrs. Macey,” Jazz said agitatedly under her breath. Mrs. Macey was in her front garden, putting a bag of rubbish in the dustbin. “Are we supposed to say hello to her now or what?”
“Let's hide behind the hedge until she's gone in,” I suggested.
At that very moment, though, Mrs. Macey saw us. She gave a kind of frightened half-nod and then disappeared into the house as if she'd done something extremely daring. I had the strangest sensation of a familiar world spinning suddenly out of control. Everything was different. I didn't like it.
“Hello.” Auntie was sitting in the living room with Dad's laptop on her knees. “Had a good day at school?”
“Yes,” we all lied.
Auntie waited for us to say something else. We didn't. She sighed. “No homework again?” Her sharp dark eyes roamed over our bags, which were about half as full as they should be. “Is there anything I should know?”
“We told you yesterday,” I said. “The teachers are too busy getting ready for the inspectors to give us homework.”
A loud BANG! above our heads made us instinctively duck for cover. It was followed by a faint “Ow, that hurt.”
“Your dad's come home early to tidy up the loft,” Auntie said. “I popped up there yesterday and I couldn't believe the mess it was in. You three could give him a hand if you haven't got any homework.”
I stared closely, suspiciously, at her. Was this one of her ruses for family togetherness? Auntie stared innocently back at me, brushing her hair from her face.
“Oh, I'm tired,” Jazz moaned. “Can't we do it this weekend?”
“No, we're going to Inderjit's wedding,” Auntie reminded her.
Inderjit was one of our cousins. She'd been a bit wild in her day and had actually shaved her head and dated a Goth, which had gone down a storm with her parents, but now her hair had grown back again and she was having an arranged marriage. I'd forgotten it was this weekend.
“Oh, let's just do it,” Geena muttered as we trailed upstairs. “It's easier than arguing with the ruthless old slavedriver.”
“I'm glad you realize it,” Auntie called after our retreating backs.
We changed out of our school uniforms. I was ready before Jazz, and Geena was still in her room, so I climbed the ladder into the loft on my own. I wondered what Auntie had been doing, poking around up there. Was she looking for Mum's things? If she was, she wouldn't have found them. Her clothes and jewelry and everything else had been packed away and left at the back of her wardrobe and under the double bed. Taking them up to the loft had seemed like a very horrible, final act, a way of ending her life forever. Admitting she was never coming back because all her things were out of sight and out of mind. I wondered if Auntie had persuaded Dad that it was time he moved them. It was just the kind of interfering thing she did best. She just couldn't seem to understand that it was better not to talk about things if it hurt too much. I was sure of that. Almost one hundred percent sure.
When I climbed through the square hatch and breathed in the familiar musty smell, memories jumped out at me from all sides, spilling from the open boxes. Mum's stuff wasn't there, and I was glad. But there was my old fluffy toy cat, Billy, and my tatty old teddy with one eye. Geena's Boyzone T-shirt from years ago lay on the floor. There was Jazz's yellow baby blanket. She had to have it to tickle her nose with, or she couldn't get to sleep. Once Mum left it at a motorway service station when we were on the way home from Birmingham, and Dad had turned straight round and driven an extra thirty miles to get it back, while Jazz roared in the backseat.
My throat was suddenly hurting, and it wasn't because of the dust.
Dad hadn't heard me come up. He was standing at the back of the loft, stooping because of the angled roof, leafing through a photo album. I coughed gently.
“Amber!” Dad slammed the album shut like he'd been caught looking at dirty pictures. But I knew what it was. Our collection of Christmas photos, starting when Geena was a chubby, bouncing baby with a shock of dark hair sitting under a Christmas tree. The last picture was of me, Jazz and Mum in party hats, and Dad in a false nose and glasses he'd got out of a cracker. There hadn't been any photos last year.
“Auntie sent us up to help you,” I said. I searched his face. He looked tired and strained, and I felt unhappy, angry. This was all Auntie's fault. Couldn't she just leave us alone?
Dad nodded and stared down at the album in his hand. I prayed he wouldn't show it to me or even mention it. Then we heard Geena and Jazz at the bottom of the ladder, fighting over who'd got there first. Dad turned
away and pushed the album under a pile of old clothes. I relaxed, suddenly conscious that I'd been holding my breath, and turned away as Geena and then Jazz climbed through the hatch. I didn't want to see if they had the sudden, explosive rush of memories that I'd had myself.
“Look at all this old junk,” Geena said in a too-casual voice.
“My Little Ponies.” Jazz pounced on a nearby box, and started pulling out plastic ponies with brightly colored manes. “I used to love these.”
Another memory flashed into my head. Jazz sitting on the living room carpet, lining up her herd of ponies. Geena and I watching EastEnders. Mum ironing in the corner. It wasn't even an exciting memory, it wasn't anything special. So why did I feel like an invisible hand was twisting my insides this way and that?
Geena was poking around in a big box that stood on an old dressing table. “Oh my God,” she said, pulling at a pink plastic arm. “It's Dimple.” She lifted a large doll with long black hair out of the box. “I thought she'd been thrown away ages ago.”
Dimple was named after a Bollywood film star, and she'd been Geena's favorite doll for years. Even when Geena pretended she didn't like dolls anymore, Dimple had remained sitting on the end of her bed until she'd finally felt embarrassed about it. Geena had complained that there were no Indian dolls in the shops, so Mum had stuck one of her bindis in the middle of Dimple's plastic forehead. It was still there now, teardrop-shaped, pink, edged with gold.
“I remember buying that doll,” Dad said, almost to himself.
We all knew the story because it was one of the family jokes. Geena, six years old and with a will of iron, had seen the doll in an expensive toy shop and had pestered Mum for ages to get it. Mum had refused. Eventually, a fed-up Dad had taken Geena out to buy her something to take her mind off the doll—”some-thing nice and cheap,” he'd told Mum. They'd returned, Dad sheepish, Geena triumphant and carrying the doll.
“I'll never forget seeing Geena climbing out of the car with that doll in her arms,” Mum used to say. “The box was nearly as big as she was.”
For a moment, Mum seemed very close. Closer than she'd been for months. A sort of breathless spell hung over us in the dusty loft. But none of us could bring ourselves to say her name.
“I thought your mum was going to kill me when we got home,” Dad blurted out. “But she just laughed. She said she'd known all along that Geena would get her own way.”
We stood looking at each other. We all seemed suspended in our own personal bubbles of misery. Did we really want to break out of them? I wanted to talk about Mum. I wanted to so much that it shocked me. But then I saw tears in Dad's eyes. There's something terrible about seeing your parents crying; it shakes every bone in your body. So I did something else mature and grown-up instead. I panicked.
“Dinner must be ready,” I blurted out. “I think I heard Auntie calling.”
“Yes, so did I.” Geena leaped in. She had Dimple clutched against her, and her face was in shadow. Jazz had already turned away and was climbing down the ladder as fast as she could.
We went downstairs in silence. Sneaking glances at the others, I could see that they all looked upset, especially Dad. Had I done the right thing or not? I was on such shaky ground, I didn't know. It seemed like everything was changing so fast, I couldn't keep up with it. We all knew whose fault that was. It didn't help make it better.
There was another shock waiting for me in the kitchen. Auntie was peeling potatoes at the sink and there at the table, looking cozily at home with a glass of orange juice in front of her, was Kim.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded.
“I just came round to say hi,” she mumbled.
“So why didn't you come and find me?” I asked pointedly.
Kim blushed. “I was talking to Auntie—I mean, your aunt.”
Talking. Again. I glanced suspiciously at Auntie, but she had her back to me. What did they find to talk about?
“If dinner's not ready yet, I'm going to my study,” Dad said. “I've got work to do.”
He sounded weary and defeated. Auntie noticed too. I saw her glance at him, but Dad deliberately didn't look at her. My heart leaped with hope. Auntie was definitely starting to get on Dad's nerves as well as ours. Maybe this was the beginning of the end… .
“Let's go upstairs, Kim,” I said. It wasn't an invitation. It was an order.
Geena and Jazz wandered off into the living room to watch TV while Kim followed me dutifully upstairs. As soon as we were in my room, I shut the door and leaned my back against it.
“Now,” I said, “give it up. What are you really doing here?”
Kim looked panicky. “I told you, I came to see you. Everyone's talking about you and George Botley, and I just wanted to see if you were all right.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Now the real reason.”
“Your auntie asked me to,” Kim muttered. She looked incredibly embarrassed, as well she might.
“Why?”
“I just happened to tell her—something,” said Kim, staring down at her feet.
“Is this anything to do with me?” I demanded.
“No.” Kim's blush deepened. “It's about Gary.”
“Gary?” I frowned. “Your mum's boyfriend? What's going on with him then?”
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I felt my stomach twist and start to churn. Felt ice-cold all over. No. No, it couldn't be that.
“Kim.” I could hardly get the words out. “It isn't— he isn't—”
Kim looked sick. “No, not that!” she gasped. “It's just—he keeps picking on me.”
Relief bloomed inside me like a flower. So it was just Kim getting paranoid as usual. For a minute, I'd been truly scared that something awful was going on. “Oh, well,” I said, “you've never liked him that much, have you? Maybe you should just keep out of his way.”
“I try,” Kim sighed. “But he keeps calling me names. He says I'm useless.”
“Well, I call you that, sometimes,” I said, trying to jolly her along a bit.
Kim's sad eyes looked into mine. “But you're my friend,” she said. “I know you don't mean it.”
I felt like a worm.
“He keeps on and on and he won't shut up,” Kim said. Now that she'd started, it was as if a dam of emotion had burst open and she couldn't stop. “And if I try to get away, he comes after me. And he pushed me. That's how I slipped and hurt my head. And my hand. He won't leave me alone. He keeps teasing and teasing …” Her sentence ended on a tearful gulp.
“And you told Auntie all this?”
Kim nodded. “She said I should talk to Mum. I will, too.”
I stood there silently. Kim couldn't know how bad I was feeling. How long had this been going on for? I hadn't been interested in her problems. I didn't even know she had any problems. I thought it was just Kim.
It was a day for memories, and others slipped into my consciousness. Kim at Mum's funeral. The bunch of white daisies in her hand. She'd been a better friend than I deserved. And I was going to be nicer to her from now on.
“I think you should stop trying to get rid of your auntie.” Kim's voice, stronger now, broke into my thoughts.
I was as startled as if a fluffy little kitten had suddenly jumped up and scratched me, drawing blood. “What?”
“You should stop trying to marry Auntie off,” Kim said. “She's nice. I like her.”
“You don't have to live with her,” I snapped.
“Give her a chance,” said Kim. “She's only trying to help you.” She looked terrified and I knew she was going to say something earth-shattering. “I bet your mum would be pleased she's here.”
I felt the color bleach from my face. “Kim—”
“She would be.” Now that Kim had decided to annoy me, she was really going for it. “She'd be glad that someone was looking after you.”
Remembering what had happened in the loft, Dad's face, I felt a fiery surge of resentment, which spilled over into my
next words. “Why don't you mind your own business?” But I put it a bit more rudely than that.
“All right then,” Kim said. “I will.”
She got up and went over to the door. Her face was pale but her back was straight. I moved aside, and she went out without a backward glance. A minute later, I heard the front door slam.
“Kyra Hollins, your skirt is too short!” Mr. Grimwade hollered. He was standing by the playground gate on Friday morning, pouncing on people as they went in. “And Richard Martin, I do not want to see that nose stud, eyebrow ring and ten assorted earrings adorning your ugly face on Monday. Is that clear?”
“Lucky the teachers are pretty laid-back about the inspectors arriving on Monday,” Geena remarked, walking into the playground. “If they start to panic, we're in real trouble.” She said it just loudly enough for Mr. Grimwade to hear. He gave the three of us a sidelong look, but said nothing.
“He's staring at us as if we're an unexploded bomb,” Jazz said.
“So is everyone else,” I added.
Everyone was looking as we strolled across the playground. They looked admiring, interested, puzzled or worried, depending on what kind of people they were. If anything, we were getting more attention than we'd ever got before. Geena claimed she'd had three boys ask her out face to face yesterday, and another four through go-betweens.
I saw Kim come through the gates, and fixed a smile to my face. I hadn't forgiven her for what she'd said, but I was prepared to meet her halfway and forgive her, eventually.
Kim stared through me with remarkable coolness. She skirted round the edge of the canteen and disappeared out of sight. My jaw dropped rather obviously.
“What's going on with you and Kim?” Geena demanded immediately. “Have you two had a fight?”
“Don't be an idiot,” I snapped. Kim's behavior had annoyed me more than I'd ever thought possible.
“Ooh, they have.” Jazz hopped from one foot to the other. “Tell.”
I sighed, wondering how much I should reveal. “She thought we should lay off Auntie,” I said. “I told her no way.”
“There must have been something else,” Geena said shrewdly.
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