The Girl Who Wasn't There

by Karen McCombie

  “Um, hello,” I thankfully manage to squeak. “I’m Maisie Mills. I’m starting today in Year Eight.”

  “Ah, Maisie Mills… Maisie Mills…” the woman says, an edge of something uncertain in her voice. “Can you hold on just a second?”

  She trots off in her clicky-clacky kitten-heel shoes and talks to a larger woman at a desk, whose dark, braided hair has hints of grey woven in it. The two ladies have some sort of animated but very hushed conversation which involves sideways glances at me. In other words, they are in a total flap ’cause I’ve turned up. This is making me feel less than fantastic.

  “Sorry, my love,” says the bigger lady of the two – the one with the braided hair – while handing me a map of the school and a timetable. “We have been expecting you, but there’s been a slight problem. Still, nothing for you to worry about; just follow me!”

  And so I follow, up stairs, down corridors, listening to what the woman is saying, while wishing I was like Hansel and Gretel and had white pebbles to leave behind me as a trail, so I can find my way out of this school maze later.

  What the braided-haired lady has been telling me includes this… Her name is Mahalia, and the other lady in the office is June, and I have to come see them if I have any problems.

  My new form tutor is called Mrs Watson.

  She has done a detailed transition plan for me.

  Mrs Watson is off sick today.

  No one can find the detailed transition plan.

  Turns out, that’s my main problem today, and it doesn’t seem like either Mahalia or June can help with it…

  “So here we are, my love!” says Mahalia, standing in front of a door and rapping on it.

  She opens it before the teacher inside has even said “Come in!”, so my first class of the day, the week, the rest of my school life kicks off with a teacher glowering at me.

  And don’t even mention the twenty-nine girls’ faces staring blankly.

  Excuse me while I run away…

  You know what?

  What Dad said first thing today, about school not being so bad, how I’d come out buzzing, how I’d make a bunch of friends straightaway?

  Well, it was.

  I didn’t.

  I double didn’t.

  “You said it yourself, Maisie: if your form teacher hadn’t been off ill today, it would’ve been OK,” says Dad, putting down his fork and patting my hand.

  The patting doesn’t do much to reassure me. I feel like there’s a heavy black fog in my head, trying to block out the sharp, uncomfortable flashbacks I’m having of the day. Right now I’m picturing the glowering maths teacher, who did at least stop glowering once she realized Mahalia had interrupted her lesson for a good reason (if you can call me a good reason).

  But she seemed as flustered as the office ladies had been when I first turned up. She pointed at a spare seat, and got someone to pass me back a workbook to write in. I sat for the entire lesson hearing nothing, understanding nothing in my panic.

  It got much better after that – not.

  Seems that the teachers at Nightingale are super-strict about filing in and out of class silently, so no one talked to me at the end of that first lesson. Though why would they even have wanted to? I’d been so excited at the idea of starting over, but until I was sitting there in that first class, it hadn’t occurred to me that all the girls would probably be tight friends anyway – the last thing they’d want was some newbie like me trying to muscle my way into their cliques.

  So when the end-of-lesson bell went, I pretended to rummage in my bag for something. A couple of girls stared back over their shoulders, but I hovered some more, letting everyone drift away to their next classes, while I figured my own way using the timetable and map.

  And that was the pattern of the day. Being last one into class; being last one out; keeping my head down and wandering round clutching my crumpled map.

  Of course, that pattern was broken up nicely with break time (spent it in a cubicle in the girls’ loos) and lunchtime (couldn’t face it and snuck home).

  As first days go, it could only have got worse if a stray asteroid had crashed into the school.

  Mind you, that might have been a blessing in disguise and put me out of my misery…

  “Hi, I’m home – if you can call it that!” Clem calls out, barging in with a slam of the front door and a thud of her bag full of textbooks.

  “Hi, honey! Thought you were coming home for tea?” Dad shouts back in a friendly-but-making-a-point way.

  “Fancied hanging out at Bea’s,” Clem replies casually, plonking down on to a chair and plucking a meatball out of the spaghetti on Dad’s plate.

  “Yours is in the microwave,” says Dad. “And didn’t you have your phone on you?”

  “Huh?” Clem answers, and we realize she still has her earphones in and can only semi-hear what Dad’s saying.

  “Never mind,” he says, giving up before there’s a fight and an atmosphere. Or maybe it’s because he’s got me and my blue mood to deal with and can’t be doing with a Clem huff on top of it.

  “Uh-oh. You’ve got your zombie face on again, Maisie!” says my sister, suddenly staring straight at me. “Bad day at Planet School, then?”

  “Pretty much,” I reply, using my fork to swirl my spaghetti into uneaten spirals on my plate.

  “Yeah, so? What happened?” she asks, in a distracted way that makes me feel like my lousy day will either amuse or bore her.

  “It just wasn’t great,” I say, not wanting to see her roll her eyes at my woes. “Going to the loo – back in a minute.”

  The loo thing is an excuse to get away from Clem’s half-hearted interrogation, Dad’s hangdog expression of disappointment, and the pile of food I’m not going to eat.

  Instead I go into my room, still stacked with boxes yet to be unpacked, and rest my forehead on the cool of the windowpane.

  Urgh, I feel so achingly sad…

  Not just because my first day was confusing and worrying.

  But also because it’s dawned on me today that despite Mum’s scribbled hope, I can’t rely on Clem to look out for me ever, and despite his best intentions, Dad just isn’t able to look out for me all the time either.

  I mean, he couldn’t do it when all that stuff happened with Saffy and Lilah and Jasneet, could he? No matter what Dad said, my head teacher believed them, not me; three against one.

  And he couldn’t say or do anything to make today all right, same as he can’t make tomorrow any better.

  Just how am I going to get through thi—

  Suddenly I freeze, seized with shock.

  It’s there again…

  The figure at the art room window!

  I lean on the ledge, squinting hard, trying to see how that human-looking shape could be the dangling pile of plastic bottles and CDs.

  It could be, I suppose.

  Only I can’t see how it would have a face.

  As my heart races, a thought occurs to me.

  There’s something I could try, just to be sure. Sure of something I don’t understand.

  I lift my hand up and wave…

  And the figure in the window waves back.

  Another morning.

  My second day at Nightingale School.

  “I am SO sorry about yesterday, Maisie!” says Mrs Watson, who is placing a small plate of chocolate biscuits in front of me. She waves her hand towards them, so I know I’m allowed to help myself, that it’s not just some teacher’s treat.

  We’re sitting in her bright, neat office, which has a view of the back playground and the multi-sports court.

  I knew to come here today ’cause Dad texted me from his standpoint by the traffic cones earlier, telling me Mrs Watson had hurriedly introduced herself to him and told him that she wanted me to report to her fir
st thing.

  I’d panicked a bit about that; how was I meant to report to her? Where would I find her?

  But there in the reception area was a woman with neat, short hair and a matching neat skirt suit reaching a hand out to shake my trembling one and barking, “You must be Maisie; I’ve been on the lookout for you!” in a loud but kindly voice.

  She’s apologized for being off ill about twelve times already, but you know, I like this chocolate-biscuit-flavoured apology best.

  And I like her.

  The more Mrs Watson talks, the more I feel the tightly wound springs inside me begin to uncoil and release. Suddenly, I feel hungry. Which is no surprise, since all I did was swirl my tea last night and eat about two teaspoonfuls of Cheerios this morning.

  I take a biscuit in the shape of a small doughnut and eat it in one go.

  “Anyway, I know it’s not easy coming into a year group halfway through a term, Maisie,” Mrs Watson breezes on. “But I’m sure you’ll come to love everything about Nightingale School.”

  What – even its ghost? I think, as I try to crunch quietly and politely.

  Immediately, I give a little twitch, trying to shake that stupid thought away.

  Yes, there was someone in the art room about six-ish last night. But it was probably the teacher, hanging back to mark work or plan the next day’s lesson. Or it was a cleaner, maybe.

  I didn’t say anything to Dad this time; he looked at me like a kicked puppy when I finally came downstairs yesterday. This job is too important – it’s everything – to go worrying him about things I imagined I was seeing.

  (I don’t want to think about the fact that the teacher or cleaner or whoever at the window looked a lot like the figure I saw on Saturday morning. The one that was just a trick of the light; a reflection; the twirling junk sculpture, maybe…)

  “And I’m guessing you might be a bit concerned about all the existing friendship groups in class. Well, the girls here really are very nice, so if you can just try to have confidence in yourself and give it time, you’ll settle in, I’m sure!”

  I choke slightly at the word confidence. Last night I flicked through Mum’s notebook and found myself staring at the page that read: Be confident in yourself – even if you feel shy and nervous.

  “All right?” says Mrs Watson, reaching over and giving me a friendly thump on the back.

  I really hope so, I say silently to myself, crossing my chocolatey fingers as I struggle for breath…

  I’m eating my lunch very slowly.

  Not because I’m stressed about choking, but because lots of people are hunched around, lobbing questions at me like tennis balls.

  It’s a change from the loneliness of yesterday, that’s for sure, and it’s all thanks to Mrs Watson. She’s assigned two different girls to be my “minders” every day this week, to help me find my way around and help me get to know people, I guess.

  Today it’s the turn of Hannah and Patience.

  Up till now they’ve marched me between classes like efficient nurses, talking at me, telling me where things are, what the teachers are like. Neither of them has asked me much about myself so far, but all the girls huddled round are more than making up for it now.

  “What was the name of your old school?”

  “Park View.”

  “Yeah? Don’t know it. Do you, Bella?”

  “No. Was it OK there?”

  “Yeah, it was all right.”

  “Were there boys at Park View school, or was it just girls, like here?”

  “Uh, there were boys too.”

  “What was that like?”

  “It was mostly all right,” I say with a shrug, answering the mass of faces staring at me. Well, about eight or nine faces, I reckon, but that’s enough to fluster me, even though I really want the company.

  “So, is it true that your dad’s, like, the caretaker here?” says a girl who I think is called Libby or Livvy, maybe.

  (I’m sure I hear someone on the outer edge of the gaggle of girls giggle, and mutter something about “emptying bins”. But maybe I’m just being paranoid.)

  “Site manager, Libby!” another girl corrects her, who I remember for sure is Natasha. “The only place Mr Mills would be called a ‘caretaker’ is if he was in an episode of Scooby Doo, being unmasked as the bad guy! He’s not a bad guy, is he, Maisie?”

  “Er, no…”

  Uh-oh. Is this Natasha taking the mickey out of my dad too, only in a more subtle way?

  “So is that what he’s always done, been the site manager at different schools?” asks someone called Rose or Rosie.

  “No – this is the first time.”

  “What did he do before?” That’s Hannah.

  “He worked for a consultancy, but he got made redundant.”

  At the words “consultancy”, I can see my classmates’ eyes glazing over.

  “So, what’s it like living right in the school, practically?” asks Bella, steering away from that boring topic.

  “Um…” I say, thinking about how I feel. “I’m not sure yet.”

  “Your dad seems nice,” Libby adds. “At least he’s a lot younger than Mr Butterfield. He was so ancient we used to worry he’d keel over one day in the playground!”

  “Did he? Die, I mean?” I ask, spotting a chance to find out more about our home’s former owner.

  “No!” snorts Libby. “He just retired. The head presented him with this boooring clock at assembly one day, remember?”

  She turns to look at the others, who all nod and remember too.

  I allow myself to smile inside, looking forward to blowing Clem’s theory about Mr Butterfield dying in the house.

  Then I jump when I realize Hannah has said something to me.

  “What’s so funny?”

  Oh … was I smiling on the outside too?

  “Um, nothing,” I mumble, feeling instantly tense.

  “Were you really sad to leave your old friends?” Patience asks, and I find myself wondering if she senses my anxiety, and has helped me out by flinging another question my way. Pity it’s one that’s difficult to answer truthfully, and not get into a long story I’d rather avoid.

  So I go for a white lie.

  “A bit.”

  “Bet you were all crying on your last day!” Patience adds.

  “Mmm.”

  My answers aren’t too interesting, I guess. There’s an awkward few moments, where the questions peter out, the girls’ interest in me seeming to stutter and falter – even Patience loses her patience, and glances sideways at the others.

  The silence probably lasts all of two or three seconds, but it’s long enough for me to feel the wave of panic roll in. I spent a horrible chunk of time at my last school with no one talking much to me, and the thought of that happening again makes me feel scared and hopeless.

  Sorry, Mum; I know you wrote what you wrote in your notebook ’cause you hoped it would help, but I can’t rely on confidence to get me through this. Any slivers of self-confidence I might have had once upon a time got mashed up and mushed up quite a while back.

  But I can try something else.

  Take a breath, Maisie.

  Don’t think about it.

  Just say it – and quickly.

  “Can I tell you something that might sound weird?” I start, heart thudding at the risk I’m taking. These girls might think I’m completely insane…

  “Go on!” says Patience, her dark eyes widening with interest.

  OK. Here goes.

  “A couple of times from my bedroom window … I’ve thought I’ve seen something in the art room window. Someone, I mean. But at times when there shouldn’t be anyone in school.”

  There’s a micro-second’s quiet where I hold my breath, wondering how they’re going to respond.

&nb
sp; And then Patience gives an excited squeal, while Hannah shrieks at a couple of people on the next table.

  “She’s seen it! Maisie the new girl has seen the ghost!!”

  Whooaa … what a relief. They don’t think I’m crazy. I’ve done it; I said something that made them take notice of me again.

  “What did she look like?”

  “Was she in this long, sweeping Victorian dress?”

  “Was she scary?”

  “Or sad?”

  “Were you frightened?”

  “Was she about our age?”

  “Was she pretty?

  “Or like a skeleton or something!”

  “Did she seem like she had a broken neck?”

  With the jabber of voices all talking at once, I don’t know who to answer first, so I try a question myself.

  “So there is a ghost?” I ask incredulously, tiny shivers rippling up and down my back.

  “Oh, absolutely!” says Natasha, taking control of the conversation as more girls crowd eagerly around us. “But come on; what did she look like to you?”

  “Just a girl, or young woman, dressed in white,” I tell my excited audience. “Which of you have seen it?”

  “Oh, none of us have ever seen it,” says Natasha.

  My excitement dips slightly, as the assembled girls shake their heads in disappointed agreement.

  “But plenty of people have in the past, or we wouldn’t know about it, would we?!” says Natasha, undeterred.

  “Yeah, Ella in 8H, her auntie saw it when she was at school here years ago,” Hannah butts in.

  “And that Marta girl in Year Eleven; her big cousin saw it too, when she first started at Nightingale,” adds Patience.

  “Anyway,” Natasha carries on, “it’s supposed to be the ghost of this girl who went to school here when it was first built back in eighteen … eighteen-something-or-other, and she roams the corridors –”

  “Woo-OOOOOO-ooooo!” Rose (or Rosie) joins in, with fitting sound effects and wafty hands.

  “– trying to solve the mystery of what happened to her!”

  “And what did happen to her?” I ask, gripped by this new twist in my very own tale. My mouth feels dry, even though the glass of water beside me is nearly empty.