The Girl Who Wasn't There

by Karen McCombie

  “No!” I yelp. “Don’t say that!”

  Clem bursts out laughing at my shock and outrage. “Why do you sound so upset, Maisie? We don’t even know the woman.”

  I blink for a second and try to figure out why I’m suddenly so disappointed at the idea of Dad and the mysterious Donna splitting up.

  I guess part of it is that I’ve been excited for ages about the idea of meeting this person who’s made Dad so happy (I’ve seen those smiles when her texts ping through).

  And part of it is because Mum would be very, very proud of me and Clem managing to Please stay open-minded if Dad meets someone new… (Written halfway through the notebook, with a smiley face drawn beside it.)

  “I just want Dad to be OK,” I say, feeling the telltale prickle of tears threaten. There’ve been plenty of times that my heart’s lurched at the thought of me and Clem leaving home for uni or whatever, and leaving him on his own. I can’t stand it, and that’s why I’d love our lovely dad to be loved by more people than just his kids.

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Clem says gruffly, but she’s passing me a tissue that she’s found in her bag. “So … you haven’t done your freaked-out zombie face for a day or so. School getting less awful?”

  OK, my big sis is being halfway nice to me, but it doesn’t seem like she’s in the mood to handle a kid sister in tears, so I guess that’s why she’s changing the subject.

  “Yeah, a bit,” I say, blowing my nose and cheering up at the thought of Kat. “I think I might have a friend.”

  “Yeah? A blind, deaf friend with no taste?” she jokes, but I can tell she’s a little bit pleased for me. “What’s her name?”

  “Kat – with a ‘K’.”

  “Uh-huh. And what’s Kat-with-a-K like, then?”

  “Well, she’s not in my form class so we haven’t had a chance to hang out that much yet,” I begin, trying to remember if Kat said she was in 8T or 8G. “But she’s really good fun, and I don’t get the feeling she has a best friend at the moment. She’s kind of different too – she’s really pretty but has all this wavy, big hair that she ties back with a scarf like a headband, with a loose big bow here – sort of cute and cool, not like a little kid’s bow, I mean. And today we spent lunchtime hanging out together at Art Club and—”

  “Whoa!” says Clem, holding her hand up to stop me in my tracks. “Information overload!”

  “Sorry,” I say, realizing I’ve been gushing.

  “It’s OK,” Clem replies, leaning back enough now to get her bare feet up on the table. “I guess it’s kind of funny that I know more about your new friend in the space of ten seconds than Dad’s girlfriend in all this time!”

  I grin at her, and Clem grins back. Which feels good.

  “So – without giving me a word-by-word account – what have you and Kat-with-a-K been chatting about?”

  Her face gives nothing away, but I wonder if she’s really asking me whether or not I’ve told Kat about what happened at my last school. Of course, I haven’t, because a) there hasn’t been time yet, and b) I don’t know her well enough to mention something that might make her well wary of me…

  “I dunno. Just stuff,” I say, wondering if I should come out and tell Clem what we have been talking about.

  “Hey, don’t go coy on me! I’ve been thirteen too. Is Kat-with-a-K filling you in with all the gossip about everyone at school?”

  Clem is so relaxed, so friendly, that I relax and feel friendly towards her too.

  “Not really,” I say. “It’s just … well, there’s supposed to be this ghost of a Victorian girl that haunts the school and me and Kat are thinking that we’ll try and find out all about—”

  “Nope! You know this sort of thing creeps me out,” Clem interrupts sharply, her feet disappearing from the table, her hand back up in front of me in a very definite “stop”. “Don’t want to hear this, thanks!”

  “But—” I try to continue, watching her fiddling with her headphones, ready to block me out.

  “Maisie, it’s bad enough that I have to live in this grotty, creepy dump, beside that spooky old school,” she says firmly. “I don’t want to hear any ghost stories. OK?”

  I don’t even get to say OK – or explain about the house not being creepy since Mr Butterfield didn’t even die here – because the Arctic Monkeys are blaring and my sister’s gaze is firmly back on her homework.

  As I stare at her swinging bob, shutting her face off from me like a pair of brown velvet curtains, I think two things…

  Our friendly, sisterly truce lasted about ten whole minutes.

  And the ghost story that Clem doesn’t want to hear? I’m not so sure it is just a story…

  A celeb magazine is open on the table, with an argument raging above it.

  “That is hideous,” says Natasha, sticking her fingers down her throat and pretending to gag.

  “You’re joking, right?! It is so cool!” says Patience, shocked that Natasha doesn’t share her taste in neon animal-print jumpsuits.

  “Maisie – your turn for ‘Choosies’!” says Rosie.

  It’s Thursday and it’s Rosie and Bella’s turn to be my minders today. Think they’ve been on a mission to find out more about me, but it’s felt like an interrogation. Between classes, as they took me along corridors, up and down stairwells, it was questions, questions, endless questions about my old school, my old “friends”. I mentioned Lilah and Jasneet, but didn’t go into any details.

  I swear I saw them sneaking knowing glances at each other a couple of times, and that doesn’t make me feel too great. My old school might be on the other side of town, but what if someone knows someone who went there and Rosie and Bella are fishing for info, since they’ve heard what happened?

  (Please, no!)

  “What?” I say, not really paying attention to Rosie, not exactly sure what she’s asking me now.

  “Choosies,” she repeats. “We all take turns choosing what we’d have off of these pages.”

  OK, I get it. I’m meant to look at all the stuff on this fashion spread and pick what I like best.

  I try.

  I look.

  Natasha is right: the neon animal-print jumpsuit is horrible, but so is everything else.

  Glancing up at the bundle of expectant faces staring at me, I worry about what to say. Is “none of them” an answer I can go with? Or should I just pick a hideous bag or top or necklace at random and hope it’ll do?

  The truth is, I can’t concentrate on this dumb stuff – not when I have ghosts floating around in my head.

  And then I see her, waving at me from the far side of the dining hall.

  I’m saved. (Thanks, Kat.)

  “Sorry – got to go,” I say, grabbing my bag and excusing myself, trying not to feel the burning cold of eyes boring into the back of my head…

  “You ask,” I whisper to Kat.

  “No, you ask,” she whispers back.

  “Please, you do it! You know the librarian,” I say, my tummy twisting itself in a knot of shyness.

  “Well, how will you get to know her if you don’t talk to her?” asks Kat, with a cheeky lipglossed grin. “She doesn’t bite!”

  I hesitate, working up the courage to go on over and ask the librarian for the books we want.

  Breathe, Maisie, I remind myself as I walk over to the desk with hesitant, birdlike steps.

  “Hi,” I say to the lady sorting books into what seem like random piles.

  “Hello. Do I know you? Are you new?” she asks, lowering her head to peer at me over her glasses.

  “Yes, I just started in Year 8 on Monday. I’m Maisie Mills,” I tell her.

  “Pleased to meet you, Maisie! I’m Mrs Gupta. Now, if you can just fill in this, we’ll get you sorted out with a library card in no time.”

  “Oh … right…” I mutter,
thrown for a moment as Mrs Gupta passes me a ballpoint pen and a form. I glance at Kat, who has perched herself on a table by the window, one leg curled up underneath her.

  “Go on – ask!” she mouths at me.

  Easy for Kat to say, sitting there all comfy, watching me squirm.

  But then again, my new friend does make me feel a little braver, somehow.

  So … here we go.

  I should just do it, say it, before time runs out, the bell trills and we have to get going to afternoon lessons.

  “Um, I was wondering,” I begin, as I scribble on my form, “do you have any books or leaflets about the history of Nightingale School?”

  “Is it for a project?” asks Mrs Gupta. She’s frowning a little. Probably because she knows what everyone in every year group is studying, and every project they’ve been assigned.

  Or maybe it’s because she can read my mind and knows that I’m scavenging around for anything about Victorian pupils meeting untimely deaths.

  Thing is, Kat says we shouldn’t ask straight out, and she’s right. It doesn’t take an A* genius to work out that schools don’t like anyone dwelling on negative stuff connected with them, like bad exam results, mice in the kitchens, students who get expelled, or girls who die on the premises, in any century. And if I needed proof of that, I just have to remember Mrs Watson clamping right down on the ghost conversation in the dinner hall on Tuesday.

  “I’m just interested,” I say to Mrs Gupta, in a way I hope sounds convincing. “The school I’ve moved from was very modern and kind of boring. Nightingale seems so old and … and fascinating.”

  “Well, it’s nice to find someone who’s curious to learn about their school!” Mrs Gupta gushes, slipping out from behind her desk and waving me to follow her. “Most of the girls here are only in the library to go on Facebook – even though they know they’re not allowed to!”

  A few students look up shame-faced at Mrs Gupta’s loud and pointed words; a few slink down behind their computer consoles.

  I just go pink, knowing I’ve told a slightly white lie about my interest in the school’s history. I’m pink, too, hearing Mrs Gupta praise me for my curiosity. One of Mum’s notes is, Always be curious – never be bored or boring.

  Would she approve of me ghost-hunting? I don’t know, and don’t think it’s the sort of thing I can ask Dad about.

  I mean, it’s not like, “What was her favourite colour?” or “Did she have any pets when she was little?” If I ask him, “Was Mum into the supernatural?” then he might think I’m going through a weird phase of missing her and am about to ask if we can do a séance or something.

  “Here we are,” says Mrs Gupta as she breezes past Kat, who is nibbling at her nails, but grinning at me too.

  I half expect Mrs Gupta to do that teacher thing and tell Kat to get down off the table, but table-perching obviously comes low on the library’s crime list after illegal Facebooking.

  Mrs Gupta comes to a stop and reaches up to grab a slim leather-bound book from the top shelf. She passes it to me.

  “Thank you,” I say, remembering my manners, which I think is important when you’re covering up for something you really shouldn’t be doing.

  “You’re very welcome,” says Mrs Gupta, swanning back to her desk with an occasional glower at guilty-looking computer users.

  “She’s a bit fearsome!” I whisper to Kat.

  “Mrs Gupta?” says Kat, arching her eyebrows at me as she slips off the table and on to a chair. “Hey, she is a total softie compared to Mr Holden. He used to go nuts at anyone who’d forgotten to do their maths homework. I mean, properly furious, like his head was going to explode!”

  Kat pulls this mad face, looking like an insane, gurning, pop-eyed frog – and I have to slap a hand over my mouth to stop a snort of laughter escaping.

  “Seriously!” she whispers, relaxing her face back into her usual infectious smile. “But the scarier he tried to be, the funnier we all thought it was. We called him The Grouch behind his back!”

  So like me, Kat did have fun with her classmates once. What happened? When did it change? What made it change?

  “Don’t fancy landing in his class anytime soon,” I mutter, grimacing.

  “Oh, don’t worry, he left ages ago,” says Kat with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Anyway, come on, let’s see what’s in this book.”

  Fine, that’s my cue to open Nightingale School: A History.

  Me and Kat scan every musty, dusty page, taking about the same length of time to examine each photo, to skim all the words.

  After a good long while, we turn to each other, thinking – I’m pretty sure – the same thing.

  “Not exactly what we were looking for,” I say, slightly overloaded with all the dry-as-dust facts and figures about various Victorian founders with handlebar moustaches.

  “Kind of low on exciting stories of dead students,” Kat jokes, ladling more gloss on to her already sheeny-shiny lips.

  “So what should we try next?” I ask, looking down in disappointment at the stiff photos of the stern, long-ago gentlemen.

  “Drawing glasses, cross eyes and blacked-out teeth on these guys?” suggests Kat – which makes me snort out loud this time.

  “Hey, Maisie, what’s so funny?” someone suddenly asks.

  I glance up and see Patience staring down at me. She’s got this heart-shaped, sweet face, skin so dark and smooth that you practically want to reach out and stroke it. But of course, that would be weird for two reasons …

  she’s looking at me like I’m bananas, and

  it would be just weird, full stop.

  OK, now that last thought has got me sniggering again. Kat drops her gaze to the table so Patience doesn’t spot that she’s doing the same.

  Uh-oh: Patience – thinking I’m laughing at her – gives an irritated, embarrassed headshake and storms off.

  “Ooo-OOO-oo! What’s her problem?” giggles Kat, just as bad as me.

  Help.

  I know Patience will probably go running off to the others in our form class now, telling them that I’ve been giggling like a kid over some book with Kat; that I was weird or cheeky or whatever to her.

  But it’s like yesterday: I’ve spent so long on a laughter-free holiday that now it’s started, I just can’t stop.

  “Hey,” says Kat, her laughs fading down to giggles fading down to a happy smile. “This is fun, right?”

  I have a friend.

  A friend who likes me.

  A friend who cracks me up.

  A friend I can have an adventure with.

  What could possibly spoil that?

  A vague memory of best friends who turned into enemies flutters into my mind, but I swat it away, like a summer bug that wants to bite.

  “Yes, yes it is!” I agree, wondering if we’re talking about the ghost hunt or our shiny new friendship…

  I lie on my bed, my school shoes kicked off, flicking through an old photo album of Mum’s from her teens.

  We’ve got heaps of albums with Mum starring in them – just her and Dad, lots of Clem and me snuggling up to her as babies – but this one’s my favourite.

  Dad’s told us a whole bunch of Stories About Your Mum based on this particular album, though it’s just what he can remember her telling him, since they didn’t get together till they were in their twenties. (Guess that makes them second-hand stories.)

  “Your mum and her friends went to a youth-club disco every Saturday,” I imagine Dad saying as I smile at the photo of my mum aged fourteen, arms around her gaggle of best mates. “She told me the disco lasted two hours, but the getting ready took three!”

  I can see why: never mind the rah-rah skirts, leggings, ankle warmers and ribbons they were wearing, the smiling teenagers grinning back at me must have spent for ever backcombing their eig
hties hair, deciding which layers of bangles and necklaces to pile on.

  I wish she’d kept some of her old clothes and jewellery from that time, I think, shivering slightly. It would’ve been fun to try them on, drape the necklaces and bracelets around me. See if I’d look in the mirror and recognize part of myself as that eighties version of Mum…

  The shiver I felt: it’s because a light late-spring breeze has meandered its way through the open window and is lazily blowing my curtains around, making them billow like the sails on some old-time galleon.

  The billowing effect is ’cause my curtains from our old place are way too long for these small windows. They look kind of comical with those folds of material gathered on the ground, same as a clown wearing oversized trousers.

  It would be good to take them up sometime; they do that service at the dry-cleaner’s in town. But it’ll wait; I’m not about to ask Dad, since I know there’s a ton of stuff that needs fixing and sorting around here first, and it’ll take him months of working and wages to be able to afford it all.

  So, yeah, I’ll wait.

  Don’t think Clem can, though.

  “You know what I hate most about this place?” she said this morning, standing in her washed-out, faded dressing gown and latest foul mood, scowling at the too-slow toaster.

  “No, but I think you’re going to tell us!” said Dad, who probably wished he hadn’t popped back for a minute to make a coffee for his flask mug.

  “The carpet in my bedroom,” Clem growled. “It’s not just the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen, with that swirly pattern, but it’s lethal too!”

  I glanced up from my bowl of cereal, ready to make a jokey comment about her carpet carrying a gun, but then I remembered that this was Clem, who was pretty lethal herself in the mornings. Get on the wrong side of her and she’ll cut you in two with her razor-sharp tongue.

  “Dad, that thing is so threadbare, I caught my toe in a bald patch just now and nearly went flying!” she moaned on.

  “Well, I’ll make that top of the list of fixes when I get paid, OK?” he said wearily, heading out of the door, ready to do battle with the parents who liked to park on the zigzags if they could get away with it.