Blood Ties Read Online Free PDF Page B

hours crept by.
    Even though it made me late for school, I was instant messaging at thirty-six hours and one minute.
    From Big T, posted at 09:01 a.m.:
    Any news?
    From Maxitup, posted at 09:26 a.m.:
    I think so. There were several Smiths born that day in the UK, but only one female who’s still in London. Her name is Rachel.
    From Big T, posted at 09:28 a.m.:
    Okay. Where do I find her?
    From Maxitup, posted at 09:31 a.m.:
    Year Ten. Browning Wood. Girls’ school in South London. 186 Eastow Hill, SE26. When are you going there?
    From Big T, posted at 09:32 a.m.:
    This afternoon. Thanks. BTW, Jake thinks u r cool. Hah!
    From Maxitup, posted at 09:34 a.m.:
    Jake’s a jerk. c ya.

 
10
Rachel
    I spent the rest of the day drawing – a weird picture of tiny hearts, all red and bleeding, on a piece of paper which I kept transferring from one text book to another. I drew instead of starting an English comprehension essay, taking down history notes and making observations on some stupid science experiment. The only class where I couldn’t totally zone out was gym – but I pretended I had my period and got the teacher to let me take it easy. I hate gym. I’m too clumsy and awkward to do any of it right.
    That afternoon I left school promptly, as soon as the bell rang, so that there were plenty of people around as I walked out.
    My school’s on a hill, near the top. I came out of the gates and turned left to walk down the road as usual.
    I’d only gone a couple of steps, looking round for Jemima the whole time, when Clara, this bushy-haired girl from my class, bounded up to me. Her eyes were all round and excited.
    ‘Rachel, Rachel,’ she gasped. ‘There’s a boy looking for you.’
    I stared at her. I didn’t know any boys. That is, I’d known some at primary school, but since I got to Browning Wood the only boys I’d met were other girls’ brothers and a few guys from Princedale’s at a couple of school discos.
    ‘He’s down by the bus-stop,’ Clara continued. ‘He wants to speak to you.’
    I felt slightly sick. Who could it be? Surely not someone’s brother? I hadn’t been round to anyone’s house for almost a year. Maybe the disco at the end of last term – I’d slow-danced with this horrible boy who’d given me a massive love bite on my neck. I’d had to wear high-neck tops for two weeks so Mum and Dad wouldn’t see. His name was Fred or Frank or . . .
    And then it hit me.
    There was no boy. This was some trick of Jemima’s. Some wind-up. I stopped walking.
    Clara grabbed my arm. ‘Come on. No one knows who he is. He won’t say his name.’
    I stared at her. Clara wasn’t a mean person. She kind of got on with everyone. And she certainly wasn’t part of Jemima’s bitchy gang. Maybe she was telling the truth. I turned back. The downwards slope of the hill between where I stood and the bus-stop was filled with tartan skirts and tan jackets. The boy – if there really was a boy – must be either very short or inside the bus shelter.
    I wandered ultra-casually down the hill. Clara was still gabbling away beside me. ‘He’s not wearing a school uniform. I saw him before anyone else. He’s really fit.’
    My heart started pounding. If it wasn’t a wind-up it was a mistake. He was asking for the wrong Rachel. God, that would be so embarrassing. This little voice in my head was saying: run away, run away now .
    But my feet kept on walking me forwards. The bus-stop really wasn’t that far – maybe nine or ten metres, but it felt like a mile. As I got closer I caught sight of Phoebe, chattering and smiling at someone inside the bus shelter.
    No. No, no, no . There was Jemima. That settled it. Definitely a wind-up. I stopped walking again, just as Phoebe turned and looked up the road. She saw me. No. I couldn’t move. Phoebe pointed at me. Jemima scowled. Then they stood aside, like they were making way for someone.
    And this boy stepped out of the bus shelter.
    He was tall, kind of