lemonade, and talk and laugh and turn the CD player up as loud as it can go so we can dance. Misti crashes out on the brown squashy chair, cake crumbs all round her mouth, and Mum lifts her gently and carries her to bed, tucking her in with the old pink rabbit whose ears she loves to chew.
Then Mum and Jane crack open the wine and start talking grown-up stuff, so I stretch out on my beanbag with a sketchbook and a bundle of felt pens.
I draw the dream cottage with roses round the door, a mum and two little girls skipping through gardens that are filled with flowers. I draw a rainbow, a crock of gold and lots of green, rolling hills, more like the ones near Gran’s house in Wales than anything in our grimy northern town.
I draw a doodle in the corner that looks suspiciously like Max, then scrawl a big cross right through the middle to show he’s not wanted here. That makes me feel guilty, because it’s not like Max ever did anything mean to me. He could be good fun sometimes, bringing home pocketfuls of penny sweets and giving me two quid every Saturday to wash the big blue builder’s van. It looks like he’s history now, though.
I yawn and lie down for a while, and when I wake, stretching lazily and pushing felt pens across the carpet, Mum is crying quietly into her wine and Jane is handing her tissues and patting her hair.
‘He’s a loser,’ Jane says gently. ‘He’ll never change, Anna, you know that.’
‘I know, I know…’
‘You’re better off without him. Look at you all, you can breathe here – you’re not all creeping around scared to make a noise, say the wrong thing.’
‘I know,’ Mum sobs. ‘It’s just…’
Just what?’ Jane wants to know.
Mum pushes a curtain of fair hair back from her tear-stained face and smiles sadly. ‘Oh, Jane,’ she says. ‘I know you’re right, I know . It’s just that – well, I still love him. I can’t help it.’
Mum writes me a note to say I’ve had a bad cold and packs me off to school. I’m glad to escape the smell of paint and the wimpy electric fire and the big double bed that still smells faintly of pee. I have been dreaming of spelling tests and the nine times table and school stew for five days, but I feel oddly nervous as I mooch through the streets.
I’m not early – not early enough, anyway.
Getting lost in the graffiti-walled estate doesn’t help. I walk around for ages through rabbit-warren streets that look identical, my feet crunching on glass. A gang of small boys follow me for a while, shouting rude things about my blue fleece bobble hat, but I blank them and they melt away, bored. In the end, I emerge somewhere near the chippy, which means I’ve trudged right round in a circle. I have to skirt round the estate, instead, sulking furiously.
The bell is ringing as I slip through the gates, and long jaggedy lines of kids swarm around the doors, pushing and shoving to get inside. It’s taken me a whole hour to walk here, all because Hartington Drive is in the back of beyond.
I’m last through the classroom door, and Miss McDougall clocks me as I try to sneak invisibly to my seat.
‘Ah, Indigo,’ she booms, so that just about every head in the room swivels to stare. ‘Everything all right? How is your grandmother?’
‘Um, fine, I think…’
‘Do you have a note? Did you remember your topic homework?’
I give her the letter, return the emergency bus fare from last week and mumble something about dropping my topic book in a puddle, which doesn’t go down too well. Then Miss McDougall turns her attention to Shane Taggart, who makes a late but spectacular entrance on his skateboard, school bag flying out behind him. He gets a hundred lines for his trouble.
I edge along to my desk, then stop, the colour draining from my face. Aisha Patel is sitting in it, and she and Jo are so busy chatting and laughing they don’t even see me turn from white to pink to deep, dark red.
‘Had a brilliant time… your mum’s so
Then Mum and Jane crack open the wine and start talking grown-up stuff, so I stretch out on my beanbag with a sketchbook and a bundle of felt pens.
I draw the dream cottage with roses round the door, a mum and two little girls skipping through gardens that are filled with flowers. I draw a rainbow, a crock of gold and lots of green, rolling hills, more like the ones near Gran’s house in Wales than anything in our grimy northern town.
I draw a doodle in the corner that looks suspiciously like Max, then scrawl a big cross right through the middle to show he’s not wanted here. That makes me feel guilty, because it’s not like Max ever did anything mean to me. He could be good fun sometimes, bringing home pocketfuls of penny sweets and giving me two quid every Saturday to wash the big blue builder’s van. It looks like he’s history now, though.
I yawn and lie down for a while, and when I wake, stretching lazily and pushing felt pens across the carpet, Mum is crying quietly into her wine and Jane is handing her tissues and patting her hair.
‘He’s a loser,’ Jane says gently. ‘He’ll never change, Anna, you know that.’
‘I know, I know…’
‘You’re better off without him. Look at you all, you can breathe here – you’re not all creeping around scared to make a noise, say the wrong thing.’
‘I know,’ Mum sobs. ‘It’s just…’
Just what?’ Jane wants to know.
Mum pushes a curtain of fair hair back from her tear-stained face and smiles sadly. ‘Oh, Jane,’ she says. ‘I know you’re right, I know . It’s just that – well, I still love him. I can’t help it.’
Mum writes me a note to say I’ve had a bad cold and packs me off to school. I’m glad to escape the smell of paint and the wimpy electric fire and the big double bed that still smells faintly of pee. I have been dreaming of spelling tests and the nine times table and school stew for five days, but I feel oddly nervous as I mooch through the streets.
I’m not early – not early enough, anyway.
Getting lost in the graffiti-walled estate doesn’t help. I walk around for ages through rabbit-warren streets that look identical, my feet crunching on glass. A gang of small boys follow me for a while, shouting rude things about my blue fleece bobble hat, but I blank them and they melt away, bored. In the end, I emerge somewhere near the chippy, which means I’ve trudged right round in a circle. I have to skirt round the estate, instead, sulking furiously.
The bell is ringing as I slip through the gates, and long jaggedy lines of kids swarm around the doors, pushing and shoving to get inside. It’s taken me a whole hour to walk here, all because Hartington Drive is in the back of beyond.
I’m last through the classroom door, and Miss McDougall clocks me as I try to sneak invisibly to my seat.
‘Ah, Indigo,’ she booms, so that just about every head in the room swivels to stare. ‘Everything all right? How is your grandmother?’
‘Um, fine, I think…’
‘Do you have a note? Did you remember your topic homework?’
I give her the letter, return the emergency bus fare from last week and mumble something about dropping my topic book in a puddle, which doesn’t go down too well. Then Miss McDougall turns her attention to Shane Taggart, who makes a late but spectacular entrance on his skateboard, school bag flying out behind him. He gets a hundred lines for his trouble.
I edge along to my desk, then stop, the colour draining from my face. Aisha Patel is sitting in it, and she and Jo are so busy chatting and laughing they don’t even see me turn from white to pink to deep, dark red.
‘Had a brilliant time… your mum’s so
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