the middle of the night when I canât get back to sleep.
Sometimes I dream that Iâm watching our house burn and I try to break in through the front door, but Dad pulls me back just as the roof collapses. On those nights I wake sweating and shivering at the same time, and I can hear Dad crying on the couch. I get out of bed to check on him, but I never seem to make it all the way. I donât know what to say to him. Even my best friend Bridge Iâve only told bits and pieces. My aunty tried to talk to me about it, too. But thereâs just not much to say.
Suddenly I hear Dad in the stairwell and rush over to open the door.
âWell, thatâs service, Clem,â he says, and he gives me a hug.
âYeah. Gotta do something around here to earn my keep.â
âItâs cold in here.â Dad shivers as he takes off his heavy blue jacket. Luckily it didnât burn in the fire. It was safe in the boot of our car. All the workers at the gardens have them for cold days because the padding is so thick it stops the wind and means they can stay outside for longer. Itâs his unofficial uniform. At least some things are still the same.
âI canât light the heater,â I say.
âOh, Iâll show you the trick.â
I smile. Of course Dad knows the trick.
âYouâve got to press the starter button at the same time you put in the temperature,â he says, showing me the buttons.
He moves out of the way and I know he wants me to try it myself. This is Dadâs way of teaching me how to do things. So far itâs meant that I can change the tyre tube on my bike, pitch a tent and hammer a nail in straight.
I light the heater instantly and Dad pats my back, pleased.
âHow was school?â he asks.
I shrug. âYou didnât really research it, did you?â
Rather than answer my question straightaway, Dad walks into the kitchen and turns down the radio.
âHey, I was listening to that.â
âNobody should listen to that,â he says, winking at me.
I watch as he turns on the kettle. Thatâs the other thing Dad always does: has a cup of tea when he gets home even in the middle of summer. He puts it down to having English parents who had a pot going twenty-four hours a day.
âI sort of researched it,â he finally replies.
I snort. âOn Google?â
âMaybe.â
âDid Google tell you thereâs a âno-homework policyâ? Dad, my teacher has a nose ring. And there are no desks!â
âWow. Sounds interesting.â
âYeah.â
âWas anyone nice to you?â
âOne girl. Ellie. That one who showed me around when you were leaving,â I say.
âGood. Is it going to be okay?â
I nod. âMaybe.â
âItâll be okay, Clem,â says Dad, after a pause.
I know I should comment but I donât really know what to say. Mum was always the person I talked to about problems at school and with friends. Maybe heâs trying to fill the gap.
I watch as Dad makes his cup of tea. He dangles the teabag over the cup for a second, drains it off with a teaspoon and then tosses it into the sink. He doesnât add any milk, just two heaped teaspoons of sugar.
âWork wants me to start back next week,â he says. âI told them that should be fine, but itâll mean youâll have to get yourself to and from school without me every day. That okay?â
âYeah, Dad. Of course.â
âThe boss said I could have the earlier shift so Iâll be home just after four. At least that way you donât have to cook. Canât be eating beans on toast every night!â
âHa ha. Youâre hilarious, Dad.â Iâm secretly relieved that heâs doing the early shift. I look over at the radio. Being on my own in the flat until six wouldnât be much fun.
âSee you tried the pudding,â he says.
âDidnât.â
âPretty