I pushed the bag between the branches. ‘Sweet.’
On the way home, I saw our next-door neighbour, Mrs Carpenter, across the street, walking her Papillon. She was wearing a baseball cap, even though she was nearly as old as Grandma.
We waved.
I like Mrs Carpenter, even though I’d preferred Mr Carpenter when he was around. He always offered me Polos and, if we had shopping bags, he’d make a point of coming over and asking if we’d bought tomatoes or courgettes and how much we’d paid for them, because the supermarkets see you coming and it’s so much cheaper to grow them yourself!
He’d tell us this every time, even though we’d heard it before. Even the times we hadn’t bought any tomatoes or courgettes.
But he moved out last year and moved in with his brother’s wife, and I’m not meant to ask about him.
His brother’s wife was welcome to him. I found that out from Mrs Carpenter, in one of those spying missions that left me understanding less, not more.
The bad side of finding things out by spying is that you can’t ask people to explain.
Later, I sat with Mum and Dad on the stools round the peninsula, eating Dad’s homemade pizza.
That’s what we call the bit of kitchen surface that sticks out: the peninsula. It sticks out of the wall under the diagonal bit where the stairs are, and I sit in the stool that fits under the stairs. It’s fine, I just have to remember not to jerk my head around while I eat.
‘I’m just wondering. If you found some special things in a public place’– I picked a piece of sweetcorn off my pizza – ‘would it be stealing to sell the things?’
Dad looked at Mum. He’d finished work for the day, but was still wearing his postman’s uniform.
‘What valuable things have you found?’ Dad asked.
‘I haven’t found anything, I’m just wondering how Finders Keepers works, exactly.’
He stared at me and I looked down.
Dad is too good at reading faces. He was born significantly hearing-impaired, but he says deaf. I forget most of the time, until something happens, like Dad needs me to make a phone call. He usually asks Mum to make his calls, but he always asks me if he wants to phone a premium rate line for a TV quiz show because it’s just less hassle this way, darling.
Dad being deaf doesn’t affect things much, except that he can’t use the phone, and sometimes he needs something he’s missed explaining. The good bit about it is he’s always able to lipread what a footballer on telly is swearing. The bad bit is that our overhead lights flash when someone rings the doorbell. I’ve asked Mum and Dad if we can stop that, because it’s embarrassing when kids come over, but Mum’s face went hard and she said I need to think about my priorities.
So I just don’t invite people over now. I love Dad – I wouldn’t swap him. I wouldn’t even swap Mum, most of the time. It’s just sensible not to hand kids bullets about how your family’s different from other people’s.
Mum peered across the peninsula at me, eyes made into slits. ‘Why are you asking about valuable things and Finders Keepers? Is this about the car boot sale?’
‘It’s nothing to do with the car boot sale.’
She wiped her fingers and adjusted the clip in her hair. She wore clips like two claws, that bounced back when stretched too far open. ‘You wouldn’t lie to me, Fiona? I really hope not.’
‘Mrs Vernal mentioned Danielle today, out of nowhere,’ I said quickly. ‘Mrs Vernal. She’s the new drama teacher.’
Mum reached for a slice of pizza. Pieces of her grey-blonde hair fell out of the clip again. She glanced at Dad and back to me. ‘What did she say?’
‘She just really, really wanted to talk about Danielle.’
Mum put the pizza slice down. ‘What did she say specifically?’
‘She said that I could use having a dead sister to get better at drama. She talked about emotional truth. She held me back at the end of class and told me she was here for me.’
Mum looked at Dad. ‘Mrs Vernal, you say?’
Dad put his pizza slice down. He put his hand on Mum’s leg.
‘Some people,’ Mum adjusted her hair clip jerkily, not even wiping her fingers this time, ‘like to insert themselves into other people’s business.’
She pushed her plate across the peninsula, even though she hadn’t finished her food, and the force of the push made hair fall out of her clip again. But my catalyst had worked because there was no more talk of Finders Keepers and the car boot sale.
Dr Sharma taught us about catalysts in science. I use Danielle as a catalyst to change conversations.
Thing is, when you’re not quite twelve in a town that’s thirty miles from the nearest city – where there’s meant to be a retail park coming, with a cinema and megabowl but they’ve still not been built – where the most exciting events are kids putting bangers in cow pats, or farm boys riding into school on tractors on their sixteenth birthdays, and by riding I mean trundling in slowly, it sounds better than it is – well. Being a kid and being able to change a conversation is like a superpower.
My big sister died.
Some people head-tilt and go quiet. Some people ask questions.
Mrs Vernal is one of those who tell me how sad I am. She wants me to be sad, though she either doesn’t know the full story or she hasn’t thought it through. Because you don’t get sad about someone you never met. Except if you’re told there was this girl who used to live in your house, who still has a better bedroom than you, who laid the table without being asked and was a good eater.
So maybe I am sad. Maybe I’m sad I can’t go back fourteen years and grab Danielle’s arm and say fine, you’re going to die and I’m sorry, but could you say you don’t like eggs? In fourteen years’ time I’m going to have to eat sweetcorn because of you.
Sometimes, when Mum talks about Danielle, it’s like she forgets we were never all here at the same time. She talks like our family once had the right number for Hungry Hippos. Like we were once a family who once needed the fourth peninsula stool, rather than keeping it in the cupboard under the stairs.
And sometimes I wonder whether I should stop pointing out that I’m the replacement. Whether I should forget what the truth is, and try to believe Mum’s instead.
Mum especially forgets me and Danielle weren’t around at the same time when it comes to summer holidays.
She was looking at Cornwall hotels in the kitchen with Dad later that night, while I worked on a jigsaw in the lounge. I could hear what she was doing without needing to spy at all.
‘SHIT THE BED!’ There was a furious tapping – Mum stabbing at a brochure with an angry finger. ‘Jonathan, look at the single supplement for this one!’
Things That Make My Mum Angry
1)Single supplements
2)Me not thinking about my priorities
3)Me, generally
4)People cutting her up at roundabouts, especially if they’re driving BMWs
5)People who walk too slowly in front of her, on the street or in a supermarket
6)Me telling another adult that she wanted to know how much money they had*
7)People who say they knew Danielle really well when they didn’t
8)Snails on the step that don’t move out of the way because it’s their fault if they go and get stepped on and they can’t come crying to me
9)Grandma buying unsuitable presents
10)The women from work who treated Danielle’s funeral like an outing because they stopped at M&S on the way back
11)The timing sheets system at Parents’ Evening
12)Me asking to go to the fair
13)Mrs Vernal (new)
*I only did this once.
This list is definitely – definitely – not exhaustive.
Mum was still with Dad in the kitchen – ‘LOOK! JO
NATHAN! What are the single beds made of, actual diamonds?’ – when I heard a thud at the lounge window.
I pushed my jigsaw away. I ran to the window and looked out.
A sparrow lay on the paving stone below the window, its legs sticking into the air, cartoon-upright.
I let myself out of the front door. I picked the bird up carefully and rested it on my hand.
It was warm. I felt a flutter of movement inside it.
I rested the sparrow on top of the hedge so the estate cats couldn’t get it. I looked back at the window, at the round greasy mark, whirling like a massive fingerprint.
When I checked the bird a few minutes later, it had gone. But the bird-head-fingerprint mark was still there. Below the mark was the back of a photo frame.
I sniffed. I bet I knew why that bird got distracted and flew into the glass. I knew what it was thinking.
Another one, I can’t believe it. Another photo of that dead kid on a windowsill.
3
If you tell a kid not to do something, you might give them the idea in the first place.
(paradox)
Thirty-eight days to the fair
I met Lewis at our lamppost on George Street the next morning. He walked towards me, his anorak hood up, even though it was hardly raining.
We nodded at each other and fell into step, crossing the road when we reached the postbox.
‘Wait for me!’ Sean hurried to catch us.
I looked at Sean’s feet. ‘You’re only allowed to wear black socks with the uniform, You’re going to get done.’
Sean pushed his hand through his hair. ‘So, I get done, so what?’
That’s when I knew we were meant to notice his white socks, but he was pretending we weren’t.
These things might sound complicated if you’re not at our school, but they make sense once you’ve been there a while.
The three of us walked through the park and Lewis and I glanced at each other. We knew what the other was thinking. We wanted to check the bag of magazines was still there, but we didn’t want to tell Sean.
Sean’s not as good at keeping secrets as us.
Or not as good with our secrets anyway. Sean told everyone Lewis was rubbish at the high jump after we held an Olympics in Lewis’s back garden. Sean told everyone I was trying on a new accent – and really, there was nothing wrong with that, loads of people who only ever lived on cul-de-sacs in Monkford talk like the brothers from Oasis.
So I got nervous as we approached the second-biggest bush because Lewis is a panicker. Causes me loads of problems.
I thought quickly. ‘You know when I turn twelve in August, I’ll overtake Danielle. She was eleven when she died.’
Sean and Lewis both looked away.
‘Our second-biggest bedroom is still kept for Danielle. But I’ll be the oldest when I turn twelve.’ I could make out a hint of white plastic through the branches. ‘And I’m alive. Do you think Mum and Dad will give me the second bedroom on my birthday?’
‘No.’ Lewis was looking at gravel path in front of him. ‘And I definitely don’t think you should ask your mum.’
Lewis is scared of my mum, more than any other adult. He’s not used to a shouty mum because his is the quiet type.
Anyway, my catalyst worked, because we were now past the second-biggest bush and nearly at the playground.
Lewis and I glanced at each other. I gave a small nod.
A day, that bag of magazines had been there now. A whole day – at least. And no one had come to collect it yet.
After registration, we had a year-group assembly in the sports hall. We sat cross-legged on gym mats, low-level conversation all around as we waited for the assembly to start.
It was meant to be one of those talent assemblies, with kids with hobbies showing off, all hoping to wow the crowd. Kids who’d been told skills impressed people and won friends.
Kids who hadn’t thought through what would happen when they left the sports hall. Who’d spend all lunchtime begging bigger kids for their juggling balls back.
Mrs Vernal stood at the front of the sports hall, waiting. Something felt different today. Dr Sharma and the other Year Seven form teachers looked more serious than usual.
I felt the waft of the door opening and shutting behind me. At the back of the room, the chattering stopped. The kids at the side of the hall, the ones with their jazz shoes and flutes, stood straighter. Even the teachers stood straighter.
I felt her before I saw her. The New Head.
Across the aisle, Liam hadn’t noticed the air change. ‘And his stereo has got two CD players and—’
The New Head padded up to him. She waited, looking at the floor, doing an impression of someone shy. The eyes of a cheetah brooch glinted out from her neat turquoise jumper.
Finally, Liam glanced up.
He shrank – instantly. Liam. One of the best kids in our year.
The New Head stood there a moment longer, letting Liam’s fear properly soak in.
She walked to the front of the room and turned to face us. ‘I’ve been contacted by the head at Radcliffe High School.’
Just the sound of her voice made my stomach squish. It was so calm and quiet, in the room that was otherwise silent.
‘A group of his Year Tens were playing chicken on the railway track, and a child has been seriously injured by an oncoming train. He is in hospital. He will never be the same again.’
Not a whisper.
‘I wanted you all to hear me say, personally, that playing chicken is the stupidest thing a child can do. And if any of you – any of you’ – she looked into as many eyes as possible – ‘risk the safety of yourselves or your fellow children in that way, you will feel the full force of my wrath.’
The New Head nodded to Mrs Vernal and walked out of the room. The only sound was the brush of the door as it came to a close, behind her.
Mrs Vernal took a step forward. ‘That must be such upsetting news for you all.’ Her eyes were shiny, but not crying-shiny. ‘Awful.’
No one said anything.
‘You need to take this as a learning opportunity. You’re going to learn how not to follow the herd. You’re going to learn about real life at this school – especially in drama.’
Did Dr Sharma exchange a look with Miss Jarvis?
‘Resilience, not just the syllabus. You’re going to grow.’ Mrs Vernal pulled at her scarf like it was too tight. ‘Does anyone have anything they want to share with the group?’
Everyone looked at the floor.
‘These can be difficult years.’ Mrs Vernal paced in front of the sports ladders at the front of the room. ‘Remember – you are the star of your own life. You flower for yourselves, not for anyone else.’ She turned and paced in the other direction. ‘Being a teenager is hard.’
Teenager. If only. I wasn’t even twelve till after the school year ended.
If I could change one thing in my life, I’d have been born in September, not August.
And being allowed to go to the fair, obviously.
And Danielle not being such a good eater.
And Mum realising dead people don’t need bedrooms.
Still – chicken. And a train. There was a kid in hospital right now, who would never be the same again.
Maybe, today, being Fiona Larson right now wasn’t completely awful, after all.
Lewis and I hurried straight to the park after school.
We passed a bunch of kids gathered around the big wasps’ nest, taking turns to go up close, practically touching the nest, before jerking away again, and indicating to the next kid to do the same. Playing chicken.
I shook my head. ‘The assembly must have given them the idea.’
Lewis shuddered – at the wasps, or the thought of disobeying the New Head, or both.
We checked the kids weren’t watching us and walked up to the second-biggest bush, as though it was any other bush in the park. We climbed into the den space and – sweet! The magazines were still there!
We spread them out and went through them again.
We learned how to keep a girl happy in bed (foreplay and the clitoris). We learned about premature ejaculation and how to keep the wolf from the door by thinking about snooker and Gardeners’ World. We learned to always flick past Readers’ Wives, which raised more questions than answers and made Lewis, especially, feel like he needed a little break.
One of the magazines was different from all the others, and only showed the girls in underwear, not naked. It broke up all the girl pictures with other things – an interview with an actor, a page giving star ratings to different shaving foams, and a small section on films. We wouldn’t get as much money for this magazine, but it was our favourite.
I stared at the picture from a film’s car chase scene. ‘When I’m a spy, I’m going to be the clever one who gets to drive, not the girl one who’s the passenger.’ I turned a page. ‘And there’s no way I’d let myself get kidnapped.’
With all our attention, some of the magazine pages were starting to look a bit ruffled. The cover with the sleepy wet/dry girl had got creased where Lewis had accidentally sat on it.
‘The owner will be able to tell we’ve read his magazines.’ I pushed the cover with my fist, straightening it. ‘He’s going to be furious now whatever, so I might as well take them. Finders Keepers rules says two days is fine.’ And before I could think too much about it, I slid the magazines into the plastic bag and into my rucksack. I hurried out of the bush before I could think about what I’d done.
Lewis rushed after me, trying to put a rucksack on at the same time. ‘I can’t believe you did that!’
‘We can sit on the swings and watch the bush. Surveillance, my spy book calls it. If the owner comes back, we can give him the magazines and say it was a joke.’
We sat on the swings. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lewis inch a pack of cards out of his pocket.
‘Lewis! Not now!’
He pushed his cards back in.
All the Fun of the Fair: A hilarious, brilliantly original coming-of-age story that will capture your heart Page 3