Mum put her hands to her mouth. A second later, she ran out with her car keys.
My skin hurt so much it buzzed. But the journey to the hospital was silent.
Mum had wrapped me in the Eeyore blanket. Everywhere the blanket touched, my skin sizzled.
I turned my head to look at Mum. She was driving, tears streaking the make-up on her cheeks.
I turned my head back to look ahead, so I didn’t have to look at her face.
‘Shit.’ In the hospital car park, Mum fumbled in her purse. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’
She shoved at the purse in her lap. Coins tinkled out, into the footwell.
Mum strained furiously against her seatbelt, like it had kidnapped her. She banged her hand on the steering wheel and closed her eyes.
After a minute, Mum opened the car door. ‘They can ticket us. Let’s go.’
Mum signed us in at A+E in her loudest voice. ‘Of course I understand there’s a triage process but just look at her! That’s all the triage you need!’
We sat in the waiting room, on hard chairs nailed to the floor. I felt Mum’s thigh pressing into mine.
I stared straight ahead, my Eeyore blanket round my shoulders, while people moved around us with clipboards and walking sticks.
The pain wasn’t a sheet covering my whole body anymore. I could focus on the different bits that hurt. My lip. My eyebrow. My cheek. My hands and arms.
I tried to test my lip by biting it, but it didn’t feel like my lip anymore. It felt too big between my teeth, and numb. Like it wasn’t part of me at all.
Mum didn’t look at me. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘A bit better.’
‘Do you need me to adjust your blanket?’
‘No.’
A nurse came out. ‘Mr Chapman.’
An elderly man got up and followed her to a room.
Mum watched. ‘One sec.’
She strode over to the woman on the counter again. There were a few low urgent words, and Mum slumped back in the chair next to me.
I held myself as still as possible until, eventually, we were called in.
Mum had said earlier that I was a miracle.
I wondered whether I was a miracle now.
In the car on the way back, Mum was quiet.
‘I’m feeling a bit better,’ I said. ‘So that’s good.’
Mum flipped on the indicator.
‘That doctor said it was fine,’ I added.
‘The doctor did not say it was fine. She said you had significant localised reactions.’ She pulled into a junction jerkily, swerving to miss the kerb. ‘Is there any way it could have been an accident?’
She glanced at me.
I shook my head.
She looked back at the road.
‘You killed my phone,’ I said.
‘Christ!’ Mum banged her hand on the steering wheel. ‘I had to.’
‘You wanted to.’
Mum gave a tight laugh. ‘OK, I wanted to.’ She gripped the wheel harder. ‘You don’t understand.’
I felt a stab of pain where my seat belt touched my arm. I changed position.
‘That phone had to go.’ If Mum kept flipping the indicator this hard, she’d break it. ‘I believe you now, that the man gave it to you. But it still had to go.’
I pulled my Eeyore blanket further round me. I lowered my head till a bit of unstung face was touching it.
‘Strange men don’t give little girls presents for no reason.’ Mum indicated again – flick-flick, flick-flick. ‘Bad men like little girls, Fiona. I’m sorry, but it’s true. I will never be angry if a man approaches you. But you have to tell me.’
She turned to face me.
‘You do look a little bit angry.’
Mum flicked the indicator hard again. ‘Well, I’m not.’
I let my chin rest on my arms. ‘You’re going to break that lever, you’re so angry.’
‘I’m angry at the situation.’
Mum pulled the car into the drive. She switched off the car.
She twisted round to face me. ‘Your dad will be really upset about these wasp stings. Even more upset than I am, and I’m very upset’ – she saw my face – ‘yes, upset, not angry, UPSET.’ She took a breath. ‘Christ, Fiona! Your dad must not find out about that man and the phone. That will be hard for him to hear, and he’s no need to know. You hear me? Nod your head.’
I nodded.
Mum nodded back. ‘Good.’
In the kitchen, Dad jumped up from his stool. His voice was all breath. ‘Fi-ona!’
He held both hands behind his head and stared, like a footballer who’d missed a penalty.
‘Please don’t hug me.’
‘Your cheek! Your lip.’
Mum gave me a lying-eye smile. ‘Don’t worry, they’re fine.’ She glanced at Dad. ‘She’s been stung by wasps. I’ll explain. We’ve been to hospital. Fiona’s looking loads better already.’
‘Not Ff-iona.’ My fat lip made my fs longer and watery. ‘Ff-i.’
Dad let his hands fall back by his sides. ‘Yes.’ He gave a big smile. ‘You look fine, Fi. If your mum hadn’t said you’d been stung by wasps, I could hardly tell.’
I lay in bed, with Mum and Dad taking turns to check on me every few minutes.
If I’d accepted every cup of tea and orange juice I’d been offered that evening, I reckon I could have drowned.
And I didn’t hear all the conversations that were going on downstairs. I wasn’t in the mood for spying. But some conversations were too loud to ignore.
‘I just don’t understand!’ Dad’s voice.
‘What’s not to understand?’
‘Our eleven-year-old daughter was selling porn?’
I pulled my Eeyore blanket tighter.
‘She found them, OK? She found them. She wasn’t exactly selling porn.’
‘How can you be OK about this? She was profiting from the sex industry.’
‘Come on, Jonathan, you’re not Victorian. She’s not exactly Hugh bloody Hefner.’
‘Are you trying to play this down? Saying it’s OK?’
‘Of course it’s not OK! And how did you not notice? If she was selling them at the car boot sale, right under your eyes? How did you not notice?’
The door slammed shut. I pulled my Eeyore blanket tighter still.
Just before bedtime, Dad came into my room carrying a piece of paper. ‘I’m very cross with you. But we’re not going to talk about it today.’
‘Ff-ank you.’
‘Are you doing OK?’
I nodded.
‘You feel sick?’
I shook my head.
‘You look nearly mended. Just tiny bumps now.’
‘I’ve got a mirror in here, Dad.’
He nodded. ‘Right. Of course. Sorry.’ He sat on my bed. ‘Now, this might interest you. The Hague have issued arrest warrants for – hang on, I’ve written down the names’ – he unfolded his piece of paper – ‘Radovan Karadžić and Ratko Mladić.’ He looked up. ‘How about that, hey?’
I smiled as much as I could with my fat lip.
‘I’ll leave it here.’ Dad went to put the paper on the dressing table. He stopped and frowned. ‘What’s happened here?’ He ran a hand across the table, where Mum had dinged it with the hammer. ‘Why’s the table damaged?’
Don’t tell your father about the phone.
Dad looked up, still waiting for answer.
‘I dropped a book or something.’
Dad kept examining the table. ‘I’m not going to tell you off today, but you need to be more careful with your things.’
I nodded.
‘You’ve carved the leg too – oh, Fiona!’ Dad looked closer. ‘Is that a swastika?’
‘Not exactly.’ Th
is day! ‘Let me explain.’
Half an hour later, Mum stormed into the room. ‘This has been quite the day of developments, Fiona. First, you’re peddling erotica.’ She crouched to look at the dressing table. ‘And swastikas now?’
‘It wasn’t a swastika, it was my special symbol I invented. Made of F for Fiona-s.’ I paused. ‘It’s not my special symbol anymore.’
Mum stood up. ‘The money you made. With the magazines. How much?’
I swallowed. ‘A hundred and twelve pounds.’
Without her having to ask, I pulled off my Eeyore blanket and shuffled off the bed. I opened my jewellery box and the ballerina turned. The plink-plonk music played.
Maybe, if I was really good now. . .?
No. Just – no.
I handed Mum my fair money. I didn’t even keep any back because I was being good now. It was too late, but still.
And Mum just took my fair money – all of it – and walked out of the room.
To Go to the Fair I Need:
1)Money for the rides √
2)Girl friends, so the famous boy will push me on the Waltzers √
3)Mum and Dad to let me go
4)Money for the rides (again)
5)Friends again. But any friends now. Any friends at all.
40
When you get what you wish for – you might wish you’d never got it.
(paradox)
Two days to the fair
My parents kept me off school on Tuesday.
On Wednesday morning, I sat on a stool at Dr Sharma’s high desk at the front of the lab.
Mum sat next to me, her legs crossed beneath her in a knee-length skirt. She looked smarter than usual and was wearing the jacket she wore for funerals, which wasn’t a good sign, I decided.
The bell rang for the start of morning lessons. None of us moved.
Dr Sharma looked me over. Not rushing, just taking in every red, bumpy sting.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my own cheek.
Finally, Dr Sharma spoke. ‘Proud of yourself?’
I shook my head.
She leaned forward. ‘Are you sure?’
I inched closer to Mum, though knew I’d get no protection. Mum and me might be sitting on the same side of the table, but we were in another isosceles triangle with Dr Sharma – and I was definitely all alone at the pointy end.
Now I’d stopped hurting, I was feeling a bit stupid. I mean – wasps?
‘I should make clear’ – Dr Sharma made a show of putting a lid on her fountain pen – ‘that if you break school rules, then deliberately injure yourself, that does not mean we will forget. I suppose what I’m saying, Fiona’ – she put the pen down – ‘is we were not born yesterday.’
I nodded.
‘We grown-ups can think many things at once. We can feel sorry for you about your face – whilst also feeling irritated you did it deliberately – whilst also remembering that you were in a lot of trouble. Firstly, about the magazines.’
Dr Sharma’s pen rolled slowly across the table. She gave it a light tap.
‘And then by leaving school in the daytime. Without telling anyone.’
I shifted in my stool.
‘And you brought cigarettes into school.’
I veered round to glare at Mum.
At the look on Mum’s face, I shrank. Pointy end, remember. You’re always at the pointy end.
‘One cigarette,’ I mumbled. ‘And I only brought it in to show people. I wasn’t going to smoke it in school.’
‘Oh.’ Dr Sharma gave a wave of her hand. ‘That makes it OK.’
There was a shout outside. Something hit the lab window.
Dr Sharma glanced over. She lifted herself up and replaced herself in her seat. ‘Now. What was I saying?’
‘You were explaining to Fiona,’ Mum said, in an echo of Dr Sharma’s brisk voice, ‘that children are not allowed cigarettes and porn. And that cigarettes and porn are not allowed at school.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Dr Sharma turned to me. ‘Had those facts escaped you, Fiona?’
‘No,’ I whispered.
There was a long silence.
‘Now,’ Dr Sharma stared at me, ‘the magazines.’
I looked at my feet.
‘This is school. You may get exposed to that stuff at home—’
Mum sat up. ‘Hey, now.’
‘—and we teachers can’t control what you see there,’ Dr Sharma continued.
Mum sat up even straighter. ‘You’ve misunderstood, Dr Sharma.’
Dr Sharma glanced over. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course.’ Mum sat back. ‘I mean, I’ll ask Jonathan again, but—’
‘I found them in the park!’ I looked from one to the other. ‘Honestly. It wasn’t meant to be anything bad. It was just Finders Keepers.’
Dr Sharma linked her fingers. ‘Mrs Vernal thinks it was no accident it was you who brought the porn into school. She thinks you’re a troublemaker.’
Mum made a sound under her breath. A Mum-growl.
Dr Sharma turned to her.
‘Sorry.’ Mum waved a hand. ‘It’s just – that new drama teacher. She says Fiona should use her feelings about losing a sister to get better at drama. You know Mrs Vernal’s trying to get them to want to be astronauts and actors rather farmers and driving instructors? The more I hear about that teacher, well’ – Mum glanced at me – ‘I’m just saying she seems confused. About how the world works.’
Dr Sharma gave a small cough. ‘Mrs Vernal worked closely with the New Head at their old school. She is a valued new member of staff and very welcome. Her progressive and new-fangled suggestions are a breath of fresh air.’
‘Of course.’
The two looked at each other for a long moment.
‘Now,’ Mum sat forward, ‘are you going to suspend Fiona? You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do, of course, but I’m sure there’s lots of paperwork. And it’s difficult this end with work – I’m not begging exactly, though maybe I am a little bit, because—’
‘I have put the case forward to Mrs Shackleton,’ Dr Sharma said, ‘that I don’t think either suspension or exclusion are the right choices here.’
I tried to work out whether I was happy about that. I was, I supposed. But I couldn’t trust myself to know what I felt about anything anymore. After all, I was the kid who, on Monday, chose to get stung by wasps.
But Mum was definitely happy. ‘Oh!’ She slumped back. ‘Thank you.’
Dr Sharma stared at me. ‘Your mum explained on the phone about your difficult day on Monday. She said you fell out with your friends.’
I felt myself flush.
‘We all have bad days,’ Dr Sharma said. ‘I had one on Monday, too. That does not mean I ran away from school and into a bunch of wasps, in the hope everyone would see my swollen face and feel sorry for me.’
‘I didn’t want people to feel sorry for me.’
‘Why, then?’ Dr Sharma glanced at Mum and back. ‘Did you want to hurt yourself?’
I shrugged. I was honestly the wrong person to ask about all this – I didn’t have a clue why I did the Fiona-y stuff.
‘You’ve done three things.’ Dr Sharma held three fingers up. ‘You’ve sold porn and left school. You have also got yourself stung by wasps, which, I think you’d agree, is not a positive thing, and not to be recommended.’
She waited. I nodded.
‘And the cigarette.’ Whose side was Mum on?
But she hadn’t mentioned the spying and Danielle. Mum wanted to keep the punishment for that all to herself.
And she hadn’t mentioned the mobile phone, I noticed. That phone didn’t exist.
‘Four things. And those four things,’ Dr Sharma said, ‘are clearly bad. But you
– Fiona Larson – are not bad. Bad things, not bad person. Can you see the difference?’
I shrugged again.
They glanced at each other.
Dr Sharma sighed.
‘Fiona is far from forgiven.’ Mum adjusted her jacket. ‘But do you think you could speak to the friends?’
Dr Sharma looked at Mum for a moment, then to me. ‘Fiona? Do you want me to speak to your friends?’
I shook my head.
‘Thought not.’
‘It’s lunchtimes,’ I whispered. ‘They’re the worst. The computer room’s shut and there’s nowhere I can go.’
Dr Sharma nodded. ‘You can sit here in my lab, if you want. You can watch my fridge for me. Make sure no chancers come looking for my animal hearts.’
I nodded, though there was no way I was coming to Dr Sharma’s lab at lunchtime.
‘All the colours and shapes!’ Dr Sharma peered at my face, like I was behind glass in a museum. ‘Does it hurt?’
‘A little bit.’
‘You ever going to walk into a wasps’ nest again?’
‘No.’
‘Then I think we’ve all learned a lesson here.’ Dr Sharma stood up. ‘Get to class, Fiona. I will tell Mrs Shackleton we’ve had a full discussion and say it’s my recommendation that this is the end of the matter. And if Mr Kellett asks why you’re late, tell him to speak to me.’
I slipped out of the room and left Mum with Dr Sharma.
I walked the empty corridors to my English class and knocked on the door.
‘Sorry I’m late.’ I walked to my table and sat down. ‘Dr Sharma says it’s her fault.’
Sean glanced at me and quickly away. It was like we’d never met.
Then, the whispering started.
‘Oh my God. What is that?’
‘She looks like a monster.’
‘What’s wrong with her lip?’
Mr Kellett stared at me. ‘Quiet, everyone.’
‘It was just wasps. Just normal, everyday, park wasps.’ I got my books out of my bag. ‘I’m fine. So, let’s all please just get on with the lesson and please, please, no one look at me.’
School news!
Was about my face. Obviously.
I held my head high as I walked down the corridor at lunchtime, whispers following.
‘It’s the elephant man.’
All the Fun of the Fair: A hilarious, brilliantly original coming-of-age story that will capture your heart Page 25