Jo appeared. A worried frown creased her face as she took in our expressions. ‘Um … is everything OK?’
Why don't you ask your new friend, Karen?
‘Everything's just great,’ I said.
Debbie let out a short breath. ‘Ems, you're being really—’
‘Really what ?’
‘I don't know!’ snapped Debbie. ‘But I'm getting bloody sick of it! You've been completely avoiding us for days, and acting like we can't possibly understand anything, and—’
‘So what? Why can't you just leave me alone, the pair of you!’
Jo's eyes were wide. ‘Ems, what—’
‘Just go away ! Leave me alone!’
Debbie's chin jerked up. ‘Fine, if that's how you want it. Come on, Jo.’ She took Jo's arm, and they started off across the grass. Jo glanced back at me before their heads drew close together, talking.
My head swirled hotly. But I had every reason to be less than thrilled with them, didn't I? And it wasn't like they'd still want to be my friends, once they'd had a few conversations with Karen.
I walked alone across the playing-fields, remembering that day in the girls' changing rooms. Remembering a hundred other days. Don't you dare go crying to Mrs Evans, Freak, or you'll wish you were dead … Ooh, look, Freaky's fallen down again! … Aw, poor widdle Freak – it's all just too much for her. Boo-hoo-hoo.
What would Jo and Debbie think when they found out? Stupid question! What would anyone think, if they found out someone they knew had been such a pathetic kick-bag? A headache spiked my temples. I scanned the crowd of girls ahead of me and watched Jo and Debbie go up the stairs into school together. And decided that I was relieved to be rid of them.
* * *
‘Where's Nat?’ I asked when I got home.
Jenny glanced up from her maths book. ‘At her swimming lesson … it's Tuesday.’
‘Oh. Right.’ I wasn't really hungry, but I took an apple from the fruit bowl and crunched into it, feeling like a piece of string that's fraying at the ends. What was the use of having a little sister if she wasn't around to distract you?
So I went into Dad's study to use his computer, perching on the edge of his black leather desk chair and logging onto the Internet. Moving the mouse, I clicked ‘TeenzOwn’ from my favourite places folder.
Not that it's one of my favourite places – it's all bright colours and bubble-shaped letters, like they think teenagers are just the tiniest bit thick – but it's one of the only sites I'm allowed on. And I really felt like an hour or so of mindless clicking and reading, just then.
But I didn't get it. The first thing I saw when the website flickered onto the screen was Abby's photo. Have you seen this girl? It looked like a close-up of one of the holiday photos Mr Ryzner had shown me: Abby's smiling face in front of a blue, blue sky.
My throat swelled. I felt like sobbing, or punching the computer image, shattering it into oblivion. I couldn't escape it, no matter what. Abby was always there – always missing.
Suddenly all I wanted to do was talk to Mum. I dived across the desk for Dad's phone, jabbing in the international numbers. A pause, and then I heard the different-sounding ringing of an American phone, going off in an art gallery in Chicago.
‘The Benson Gallery, may I help you?’ The man's flat American drawl sounded artistically bored.
‘Um, hi – this is Emma Townsend. Could I speak to my mother, please?’ I tucked a leg under me, hugging myself with one arm.
‘This is who?’
A flush galloped up my cheeks. Didn't she ever mention me, then? ‘Emma Townsend. My mum is Rhea Antoni.’
‘Oh, you want Rhea ! Sorry, hon, I didn't understand. Rhea's out with a client; I don't expect her back for another hour or so. Do you want me to tell her you called?’ The voice seemed to get more American the longer he talked, like any second now he was going to chirrup Have a nice day! at me.
‘No, um – that's OK, I'll ring back,’ I muttered.
‘Try her around twelve. Bye, hon.’
I hung up, feeling like a limp balloon a week after a kids' party. Even though I knew it was pathetic of me. Mum had a job – I couldn't expect her to be there for me every second. I shouldn't even need her to be; I'd be fourteen in February!
But I still wanted to cry.
The phone rang suddenly, making me jump. Had Mum's boss rung her on her mobile, maybe? I snatched up the phone, leaning forward. ‘Hello?’
‘Hi, Emma … um, it's Sheila.’
It took me a second to speak. ‘Oh … hi.’
‘Look, I just wanted to say that – I'm sorry for giving you such a hard time. I wanted to tell you that at the vigil last night, but it was too …’ Her voice dwindled to nothing, and she cleared her throat. ‘Anyway, I guess – I guess you care about Abby, too. So I'm sorry.’ I stared blankly at the Executive Stress-Buster toy that Dad has on his desk. ‘Yeah, um … OK. Thanks.’
Her voice took on its usual spiky edge, like needles piercing into my ear. ‘Anyway, that's really all I wanted to say. So-o … see you around, I guess.’ Click.
In slow motion, I rested the phone back on its stand. I could still see Abby's face staring at me. Grabbing the mouse, I quickly closed down the computer, and let out a breath as the screen went dark.
Maybe it should have felt good to have Sheila apologize, but it didn't. It made ever ything worse, somehow.
‘Look, who's that?’ Nat bounced on my bed in her dinosaur nightgown, pointing at a picture in the New Player's Handbook. I was flipping slowly through it, looking at the pictures and reading bits here and there. The little dragon from Abby's room sat on the duvet beside us.
‘That's …’ I glanced at the caption. Apparently it was a half-orc, half-human warrior. ‘Um, that's Gorg. He's Jasmine's personal valet. That's like a butler. So when we were summoned to her castle—’
‘He answered the door!’ breathed Nat. She walked the dragon over Pippin's softly snoring side. ‘But with the help of our dragons … we will save the day!’
I fell silent, reading about the game. It was so real. And at the same time, it was the ultimate game of Let's Pretend. No wonder Abby loved it; it was right up her street. I turned a page, thinking about a Family Fun Fair at Clarkson Chemicals, two years ago.
The Family Fun Fair was the yearly summer torture, where Abby and I got dragged along with our dads and the rest of the families and everyone else who worked at Clarkson – hundreds of people who probably didn't even like each other at the office, but they all had to show up at the FFF and wander around naff rides together.
Abby and I had to smile while our fathers stood on the grass chatting – Abby's father at least having grasped the idea of ‘casual’ in his shorts and T-shirt, and mine looking as starched as usual in his chinos and polished shoes. And we had to be polite to all their colleagues, who'd pop up and say things like, ‘Why, is this really Little Emma! You'll have to watch out, love, you'll be beating the boys off with a stick when you get a bit older, ho ho ho!’ Then they'd all stand around and talk about their dreary jobs for a hundred years.
Finally the oldies would suss that Abby and I were frothing with boredom, and let us go off and experience the joy of the fair. Which took about three seconds, and then we'd sneak off and explore the rest of the plant, skulking around the miles of buildings and offices.
The year just before we started Year Seven, we pretended that we were novice mages, on the run in a hostile city. It was our Esmerelda game – the one we had played for years, adding to the story until it had a whole history of its own.
‘Shh!’ hissed Abby. She peered around the corner of an office building, just barely poking her nose out. And she wasn't wearing cut-off shorts and a T-shirt; she was wearing a long, ragged cloak, heavy with dust from many days of travel.
She shoved her hair back, dark eyes glinting with fear. ‘I think the coast is clear … do you have the spell ready, just in case?’
‘I think so,’ I whispered back,
pressing tight against the wall. ‘But you know we've never used it before – the power may be too much for us—’
‘We have no choice; we have to find the scroll! Now run!’
It sounds pretty cringe-worthy, but it wasn't, it was the most fantastic fun. Abby always threw herself right into any pretend game, playing like it was for real.
So we really were mages, for a couple of hours that day. And we found the scroll in the end – an old paper napkin – and managed to defeat Esmerelda the Evil Enchantress in a spell-sizzling battle that lasted for days, practically.
It was the last really good time with Abby that I could remember. I turned another page, lost in thought.
‘What happens next in the game?’ demanded Nat, pulling at my arm. ‘What does the book say?’
‘Let's see …’ I flipped through it, pretending to read. ‘Well, actually, it says – oh no! That can't be right!’
‘What? ’ Her eyes were dinner-plates.
‘Nat, we're in more danger than we ever knew,’ I whispered. ‘Have I ever told you about an evil sorceress
called – called Esmerelda?’
She shook her head, mouth slightly open.
‘Well, she's even more powerful than Jasmine. She's the queen of ice and fire, and we thought we had defeated her years ago … but it turns out that Jasmine is her daughter, and now Jasmine has found her mother's old book of spells.’ I could see the book as I spoke – old, cracked leather, crusted with evilly glowing rubies.
Nat hopped to the floor, clutching the green plastic straw that was her wand. ‘We'll have to go after her!’
‘But remember, she escaped from us last time, and we don't know where she is … we'll have to travel to
– to the plains of Ganet, and consult with the wizardsthere.’
We looked gravely at each other. Nat nodded, and I motioned for her to sit beside me. She climbed back up on the bed. ‘Right, just close your eyes, and we'll be there …’
There was a sudden knock on my door. ‘What?’ I called, flopping quickly across the bed so that I was lying on top of the dragon. Its wings dug into my ribcage.
Dad stuck his head in. ‘So this is where everyone's hiding! Nat, it's almost time for bed. And how's the homework coming along, Emma?’
‘I haven't exactly started yet …’ I tried to casually shove the New Player's Handbook under a pillow. It was a bit difficult to be casual about it, since I was lying down and the pillow was at the opposite end of the bed.
Predictably, Dad came into the room. ‘I know it's hard, love, but you can't let yourself get behind. What's that you're looking at?’
He picked up the book. Little lines sprouted on his forehead as he flipped through it. ‘What is this?’
‘Just a D&D book. I, um, bought it at this shop in town.’ I felt Nat's hand digging under my side, and then the dragon was gone. I sat up in relief and smiled at her, and she winked solemnly back. She's pretty cool sometimes, for a six-year-old.
Dad looked up. ‘What's D&D, then?’ So I had to explain about Dungeons and Dragons, and it was completely painful. See, you pretend to be an elf, and …
His eyebrows drew together as I spoke. ‘Aren't you a bit old for all this?’
‘Well – no, not really. I mean, I think quite old people play it, actually. Adults.’
Dad shrugged, and tossed the book onto the bed. It landed with a soft plump beside me. ‘Well, whatever keeps you happy. Looks a bit odd to me. Come on now, Nat, time for bed.’
The word kicked me in the stomach. Odd. Thanks, Dad.
As Nat scrambled off the bed, she pressed the dragon into my hand, smiling angelically. (I swear she has a future as a con artist.) ‘'Night, Emma.’
‘'Night, Nat,’ I murmured back. I watched her leave the room with Dad, and clutched the tiny statue, running my thumb over the scales on its neck. It felt like a lifeline – but a lifeline to what? Being odd all my life?
I pulled my knees up to my chest and looked at my wardrobe, thinking of the box. Of the notebook, filled with pages and pages of writing. And Karen's voice, laughing as she read – ‘Only magic can save us now, my friend! Ooh, magic-wagic!’
Odd was just an adult word for freak, wasn't it?
Finally I picked the book up and started reading again. And slowly, I fell back into it, until the only sound was the soft turning of pages.
A sharp noise clapped through the room, and I jolted upright. Blearily, I realized that I had fallen asleep, and dropped the book on the floor. I blinked at the clock. It was almost eleven.
I rolled onto my stomach to grab the book from where it lay splayed on the carpet – and stopped. There was a neon-green flier beside it; it must have been tucked into the book. I picked it up, stretching my fingers to grasp it.
Annual Gaming Convention, November 15–17,
Manchester University
•Table gaming – D20 Modern, D&D
classic, Star Wars, Dark Sun, SLA, Cyberpunk,
Cthulu, etc. etc.!
•Live action games – Night of the
Dead, Hero, Vampire, Goth
• Massive trade hall
• AND MORE!
Live action. But … hadn't Abby mentioned that on the bus? I sat up slowly on the bed, staring at the flier as phrases whirled around me, hitting me like hailstones.
We've been doing table gaming, but that's sort of boring … I'm going to get them into live action, not that they know it yet … You want to come along this afternoon, then? Should be almost as much fun …
I gripped the flier, remembering how stunned I had been when the police first started questioning me, how I had struggled to remember what Abby had said. And now, eleven days later, the exact words she had used had come flooding back. Live action.
But what was it that I was remembering? What was a live action game, anyway?
Dad. I had to find Dad; I had to tell someone! I scrambled off the bed and lunged into the corridor, starting quickly down the stairs. When I was halfway down, I heard my name, and froze.
‘I suppose I'm just a bit worried about it, that's all,’ said Dad's voice. ‘I mean, she was into all that fantasy stuff with Abby, but she really seemed to have matured so much this last year at St Sebastian's. Now it's like she's harking back or something, buying that book …’
My pulse hammered. I pressed against the wall, listening.
Jenny's voice floated up. ‘A bit of regression, maybe? I mean, nothing serious, I'm sure, but she must want to retreat back to a safer time, with all that's going on. It's all very frightening, Tom, for her especially.’
She sounded so revoltingly earnest, so chuffed that Dad was even asking her opinion. The future child psychologist in action.
Dad sighed. ‘Yes, I know she must be terrified by all this … what can we do, though?’
I heard what sounded like a coffee cup being put down. ‘Well, counselling might be an idea. Just to help her over this time – give her some skills to cope.’
I stiffened against the wall. No way. That was apparently Dad's reaction too, because Jenny said edgily, ‘Tom, it's a totally common thing … good grief, I've had counselling myself.’
I could just picture Dad's grimace. ‘Yes, well … it's an option to keep in mind, I suppose. But for now, we'll just keep an eye on her, shall we? See that she doesn't start to – retreat too much into this fantasy stuff, or act odd in other ways.’
‘And I'll see if she wants to talk about things … maybe have a word with her tomorrow.’
Oh, will you? I flushed, shaking with shame and anger. It was like I had let Dad down by not being as fantastically mature as he had thought. I wanted to burst downstairs and scream at them that they didn't know anything, that half the time I had been acting this last year, acting, so that I didn't get slaughtered at my new school for being – what was the word? Oh yes, odd.
My fingernails bit into my palms, and suddenly I was near tears. The thought of trying to explain to Dad about the flier mad
e my stomach jerk. I couldn't do it, not now.
I moved back up the stairs, placing my feet carefully on the carpet so they wouldn't hear me.
When I eventually eased away into sleep that night, Abby and the game drifted around in my head like smoke. Abby was wearing a cloak, slipping through the night with a tiger-eye necklace in her hand.
And she didn't know that Esmerelda was hiding just around the next corner, waiting for her.
Day Eleven
Sheila's face slackened as she opened her front door and saw me standing there. ‘Oh. What do you want?’ She crossed her skinny arms across her chest.
‘Can I talk to you?’ I burst out. ‘It's important.’
Her eyebrows almost disappeared under her spiky fringe. She shrugged, and stood back to let me in. ‘Yeah, I guess. Whatever.’
In the lounge, a boy of about seventeen was sprawled in front of a wide-screen TV, where large American blokes in masks were wrestling each other. ‘Hold on, folks … YES! The Muskrat strikes again!’ The TV crowd roared, ‘Musk-rat! Musk-rat! ’
And Dad thinks I'm odd.
The boy and Sheila completely ignored each other as we passed through the lounge. Sheila grabbed a pair of Cokes from the fridge and we went up to her room, stepping over a fat black Labrador on the way.
‘His name is Fred,’ said Sheila over her shoulder as we went into her room. ‘We've had him since I was about two … he's useless; all he ever does is drool.’
I assumed she was talking about the dog, not the boy.
‘Yeah, I've got a cat like that …’ I tapered off, trying to get my head around the fact that we were actually having a civil conversation. It felt unnatural.
Sheila handed me one of the Cokes and sat down at her desk. I sank onto her bed, looking around the room. And somehow I wanted to prolong being friendly, so I nodded at this fantastic poster on her wall – a mage on a cliff, with lightning streaming around him – and said, ‘That's really great … where did you get it?’
Sheila glanced at it. ‘Yeah, my Art teacher thought it was OK … it was in the Art Show last year.’
I thought she had bought it! I popped open my Coke, feeling completely inadequate. ‘Um … it's fantastic.’
Missing Abby Page 8