I can’t take my eyes off him.
The boy pauses outside the front door and glances over his shoulder. I hold my breath, terrified I’ve been spotted. But the boy’s gaze fails to settle on any spot in particular before returning to face the exterior of number 46. He looks it up and down through lank strands of black hair, before shaking his head and disappearing inside, the door falling shut behind him with a dull clunk.
Bonnie’s in the back garden, marooned on a rusty sunlounger in the centre of the overgrown lawn. Without access to Terry’s lawnmower, the grass has grown so high it looks like she’s floating on a carpet of green. The back door is open and the radio’s on – Adele lamenting ‘Someone Like You’.
It isn’t quite warm enough for sunbathing, but Bonnie is wearing an itsy-bitsy red bikini at least two sizes too small for her anyway, her boobs barely contained within its flimsy Lycra triangles.
‘Bonnie,’ I say. ‘Bonnie. Are you awake?’
‘Mmmmmm,’ Bonnie says, rolling onto her stomach and tucking her bikini bottoms between her bum cheeks.
‘Did you see? Some new people have moved in next door.’
‘Have they?’ she murmurs sleepily, resting her head on her forearms.
‘A man and two kids.’
‘No woman?’
‘I didn’t see one.’
‘Hmmmmm.’
‘Anyway,’ I continue. ‘We should probably put in a bit of extra effort to get our place in order.’
‘Why?’
‘They might not be as relaxed about things as Terry was.’
‘What things?’ Bonnie asks.
My insides twist with annoyance. ‘What do you think? Living next door to us. To this.’ I gesture towards the house.
‘I don’t see what the problem is,’ Bonnie says.
‘Of course you don’t.’
Bonnie props herself up on her elbows, and peers at me over her shoulder, through heart-shaped rimmed sunglasses.
‘You’re clothed, aren’t you?’ she says. ‘Fed? I mean, I know the house is a bit busy, but the way you act sometimes, you’d think I’d installed razor blades on the stairs or something.’
‘But what if they say something?’
‘Who?’
‘The new neighbours!’
‘Who on earth to?’ Bonnie asks, incredulous.
‘You know who. Social Services.’
Just saying it out loud makes my palms prickle with nervous sweat.
‘Oh, don’t be daft,’ Bonnie scoffs. ‘What could they do?’
What could they do? For starters, send me to live with Dad and Melanie, leaving Bonnie all alone. I once went away on holiday to the Isle of Wight with Dad, and when I got back, the house was such a mess I couldn’t even open the back door properly. If that could happen after just a few days, what state would the house be in after a couple of weeks? A month? A year? An image of Bonnie buried under a mountain of her own belongings, just her feet poking out, invades my brain.
A lump forms in my throat and I can feel tears gathering. I try to blink them away before Bonnie notices. I needn’t have worried though – she’s already flopped back on her belly, her face buried in her forearms.
‘You really are like your father sometimes,’ she says in a muffled voice. ‘He was always worrying about something or other. There’s no need to get in a tizz. They’re only renting. You’ll see – they’ll probably be gone in a few months.’
Her phone, abandoned in the grass, vibrates into life, the screen flashing as a tinny rendition of ‘I Will Survive’ by Gloria Gaynor crackles from its tiny speaker.
I bend down to pick it up, noting the unidentified number before passing it to Bonnie.
‘Hello, Bonnie Snow!’ Bonnie says in an extra-theatrical version of her usual voice.
Even though the divorce went through over six years ago, she still refuses to reclaim her maiden name.
‘Saturday the eleventh? Just give me one moment while I consult my diary,’ she trills.
She holds her phone to her chest.
‘See,’ she says, grinning triumphantly. ‘Who needs a manager, eh?’
She springs off the sunlounger and sashays into the house, her hips swaying in time with the music, leaving me alone on the patio, chewing on my thumbnail and worrying.
Always worrying.
5
The last day of term falls on Wednesday. As is tradition, normal lessons are abandoned in favour of games and quizzes and DVDs.
In English, Mrs Merry announces we’re going to be playing literary charades. She nominates two captains and asks them to choose teams.
I’m second to last to be picked.
This is not unusual. It’s the same in PE, whether we’re playing netball or hockey or rounders. I don’t mind. It’s never done in a cruel way. I just don’t think people notice me until something forces them to, or I’m literally the only person standing in front of them.
When it’s my turn to mime, I let a girl called Zahra go up in my place. No one notices. The other team wins by a mile anyway – twenty-one points to eight.
At 3.30 p.m., instead of ripping off my tie and tearing out of the gates like almost everyone else, I take my time, calmly clearing out my locker as the school empties out around me. I get their euphoria, but I don’t share it. For them, the summer holidays mean freedom; for me, it’s more like a prison sentence.
A few metres away, three girls from my year are making plans go to Shake It Off, the milkshake bar on the high street.
One of them, Alice, went to my primary school. We used to play together sometimes, and I went to a couple of her birthday parties. Since moving up to senior school though, we haven’t really spoken.
‘Hurry up, Sof,’ she says. ‘If we don’t get a move on, we’ll miss out on a booth.’
Her friend Sofia is trying to stuff her PE kit into her already stuffed backpack.
‘Do you want to put anything in my bag?’ Shazna, the third girl, offers.
‘I think I’m gonna have to,’ Sofia says.
I watch as they divide up Sofia’s PE kit, giggling over her stinky trainers and debating which flavour milkshake to order (‘I’m going to have Oreo!’ ‘But you always have Oreo!’ ‘So? You always have Toblerone!’).
I imagine them suddenly noticing me, and asking me to join them. Then the four of us huddled in a booth, elbows touching, laughing and joking and making plans for the summer.
‘Finally!’ Alice says, jolting me from my fantasy.
Immediately, I feel stupid for even letting my brain go there. Alice probably doesn’t even remember my name. And it’s not like I could actually say yes, even if they did ask me. It’s too risky.
Sofia’s PE kit successfully distributed, they link arms and head for the exit, oblivious to my eyes on their backs.
By the time I step out into the sunshine, the crowds have dispersed and my footsteps echo on the concrete as I make my way towards the gates.
Instead of my usual route home, I find myself heading for the high street. A long queue snakes out the door of Shake It Off. From my vantage point on the other side of the road, I can see Alice, Sofia and Shazna sitting in the window; they got their booth after all. They’re laughing at something Shazna just said. I watch as they shift along the plastic seating to make room for some other people from our year.
Alice’s head swivels in my direction, and for a split second our eyes lock. Panic floods my chest. With fumbling fingers, I pull my phone out of my blazer pocket and pretend to answer it.
‘Hello?’ I say.
My voice is shaking even though there’s no way Alice can possibly hear me or know I’m faking it.
As I walk away, my phone still pressed to my ear, I sneak a glance over my shoulder. Alice isn’t looking at me any more.
No one is.
6
‘Where’s the tank?’ I ask as I climb into Dad’s car on Sunday morning.
As usual, he’s parked several doors down, firmly out
of sight of his former home. Instead of his ridiculous and entirely unnecessary four-by-four, he’s behind the wheel of Melanie’s car, a shiny red Mini with plastic eyelashes attached to the headlamps and a ‘Princess on Board’ sticker displayed in the back window.
‘Mel needed the big car to pick up the cake,’ Dad replies, pulling out into the road. ‘That for Izzy?’ He nods at the plastic bag on my lap.
‘No, Princess Charlotte,’ I say, rolling my eyes.
‘Rosie,’ he says in a warning voice.
The name on my birth certificate is Rosie but I’ve been known as Ro for as long as I can remember. Dad (and by extension, Melanie and Izzy) are the only people who insist on calling me Rosie, or, even worse, Rosebud. I’m so not a Rosebud, it’s unreal.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘It was just kind of a stupid question.’
‘Stupid or not, I could do without the attitude.’
‘Where are we going?’ I ask after a few minutes of loaded silence.
Instead of heading out of Ostborough and towards Claybridge, the nearby town where Dad lives, we’re driving in the complete opposite direction.
‘The trampoline park, of course.’
‘What trampoline park?’
‘There’s more than one?’
‘Wait, I don’t understand. I thought Izzy was having a pizza-making party at your house.’
‘She is. After the trampoline park.’
‘You didn’t tell me about the trampolining. You only told me about the pizza.’
Now it makes sense why Dad’s wearing a tracksuit instead of the usual chinos and shirts Melanie lays out for him at the weekend, like he’s a little kid.
‘I don’t have a change of clothes with me,’ I say.
Dad glances over at my outfit. I’m wearing one of the few dresses I own (a loose denim sundress) and a pair of black rubber flip-flops. I only put the dress on in the first place to stop Melanie from lamenting that I don’t ‘make enough of my figure’, the way she usually does when I turn up in my normal weekend uniform of jeans and baggy shirt.
‘Well, I don’t know what you want me to do about it,’ he says. ‘We can’t turn back now. Mel’ll go spare if the guests start arriving before we do.’
‘God forbid,’ I mutter, closing my eyes and resting my head against the window.
Melanie and Izzy are already there when we arrive, waiting just inside the foyer. Izzy has an oversized ‘10 Today’ badge pinned to her pink sequinned hoodie, her gleaming blonde hair pulled into a neat ponytail.
‘There you are!’ Melanie says.
She waves us over, the Pandora charm bracelet she wears on her left wrist jangling, every charm polished within a millimetre of its life. Everything about Melanie Snow is spotless, from her French-manicured nails to her bouncy blonde bob. Even in tracksuit and trainers, she looks pristine.
‘Now, Rosie, don’t you look a sight for sore eyes. A dress! Finally! Although it could do with cinching in a bit.’
I brace myself as Melanie steps forward, wrapping her hands round my waist, her fingers pinching my skin.
‘There!’ she says. ‘Much better! Perhaps we can find you a belt when we get back to the house …’
‘Are you going to trampoline wearing that?’ Izzy asks, looking me up and down and pulling a face. ‘Everyone will be able to see your knickers.’
‘I’m just going to watch,’ I say.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, it’s Izzy’s birthday!’ Melanie says. ‘Plus, we’ve paid for you.’
She stalks over to the Reception desk, pushing to the front of the queue and returning less than a minute later brandishing a pair of baggy red shorts.
‘From the lost property box,’ she says, handing them to me.
‘I married a genius!’ Dad says, kissing Melanie on the forehead. ‘Say thank you, Rosie.’
I stare down at the shorts in my hands. They’re huge. ‘Are you serious?’ I ask.
Melanie tuts. ‘Oh, don’t be such a drama queen. Just tie the drawstring nice and tight and you’ll be fine!’
If Dad notices the look of horror on my face, he doesn’t acknowledge it. But then he’s used to ignoring things that make him feel uncomfortable, even when they’re right under his nose.
I manage three bounces before the shorts are around my ankles, sending Izzy and her gruesome little mates into mass hysterics.
‘We can see your pants! We can see your pants!’ they chant as I pull them up, struggling to tuck my dress into the waistband.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Rosie,’ Melanie says, bouncing over and tying the drawstring so tightly I might as well be wearing a corset. ‘You’re not even trying to make them work.’
Cue sniggers from a group of girls around my age on the next trampoline. My face flames.
‘Forget it,’ I say, pushing Melanie away.
‘Rosie?’ Dad calls after me as I head down the padded steps towards the changing rooms.
‘Oh, she’s just having one of her strops,’ I hear Melanie say. ‘Leave her.’
*
I wriggle out of the shorts and return them to Reception before going to the café where I’m 3p short of enough money to buy a bag of crisps. I ask for a glass of tap water and sit down with an abandoned copy of yesterday’s paper.
On page 11 there’s a story that makes my blood run cold. An elderly woman’s body has been found buried under her belongings in a cottage in Wales, the post mortem suggesting she’d been dead for over four years. Her daughter was also found on the property, weak and severely dehydrated. Every word makes my stomach turn over.
I’m still thinking about the story when Dad and I pull up outside the house he shares with Melanie and Izzy. It’s not even 2 p.m. but it feels like light years later.
On the drive over, I was tempted to ask him to drop me at home so I can check on Bonnie, but I knew he’d only make a fuss if I did. He hates it when I try to pull out of anything relating to Melanie or Izzy.
‘They’re my family, Rosie, and by extension, that makes them your family too,’ he’s fond of saying.
They feel like a family, all right – just not mine. And I can’t fake it, no matter how much Dad tries to guilt-trip me into it.
I can’t pretend I feel at home in their house either – a symmetrical new build with double-glazing and cream carpeting and a kitchen full of shiny white appliances. All of Izzy’s toys, of which there seems to be an endless supply, are kept in an elaborate shelving system in her playroom just off the living room. I’m used to it by now, but every so often the unfairness of it all hits so hard it takes my breath away.
In the end, I settle for sending Bonnie a text.
Just checking in. Everything OK? Rx
The front door is festooned with pink balloons, a shiny silver birthday banner stuck diagonally across it. Melanie has changed out of her tracksuit and into a floral dress and pink apron, every inch the Stepford Wife of Dad’s dreams, and is assembling the pizza ingredients while the kids tear around the garden.
‘I thought you might like to sit with Izzy and her friends, Rosie,’ Melanie says, pointing out a seat round the extended dining table.
She dresses it up as a friendly suggestion, but the subtext is quite clear: you’re sitting with the kids, no arguments.
Behind Melanie hangs a wooden plaque listing the ‘Snow Family Rules’ – things like ‘hug lots’ and ‘laugh out loud’ and ‘dream big’.
God, I hate that plaque. Cheesy crap. Sometimes I fantasize about smashing it into a dozen pieces. Or graffiti-ing all over it – BULLSHIT, in big angry red letters. I wonder what would happen if I did. Melanie would definitely cry. She cried when someone helped themselves to her rhododendrons. And Dad would go ballistic, accuse me of being rude and ungrateful and tell me off for upsetting poor delicate Melanie.
While Izzy is opening her presents, I sneak upstairs and use the bathroom before slipping into the guest room for a quick lie-down.
Although Dad and Melanie insist on referrin
g to it as mine, apart from a single drawer containing spare sets of underwear, socks, pyjamas and school uniform, there’s barely any evidence of my monthly occupation. The room is dominated by Melanie’s epic collection of Disney snow globes – 27 at last count – and her massage stuff. She’s training to be a massage therapist and when I’m not here she uses this as her treatment room, her fold-up massage table tucked away in the corner and a selection of oils and a stack of fluffy chocolate brown towels stored neatly on a shelf above the bed. Usually the stench of massage oil keeps me awake, but today I fall asleep practically the instant my head hits the pillow.
‘Rosie, Rosie, wake up.’
I open my eyes. Dad is bent over me, his left hand shaking my shoulder.
‘What time is it?’ I ask, rubbing crispy flakes of sleep from the inner corners of my eyes.
‘Gone six. The party’s over. You missed Izzy cutting her cake.’
He’s clearly annoyed about it, his mouth set in a straight line and his arms folded across his chest.
Irritation flares in my chest. ‘It’s not like it’s her wedding,’ I say.
Dad lets out a sigh. ‘Please don’t talk like that, Rosie.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like that. Full of attitude. It doesn’t suit you.’
Oh, yes it does. It suits me perfectly actually.
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