by Susie Bower
My ears pricked up. So they were thinking of sending me away! I wished they would hurry up. But I still hadn’t done My Three Worst Things, and I was saving those up for the summer holidays.
MY THREE WORST THINGS
Sonia had taken to spending more and more time in the Studio during the school holidays, which was a good thing for me but a bad thing for the world of art.
One evening, when Mrs Weebly had called round (she often dropped by at supper time), Sonia sighed dramatically, and announced: ‘I have completed The Painting.’ And she sat back as if she expected us to burst into applause.
‘How exciting!’ gasped Mrs Weebly. ‘What will you do to celebrate?’
‘A party,’ said Sonia.
Claude got up and embraced her.
‘My artistic angel, I am so proud of you!’ He gave her a sticky kiss (we were eating meringues) which she quickly wiped away with her serviette. ‘And a party we shall have! A Grand Unveiling of the Masterpiece.’
Sonia simpered. ‘We can invite all our friends.’
Claude’s face dropped for a moment. They didn’t actually have any friends. But he quickly nodded.
‘Yes, my toothsome treasure,’ he said. ‘We can invite my colleagues from the office…’
‘And Deirdre, of course,’ said Sonia, smiling at Mrs Weebly.
‘And all the neighbours,’ said Claude. ‘Let’s do it next Saturday.’
‘We can ask the mayor to make a speech,’ said Sonia.
Claude looked annoyed. ‘I think I should make a speech too, don’t you, sweetest?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Sonia. ‘We’ll have lots of speeches. And the painting will be concealed behind a curtain, and once the speeches are over, someone will pull the cord and reveal it to the world.’
‘Which is just the job,’ said Mrs Weebly, ‘for little Claudia here!’
Sonia’s mouth twisted. ‘Er, yes. I suppose so. So long as she promises to behave.’
On the afternoon of the party, the house gleamed. Sonia had paid people to clean it from top to bottom and Claude had paid other people to serve the food and do the washing-up. Sonia and Claude carried the enormous canvas from the Studio into the living room, where they propped it on an easel. Claude rigged up a length of curtain in front of it, with a cord dangling down, ready for the Grand Unveiling.
The painting was a portrait of Sonia and Claude, twice as large as life. They were standing beside a tree in a garden, half hidden behind flowering bushes. This was a good thing, because neither of them was wearing any clothes. Sonia was holding out an apple with a big chunk bitten out of it, and Claude had obviously done the biting: his chubby cheeks, full of apple, looked like a squirrel’s. Wrapped around Sonia’s arm was a long, purple snake, and the title of the picture was painted above them: adam and eve in the garden of eden.
It was horrible.
Sonia summoned me to the living room and gave me strict instructions.
‘It was extremely kind of Deirdre Weebly to think of you,’ said Sonia, obviously wishing she hadn’t, ‘because revealing my painting is a very important job. You will wear your new dress and keep your hair down. I don’t want to be embarrassed in front of the mayor.’
She had only agreed to let me pull the cord because Mrs Weebly had suggested it—and also to show the neighbours how caring she and Claude were, adopting an orphan with an ugly burn on her face.
An hour before the guests were due to arrive, Sonia and Claude set off in Mildred to collect the drinks and nibbles. Claude was wearing a dinner jacket with a crimson cummerbund and a red bow tie which looked like it was strangling him. Any minute and he’d start to sing, like that opera singer in the TV adverts. Sonia frowned at him and said she wouldn’t be changing until they returned. She ordered me to put on your new dress and brush your hair and stay in your room until it was time to do the unveiling.
I had just done the first of My Three Worst Things, and Sonia and Claude were about to find out what it was. All I’d needed was my bike valve tool.
My plan was to delay them just long enough for me to do My Second Worst Thing.
As soon as I heard Mildred chuntering away down the drive, I tiptoed down the stairs and out of the back door. The Studio was still open. I slipped inside, picked up some tubes of paint and brushes, and hurried into the house…
THE PARTY
I finished in the nick of time and dashed upstairs. A tow truck rumbled up the drive, with Mildred attached to a rope behind it. Sonia and Claude were sitting in Mildred, along with the drinks and nibbles. Claude was still wearing his cummerbund and bow tie. Sonia was wearing a furious expression.
When he’d paid the driver of the tow truck, Claude hauled out the drinks and nibbles and carried them into the house, while Sonia shouted at him, and I hung over the banisters and listened.
‘Not just one slow puncture, but four! Why didn’t you check the tyres before we set out?’
‘I checked them just this morning, my luscious lamb chop,’ said Claude. ‘I can’t think who would do such a thing.’
‘I can,’ said Sonia darkly. ‘And I’m going to have words with her right now.’
She strode towards the staircase. At that moment, the front doorbell rang.
Sonia gasped.
‘The guests are here! And I’m not decent. Let them in while I make myself beautiful.’
‘You are always beautiful, bewitching beloved—’ said Claude.
‘Get a move on, Claude,’ snapped Sonia, running up the stairs, ‘and don’t show me up in front of the mayor.’
I ducked into my room. At least Sonia wouldn’t have time to tell me off.
The new dress was hanging on the wardrobe door, looking even more like sicked-up porridge in the evening light. I burrowed under my bed, where I had hidden my golden leotard, wrapped in tissue paper. I shook it out and hung it next to Porridge Dress. Its feathery gold embroidery swayed and whispered, almost as if it was alive, and the sequins and pearls and crystals glittered. I was about to do My Third Worst Thing, and if that didn’t get me sent away to boarding school, I didn’t know what would.
I stood outside the door to the living room, waiting for Mayor Abuchi to finish his speech. His rich voice rang out over the rather half-hearted applause from the guests.
‘The artist, Sonia Finklebottom—’
‘Finklebome,’ hissed Sonia.
‘—is yet to be recognized,’ continued Mayor Abuchi. ‘But I am sure that all those assembled here hope that it will only be a matter of time before she takes her place among the great and the good in the world of art. Meanwhile, I ask you all to raise your glasses to her new painting, which she has titled Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. And I understand that Sonia’s daughter Claudia will have the honour of unveiling it.’
I pushed open the door. My heart was beating very fast, but my golden leotard and my bouncing ponytail made me feel strong and brave. I took a deep breath, raised my hands and pushed myself into a handstand. Then I began to walk on my hands towards the painting. All around me, people stared and parted to let me through.
Sonia, who was wearing a long purple shiny dress with matching purple lipstick, gazed at me with her mouth wide open in horror. Claude’s face turned the same colour as Sonia’s dress. Sonia began to hiss furiously into his ear. I heard the words common and humiliating, and Claude nodded and patted her hand.
I flipped over on to my feet, and Mayor Abuchi, who had a kind, merry face, escorted me up to the painting.
‘Hello, Claudia. What a very fine outfit,’ he said. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Actually,’ I said, ‘my name is Flynn. And yes, I’m ready.’
‘Then,’ said Mayor Abuchi, ‘with the kind assistance of Miss Flynn Finklebottom, I declare this painting open!’ And he nodded at me to pull the cord.
I pulled it.
For what seemed like a hundred years, there was utter silence. Then, a whispering and a giggling passed through the guests, like a flame licking along a sheet of pape
r.
The painting looked amazing. Much more interesting, I thought, than it had looked before. Adam and Eve were still bare. The snake still curled over Eve’s wrist. The apple still had a bite out of it. But Claude—or Adam—now had a bushy black beard and a black monobrow. And Sonia—or Eve—had a huge ginger moustache with curly ends. The title was much more interesting too: adam and STeve in the garden of eden.
Sonia screamed. Pointing at the painting, then at me, she hissed (doing a good impression of Mildred’s tyres deflating), ‘Sh-sh-sh-she… sh-she…’
Then she dropped to the floor in a dead faint.
Claude flapped a tea towel over her face to bring her round.
I caught Mayor Abuchi’s eye. He was trying not to laugh. The guests, however, were in stitches and some of them began clapping.
‘Best thing she’s ever painted,’ muttered one of the guests.
‘Not that that’s saying much,’ added his companion.
Meanwhile, Sonia had opened her eyes. She brushed aside Claude’s tea towel.
‘Precious pootlekins—you are alive!’ cried Claude.
‘Barely,’ hissed Sonia, holding out her hand so that Claude could pull her upright. ‘And don’t call me pootlekins.’
‘Of course, pootle—I mean, delicious darling,’ said Claude.
Sonia was glaring at me with so much hatred that I half expected my leotard to burst into flames. Just for a moment, I felt guilty about what I’d done. But then Mayor Abuchi winked at me and I remembered that it was all for a good cause.
‘That’s it,’ Sonia said. ‘The final straw.’
The guests were gone, still whispering and giggling. Sonia had poured herself a big glass of wine, and was drinking it very quickly. Claude had loosened his bow tie and his cummerbund. He had carried the painting out to the bins, because Sonia had said she couldn’t bear to lay eyes on it again.
‘Ungrateful child,’ said Claude, wiping his forehead.
‘Biting the hand that feeds her,’ said Sonia.
‘A bad apple,’ said Claude, ‘never falls far from the tree.’
‘We are washing our hands of you,’ said Sonia. ‘From this day forth, you will no longer be a Finklebome.’
‘You will go off to boarding school,’ said Claude. ‘And you will stay there until you are old enough to leave home.’
I dropped my head to hide my smile. My plan had worked.
The Academy and my twin, here I come!
TO BOARDING SCHOOL
A few weeks later, on a chilly September morning, I stood on the drive, waiting for the taxi to arrive to take me to boarding school.
Claude had refused to let me anywhere near Mildred after the tyre-letting-down, and Sonia had shut herself in her bedroom since the party and refused to speak to me. Claude told me she was suffering from Nervous Exhaustion. This meant that he had to do all the cooking, and since he didn’t know how to cook, we mostly ate baked beans. Sonia sent away the trays he carried up to her room, and instead finished off all the nibbles and drinks from the party. I could hear her hiccoughing from the hall.
It felt strange and scary to be leaving the Gables, even though I knew I was setting off to find my twin. The hardest thing had been saying goodbye to Tree. I clung to Tree’s trunk, hugging as hard as I could. A breeze shivered through Tree’s branches as if Tree knew that autumn was coming. I felt like a leaf, about to be blown away from everything I knew.
Claude didn’t offer to help me downstairs with my bag. Luckily, there wasn’t much in it. The only things I wanted to take were the message about my name and my golden leotard. I asked Claude, over baked beans à la Finklebottom, if I needed a uniform for the boarding school.
‘A uniform will be provided when you arrive,’ he said. ‘Which is more than you deserve.’
I liked the sound of this. No more Porridge Dresses and dreary cardigans—I’d be wearing the same as everyone else. So I packed my toothbrush, hairbrush, underwear, pyjamas, slippers, socks and shoes, along with my carefully folded leotard. I left the television, the laptop and the rest of my clothes in my room.
Sonia could donate them to charity. The Andalusian donkeys could watch donkey racing on the television, play games on the laptop and eat my Porridge Dress.
I tried to ask Claude more questions about the boarding school, but he clammed up.
‘You can cross that bridge when you come to it,’ he said, refusing to meet my eye.
I could hear the taxi coming up the drive. Claude stepped out of the front door behind me. I suppose he wanted to see me safely off the premises. There was no sign of Sonia, but when I looked up at their bedroom window, a curtain twitched and I heard a faint hiccough.
Claude stepped forward.
‘Farewell, Claudia,’ he said. ‘Sonia wishes me to inform you that this hurts us far more than it hurts you. But blood is thicker than water and what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. We can only hope that your new school will help you see the error of your ways.’
And with that, he rapped on the driver’s window, turned his back and went into the house, slamming the front door. As the taxi slid down the drive, I turned, hoping that Claude and Sonia might at least wave me goodbye, but the house was as shut and silent as if, like them, it had turned its back on me forever.
The drive seemed endless. I sat on my hands and whispered over and over: ‘I’m going to find my twin. I’m going to find my twin.’
We soon left the city behind. There were fields and woods, with villages dotted here and there. Away on a hill, a farmer was cutting grass with a combine harvester. Then, a sign—middlethwaite—appeared at the side of the road.
The taxi lurched up a narrow village street, almost knocking over an elderly lady with a pug dog. Then it rattled to a halt outside the Academy. In the shadow of a great pair of metal gates, a long line of children with suitcases queued to get in.
The Academy looked just as it had in the photographs: tall and stately and gleaming white, it was surrounded by high, red-brick walls. Through the upstairs windows I glimpsed girls and boys in uniform. The children in the queue wore uniforms too: navy blazers with crests on them and blue-and-silver striped ties. I couldn’t wait to get inside and try mine on.
Next door to the Academy was the other, scruffy school—the Cruet Establishment for Lost and Wayward Children—with its peeling paint and cracked windows. With a flapping of dark wings, a large bird rose from the roof and flew off, croaking. There were no metal gates or brick walls, just an uneven path meandering up to the entrance. On the wall beside the door was an old-fashioned bell with a pull cord. A lone boy, about my age, sat on the crumbling steps, waiting to be let in. His crisp white shirt set off his black skin and ebony curls, and he wore glasses and a worried expression. He was drumming his fingers on the knees of his jeans, surrounded by four overflowing supermarket carrier bags.
‘Here we are, miss.’ The taxi driver opened the door.
I grabbed my bag, jumped out and joined the queue for the Academy.
The children in the queue stared at my face. One girl nudged another and whispered something, and they giggled.
Chauffeur-driven limousines lined up on the road behind us. One family—a girl, a boy and their mother—were hugging and kissing goodbye. The mother wiped her eyes as she got back in her car and was driven away. I wished I had a mother to hug me.
In front of the high metal gates of the Academy stood a plump woman wearing a navy uniform and a peaked cap which said, security. A walkie-talkie, attached to her belt, was hissing and crackling. She carried a clipboard in one hand and a large flowery handkerchief in the other. From time to time she blew her nose loudly. As each child’s name was ticked off, she muttered into her walkie-talkie and the gates hissed open, just long enough for the child to enter, then clanged shut again.
The girl in front of me in the queue, who was tall and thin with freckles and braces, nudged my arm, making me jump.
‘You new?’
I nod
ded.
‘Why aren’t you wearing uniform?’ Her eyes swept over my face.
I put up my hand to cover my burn.
‘They’ve got it for me inside.’ I tried to sound confident.
‘Oh, right,’ said the girl with a smirk. She winked at her friend, and jerked her head at the other school, the ramshackle one next door.
The boy was still sitting on the steps. His mouth opened and closed as if he was talking to himself.
The girl lowered her voice. ‘Know what people call that place?’
I shook my head.
‘They call it the School for Nobodies.’
‘Nobodies?’ I said.
‘It’s where they send the freaks,’ said the girl.
‘The weirdos,’ added her friend. ‘The no-hopers.’
‘The dangerous kids,’ said the first girl, jerking her thumb at the boy on the steps.
‘Dangerous?’ I said.
The boy looked downtrodden and sorry for himself, but he didn’t look as if he would hurt a fly. He pulled a sheet of paper from one of his bags and studied it.
‘He looks all right to me,’ I said.
The girl pointed at the high brick walls surrounding the Academy.
‘What d’you think those are for?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘And I don’t care.’
Her friend grinned. ‘To keep the Nobodies out, that’s what.’
I shrugged. All that mattered to me was getting into the Academy as quickly as I could, and finding my twin.
And then I forgot all about the School for Nobodies.
Right at the very front of the queue for the Academy stood a girl. The security guard was bending down to listen to her. She had her back to me, so I couldn’t see her face, but her marmalade curls bounced down her back, just the way mine did.
My twin?!?
For a moment, my legs wouldn’t work. All I could do was to stare at those curls. My heart pounded in my chest. Then I dropped my bag and began to push through the waiting children towards her.