Chapter 7

The whole school knew about me. It became more and more obvious as each day crawled on. I noticed that the people huddled in their tight little groups were watching me as I walked past the corridor, through the quad, into a classroom. They were pointing and whispering, sly looks on their faces. It started as a whisper. Small and poisonous.

As I walked to the lunch hall one Tuesday, heads were turning in the corridor without even being discreet. I’d known that word had spread amongst my year group because Susannah was mentoring me. However, I hadn’t known that my personal problems had travelled through the entire school. There was now an echo of fierce snapping from every mouth.

Trying to control my increasing paranoia, I continued on my way to the hall, deciding fixing my eyes on the table I normally sat at. I did not have any proper friends, but I had to make a move at the beginning of Year Seven to have a lunch group. Nobody could eat lunch on their own as that was probably the worst kind of social suicide anybody could commit.

Getting away with being a loner at break was hard enough. Most of the gangs didn't accept me at all in Year Seven because of the influence Kirsty Brightman had over people: if she disliked someone, everyone else followed her lead.

The 'Nerd Gang', as they were cruelly stereo-typed, didn't really accept me either, but at least they allowed me to hover at the edge of their table and nibble nervously. Being a group of child prodigies, junior Einsteins and poets, they probably knew what being different felt like, accounting for why they did not shun me. I did not mind the fact that I was hardly invited to join the conversation. I was grateful enough for the fact that I had not been submitted to utter humiliation by having nowhere to eat lunch.

As I entered the hall today, the leader of the group, Claire, approached me apprehensively, a strange look on her face. I could see the others in the group sitting at their table, avoiding my glance.

“Listen, Amelia,” she said, obviously uncomfortable. She reminded me of the male nurse at the hospital who’d had to break the news to me about Mum. “You can’t sit with us anymore. It’s because of...well...you know. We can’t afford to get any more stick than we’re already getting. And because of how much you’re, well, hated now, we can’t really...” her voice trailed off and she fixated her eyes on her shoes.

“But...” I started, my voice trembling. “But...but couldn’t I just...” I looked at her pleadingly, hoping that somehow I could change her mind.

She shook her head at me sadly. “I’m sorry, Amelia. I wish, I wish things were different. I wish people didn’t get so prejudiced against each other and I...I wish...” she trailed off and looked for a second as if she was going to change her mind. Then Kirsty, picking at a celery stick, caught her eye from the other end of the hall. A shadow passed over Claire’s face.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed, and then walked back to the table, not looking at me again.

I stood there abandoned in the middle of the hall for a few minutes, feeling everyone's deriding looks pierce like knives. As usual, a flood of tears surged up inside of me so I turned around and ran out of the lunch hall, my lip wobbling.

Unable to find any other means of escape, I hurried along the corridor and rushed into the bathroom. I swung open the door to the furthest cubicle, locked it carefully and put the toilet seat down. Sitting there, I put my head in my hands and just cried my eyes out, my shoulders shaking with suppressed grief and frustration.

It was a bad idea though because some Year Eleven chavs came in, hoping to skive off their next lesson, have a smoke, and plaster makeup on their faces to infuriate the teachers. When they heard me weeping they banged on the door and yelled at me to "shut the hell up."

So it was back to roaming the corridors for the next weeks because I was just too scared of facing the hall again.

***

I sat on my dream sill one rainy Sunday, staring glumly at the raindrops spattering the window pane. I saw the young Russian prince through the gleaming light in the clear window, across the block. The female pirate seemed to be rocking him in her arms and cooing to him. They looked happy enough. I was glad for them.

I was interrupted from my contemplation by the sound of shouting. I sprang off the windowsill and rushed into the hallway. I could see Dad fending off Mum’s slaps and trying to control his intense frustration.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

Dad didn’t reply, but Mum answered my question for him.

“Go away!” she shrieked at Dad, hitting his face. “Leave me alone! I don’t know you people! I don’t know you! You’re strangers!”

“Please, Kelly,” said Dad, in a quiet, resigned voice. It still seemed like he was holding back his temper. “Please, Kelly. This is your home. This is your home and I’m your husband and Amelia here is your daughter and we just want you to come back to us.”

“No! No! NO!” she screeched. “You’re strangers! You’re strangers, strangers, strangers!”

I was unable to do anything but stare at her, dumfounded. I could not even cry. I did not understand her. I did not know her. I did not know my own mother, and ]he did not know me.

The doorbell rang and I rushed to answer it. It was Mr Lane, the neighbour from across the floor. He peered at me over the top of his horn rimmed glasses.

“Morning,” I said in a shaky voice.

“Good morning, Amelia,” he said, looking at me suspiciously and trying to see past me into the hallway, where the screaming was continuing. “Is...is everything OK in here?” What did he think?

“Um...” I started, glancing nervously at Dad. He had his own problem to face. I obviously wasn’t going to get any support. I bared my teeth at him in what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “Um, no, Mr Lane. No, nothing’s wrong in here. It’s the...um...it’s the TV. I’m sorry. We must have had it on too loud. There, do you hear, Dad’s turned it down,” I said, as the noises from the hallway subsided and I guessed Mum must have gone into her bedroom.

His lips curved in a smile but his eyes were hard and unfriendly. “If you say so.” He obviously disbelieved what I had just told him. I had no energy to fight the cause of a lie, though. I didn’t care what he thought. As long as he left us alone. “But, Amelia,” he said, continuing, “If there ever is anything wrong, you can tell me.”

Reassuring. Not. Mr Lane’s wife is the most irritating loud-mouth on the block and he’s like her accomplice, going around the flats, collecting pieces of gossip and pretending his motive is kindness. If I confided in him our secret would be all around the block, and then who knows? All around the town? Likely.

“Of course,” I said coldly, not bothering to put on an act anymore. “I’ll tell you. Bye.”

And before he could open his mouth and say anything more, I shut the door.

I turned around and saw Dad standing rigidly in the hallway, caught in a moment. It was like he was trapped in himself and it seemed there was nothing I could do to break his chains.

We stood there, looking at each other. Neither of us said a word.

Any words would have felt empty and too small, yet I needed one of us to say something. Anything to fill the terrifying silence seperating us with a cruel iron wall.

***

That night, Dad sat with me as I lay in bed for a very long time, and I could tell he was desperate. He had un-shed tears filling his eyes, and his hand trembled slightly as it held mine in a tight grip, so tight it felt like he would never let go. And the look in his eyes. He looked so drained, so tragic, so desolate, as if he were stuck on a desert island and there was no-one to rescue him.

He whispered, "Goodnight, my little girl," and opened his mouth, breathing in as if he were about to speak, but then closed it abruptly, He heaved a deep, forlorn sigh, and walked out of the room, leaving me to stare into darkness.

***

I woke up the next morning with a terrible feeling in my gut, having the usual panic attack that seized me on school mornings. Today, it was worse that usual – my palms were sweaty, my heart was thumping and I was shaking all over. Unsteadily, I swung my legs over the bed, and went to brush my teeth. I knelt on Mum's bed. She lay there with a empty look in her eyes and it scared me.

I tried to avoid her gaze and began speaking. “Mum? I’ll do your hair.”

I picked up a comb, but she shook her head. "No...Go and...do whatever you have to do."

"School," I said. She did not reply and instead took the comb from me and started pulling the teeth through her tangles. She managed this quite well and her hand had obviously strengthened.

"Goodbye," I said. Mum did not reply so I went to my bedroom to get changed. As I pulled on the second sock I felt something inside and heard a rustling sound. I emptied the sock and found a small square piece of paper. It was a Post-It note, painstakingly neatly folded along the creases. I unfolded it, my panic increasing and saw a single word in familiar handwriting. I made my eyes blur the word again and again until I uttered it, in a broken, hoarse voice.

I whispered it again and then burst into tears. I fell back onto my bed and cried until my throat was raw. I clawed at my soaked eyes until the lids bled and balled up the paper, throwing it to the other end of the room. It ricocheted against the door and leapt up before falling back onto the floor, a dry shrivelled corpse.

'Sorry’.