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Still Falling

Still Falling
Sheena Wilkinson

STILL FALLING

First published in 2015 by

Little Island Books

7 Kenilworth Park

Dublin 6W

Ireland

The author has asserted her moral rights.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in a retrieval system in any form or by any means (including electronic/digital, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, by means now known or hereinafter invented) without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

ISBN: 9781908195920

A British Library Cataloguing in Publication record for this book is available from the British Library

Cover design by Niall McCormack

Typeset in Adobe Garamond

Printed in Poland by Drukarnia Skleniarz

Little Island is grateful for financial assistance from the Arts Council/An Chomhairle Ealaíon and the Arts Council of Northern Ireland

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For my wonderful god-daughter,
Caoimhe Browne,
with love.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This novel was a long time gestating, and I’d like to thank everyone who helped in any way to keep me reasonably sane since I started. Thanks to my family and friends, and colleagues at Methodist College and the Church of Ireland College of Education. The Arvon Foundation, the Tyrone Guthrie Centre at Annaghmakerrig and the Arts Council of Northern Ireland all played their parts.

Celia Rees, whose insight at a very early stage was crucial to the story’s development, deserves a special thanks, as do all whose feedback on the manuscript at various stages helped me bash it into shape: Lee Weatherly, Bella Pearson, Linda Newbery, Susanne Brownlie, Julie McDonald, and of course my wise, eagle-eyed and long-suffering editors at Little Island, Gráinne Clear and Siobhán Parkinson. Sometimes we even laughed about it.

I’ve done a lot of travelling since I started writing full-time, and I’m always grateful for the invitations from schools and libraries and festivals all over Ireland and the UK. I love meeting readers and potential readers almost as much as I like sitting in a room and making things up. Thanks to Anne who looks after things when I’m away, and, as always, to Mummy and John for putting up with my funny wee ways.

All my writer and kidlit friends in Ireland, England and beyond – in CBI, SCBWI and especially SAS – continue to reassure me that if I’m crazy to do this, then at least I’m in wonderful company. And thank heavens for everyone who reads, reviews and champions YA fiction, without whom there’d be nobody to tell stories to.

Sheena Wilkinson

Co Down

I stand in the corridor, frozen with horror at the words coming out of Dad’s mouth.

‘Nobody saw him fall – Sandra found him at the bottom of the stairs, unconscious, blood everywhere. She thought he was dead.’

‘Can I go to the hospital?’

Dad hesitates. I don’t know why I’m asking, because whatever he says, whatever’s happened between me and Luke, I can’t walk away now.

Even though I know he might not wake up.

Esther

It’s not unheard of to wet yourself on your first day at school. But not normally in sixth form.

I’m late. Should have accepted Dad’s offer of a lift. It’s just that arriving in school with Dad is so sad, especially for someone who’s started being friends with Jasmine Wright. OK, maybe not friends exactly, but after results night, when I practically saved her life – well, she’s at least going to acknowledge me. Isn’t she?

The corridors are empty. Teachers’ voices sing-song from behind closed doors. I hitch my new satchel higher on my shoulder and make for the sixth-form block.

Rushing down the scruffy cream corridors, I wish I had taken that lift with Dad. At least I could have drifted into the room along with everybody else and not have to make An Entrance all sweaty and flustered.

I wonder who our tutor is. Every year I pray it won’t be Dad and so far my prayers have been answered. Only I remind myself I don’t do praying any more. Not since I ditched God.

Despite my rejection, God – or whoever organised the classes, probably a computer program – is on my side, because the person sitting at the teacher’s desk, scratching his beard, blinking at the chatting rows, counting timetables, and looking like he’s counting the minutes until breaktime, or possibly retirement, is only Boring Baxter.

All he says is, ‘Ah. Esther Wilson. You can take that seat there,’ and he points me to a desk where a boy I don’t recognise is bent over, rummaging in his schoolbag. It’s the only empty seat, behind Toby, who is shy and nice and the closest thing I’ve had to a friend at school until now. I slide into the seat, pull off my cardigan because sweat is suddenly pricking my armpits, and glance round. Jasmine hasn’t noticed me yet. She’s sitting with Cassie. Of course.

I give Jasmine a quick smile. This is sixth form and it’s all going to be different. I’m going to be different. Though the tutor group is pretty much the same as the last five years. A few thick rugby players haven’t got enough GCSEs to get back. Leaving space for the two new girls with ironed blond hair and lip-glossed pouts who sit in front of Jasmine and Cassie looking like they’ve been specially manufactured to be Mansfield Sixth Form Girls. They’re so much a type that it takes me a second to realise they actually are identical. As in twins. One of them turns round and whispers something to Jasmine, who laughs. Cassie’s lips tighten and she gives the twin her bug-eyed stare. Baxter and Toby are the only people who have even noticed me.

I sigh and reach for the timetable Baxter is handing me, only I miss and it flutters to the ground and I have to bend down to grab it and it feels like people are sniggering even though they aren’t. It’s strange to see only a few subjects. English lit, French, history and art. My crap science GCSE grades finally convinced me that I’m never going to be a doctor even though it used to be my dream.

The boy beside me sets his pens on the desk. He has four – black, blue, green and red. He lays them in a row. The red one wobbles and he frowns and edges it back into place. I glance at him from under my fringe. Blondish hair. Tall, I think, though it’s hard to tell when someone’s sitting down. Lean. Hot. Something inside me trembles. Very hot. I try to see what subjects he’s doing but all I can make out is that he has highlighted them all in different colours, and his name at the top: Luke Bressan.

Not that it matters to me what he’s called. If you drew a line across the class, with the cool people on one side and the rejects on the other, Luke Bressan and I would not be on the same side.

I look away, my skin burning. It’s hopeless. You can’t just decide to be cool. My legs stick to my skirt with sweat. My scalp itches even though I washed my hair this morning. Now that he’s tamed his pens, Luke appears as confident as the new girls. Slightly bored if anything. I’m not used to sitting with a boy. Not this kind of boy anyway. Toby doesn’t count.

I fold my arms and concentrate on Baxter. He drones on about uniform regulations and careers guidance and how we will all be treated like Responsible Adults now as long as we don’t Abuse the Privilege. Then he takes off his glasses and puts on his caring face.

‘And of course,’ he says, his voice cosy as a cupcake, ‘we hope you’ll all have a great year with no problems.’ He pulls at his nasal hair. ‘But if you should encounter any little difficulties, well, we’re here to help.’

Luke slides his hands up the sides of his face and lets them rest there. His fingers are long, but his nails are short and bitten, worse than mine. A thin silver bracelet snakes his wrist. If Baxter notices that he’ll tell him to take it off.

‘You all know Mr Wilson,’ Baxter goes on. ‘Head of pastoral care. He’s the man to go to if you if have any – er problems.’ I stare at the scratches on my desk. Around me rises a burble of mumblings. Yeah right – Big Willy – imagine telling him –

Imagine being his daughter.

Beside me Luke stiffens, as if my discomfort is catching. Then he gives a strange strangled cry and I turn to see him collapse sideways. His face strikes the desk as he falls and then he lies on the floor, limbs juddering and jerking.

Instant panic. Cassie screams. People gasp and flock round.

I slip down from my chair and kneel beside Luke.

‘Don’t touch him!’ Toby cries. His normally pink face is white. I remember him throwing up in third year when we dissected a rat.

‘Are you meant to put something in their mouth?’ somebody asks.

‘Oh my God, he’s going to die!’ Cassie shrieks. Which is exactly what she said when Jasmine passed out on results night. Helpful.

‘Shut up. Give him space,’ I order. My voice comes out clear and strong like I expect everyone to obey and they do, even Baxter. Even Jasmine and Cassie, huddled together, their eyes nearly popping out of their mascaraed sockets. I pull the chair well away from Luke and shove my cardigan under his head to cushion it. Blood blurs his cheek, from the desk I suppose. I yank at the tight knot of his tie, open his collar. His head flails, froth blooming from his mouth, his arms and legs spasming in a mad jerking dance.

I lean back on my heels. I’ve made it as safe as I can. This isn’t his first time. I’ve seen that bracelet properly now, and it’s an epilepsy medical alert one.

‘Phone an ambulance,’ Cassie cries.

‘You shouldn’t need to,’ I say.

Already the shuddering limbs are slowing.

A high clear voice, one of the new twins, says, ‘Oh my God, he’s wet himself.’

A dark stain spreads across Luke’s trousers and over the floor. It lies on the newly polished start-of-term tiles and doesn’t soak in.

The jerking stops. I manoeuvre Luke’s body, limp now, into the recovery position. Almost at once his eyes flicker open. They are dark greyish-blue and very confused. I swallow. I’m not so confident; now the crisis is over. I’m fabulous at emergencies. It’s just the normal bits of life in between I’m crap at.

‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘You just had a seizure.’

I stroke his arm to reassure him. We both look down at my hand on the white cotton of his shirt for a second before I pull it away.

‘You’re in the classroom,’ I go on, partly for something to say and partly because Luke’s eyes are still bewildered. ‘You’ve cut your cheek, but it doesn’t look too bad.’

He lifts his hand and rubs at his face, then looks at the blood on his fingers.

The others crowd round; curious, excited even, now that nobody is actually dying or anything. Luke struggles to sit up. ‘I’m fine,’ he says calmly. He glances up at the crowd of faces, then down at the ground. I catch the exact moment when he realises he’s wet himself – his lips tighten. He lifts up the cardigan I had put under his head, dusts it down and stares at it.

‘It’s mine,’ I say, and he hands it to me.

Baxter seems to remember he’s in charge. ‘Esther, you’ve been wonderful,’ he says.

He glances at Luke, who is standing up now but still looks as if he isn’t too sure what to do. Except that he wants out of here. I can feel the desperation oozing out of him into the stuffy classroom air.

‘Sir,’ I say, ‘shall I take Luke to the nurse?’

‘Yes.’ Baxter is clearly as desperate to get rid of Luke as Luke is to escape. ‘All right to walk there, Luke? It’s not far, just the next corridor.’

Luke nods. He packs his schoolbag slowly. Blood trickles down his cheek. Jasmine springs forward and hands him a tissue.

‘I’ll take your bag,’ I offer. It’s light, brand new, a plain black rucksack. I think of the pens inside, all new.

I can’t think of anything to say on the way to the sick bay. I trial loads of stuff in my head – Don’t worry, it isn’t that bad, nobody will have noticed that you wet yourself; it happens all the time – but in the end I don’t say any of it. Partly because I never can think of what to say to boys and partly because it isn’t true.

Luke

By the time my brain is working half-normally we’ve reached a door labelled SICK BAY and the girl knocks. A middle-aged nurse opens the door and sighs as if she hadn’t planned on having the first day of the school year messed up with an actual medical situation. But as soon as the girl tells her what happened the nurse sends her back to class and switches straight into professional mode.

She dabs the cut on my face with something stinging. Every time her arm moves I catch a whiff of her deodorant. Or maybe perfume. Sickly and sweet. Hard to imagine anybody choosing that smell. But Christ knows what I smell like. A seizure can be quite a workout. I look past her, itemise the room to stop myself flinching. Sickly green walls. Cheerful posters about STDs and self harm and eating five a day. Two beds against the far wall. Cupboards neatly labelled but it makes me dizzy to try to read them. Already the familiar headache is nibbling at my temples.

‘I can sponge those trousers for you,’ she says.

I chew my lip.

‘They’ll dry on the radiator in the time it takes someone to come and pick you up.’

‘It’s OK,’ I mutter. ‘You don’t have to.’

‘It’s no bother. I’ve got some spares here, from Lost Property. You’d be amazed what people leave lying around.’

‘No.’ What is she fussing for? I’m sitting on a hard plastic chair. She can wipe it when I leave.

‘Of course,’ she says, riffling through a box of plasters, ‘you won’t be on the computer system yet. You’ll have to give me a phone number. Is someone at home? Mum? Dad? Or can they come from work?’

The backs of my legs are cold and wet, but I don’t think there’s a smell. ‘I don’t have parents.’

She pulls the backing paper off a plaster. ‘There must be someone?’

‘Sandra.’ The headache bites harder, its teeth sharpening by the second.

‘Right. Sandra. She’s your …?’

I suppose this will all be on the system soon enough, along with God knows what else.

‘Foster carer. Can I get some painkillers?’ At least she seems to have forgotten about wanting me to take my trousers off.

She frowns, sticks the unnecessary plaster over my cheek. I suppose they have to make it look like they’ve ministered to you properly.

‘You sure you don’t have concussion? Your eyes look OK but if you hit –’

‘It’s just a headache. I always get one afterwards.’ Along with: feeling knackered enough to sleep for a week; bumps and bruises from bashing myself around like a mad thing; occasionally throwing up; and, worst of all, mortal humiliation. The thought of going back into that classroom tomorrow is enough to make me walk out of this school now, for ever. I grit my teeth, then stop because it hurts.

She’s talking again and I realise she’s asking for Sandra’s number. I don’t know it, but I hand her my phone. I zone out and then she’s handing the phone back and saying something about Sandra being in a queue at Lidl but she’ll be here as soon as she can.

‘And she says it’s fine to give you Paracetamol,’ she finishes, even though she’s the one that’s meant to be a nurse, not Sandra, and Sandra’s never even see me have a seizure because I’ve only lived with her for three days.

Anyway, she gives me the pills, thank God, because the pain is gnashing lumps out of my brain now, and she makes me a cup of tea and says I can lie down on one of the beds and rest while we wait for Sandra. But I say I’d rather stay where I am. I sip tea and watch the nurse fill in a form and hope that Sandra won’t be annoyed at having her morning interrupted.

The nurse looks up from her desk as if she’s had a bright idea and her biro jumps out of her hand. ‘You can keep a spare pair of trousers here,’ she says. ‘Just in case.’ She beams at her brilliance.

‘I don’t plan to make a habit of it.’

She picks up her biro again and says, ‘Hmmm.’

_____________

Sandra reverses her Skoda carefully out of the space marked VISITORS. She keeps her eyes fixed on the driveway and slows down to avoid two tiny suicidal brats whose huge bags make them look like hunch-backed turtles. She beeps and they cower. In my last school they’d have given us the finger. I know she wants me to say something but I can’t summon up any words. Sandra indicates left out of the school drive and heads down the South Road.

‘God love you,’ she says. ‘That’s bad luck on your first day. What do you think triggered it?’

I shrug. ‘Dunno.’

‘Were there any bright lights or –?’

‘No. It’s nothing to do with anything like that. It just happens.’

She should know this; she must have read my file. Plus there must have been lots of cosy chats with Brendan before he persuaded her to take me.

‘You took your medication OK?’

I sigh. ‘I always do.’

‘Stress maybe?’

‘We hadn’t done anything. Just got our timetables. Sat in a classroom. It wasn’t exactly stressful.’

‘Och, aye, but it’s a big day for you, Luke.’

I hadn’t even spoken to anyone. Only answered ‘Here’ when the teacher called my name. And then that girl came and sat down beside me. She was quiet, not all tossy hair and makeup and giggles like other girls. And then I got that feeling – I can never describe it: it’s not a smell, or a noise, nothing so romantic as an aura; I just know. But it’s always too late.

I close my eyes and lean back against the seat.

‘Are you sure we don’t need to take you to Casualty?’ Sandra asks. It’s the first time I’ve seen anything faze her.

I open my eyes again. ‘No. I just need to sleep it off. I’ll be fine in a few hours.’

As always my heart sinks when we turn into Sandra’s street. My street now. It’s a bit miserable, a lot of concrete and the gardens are titchy. At least Sandra’s has flowers in it – not bins and old bottles like the one next door. A few tattered flags, left over from summer, droop from the lampposts.

A bedraggled skinny black kitten is sitting in the middle of Sandra’s path.

‘There’s that wee cat again,’ Sandra says. ‘It’s been hanging round for a few days.’ She bends down but the kitten scarpers.

By the time I get to my room – refusing another cup of tea; Sandra is a great believer in the healing powers of tea – the headache and the tiredness have blotted out everything else.

Sandra calls up the stairs, ‘Leave me out your uniform so I can give it a wash through.’ She doesn’t mention the words trousers or wet and I think vaguely as I pull everything off and leave it in a heap outside the bedroom door that that’s a brownie point for her. I don’t know if this is just the honeymoon period or if she and Bill are going to keep on being this nice.

The plain blue duvet still smells of washing powder. I haven’t been here long enough for it to smell of me. When I close my eyes I see the ring of shocked, scared faces; chair legs; human legs; dust skittering in the sun on the polished wooden floor tiles. And then the girl’s face, calm and still with brown eyes. Her wide slow smile. Her hand on my sleeve. The new warm smell of her cardigan.

Esther

I dodge through crowds of boys playing football and girls standing in groups to find a space on the wall outside the library for a quiet read. But no sooner have I taken out The Great Gatsby, which we’ve just been given in English, than someone looms over me. Blond hair swings over the page.

‘Budge up, Esther,’ Jasmine says. She smiles her beautiful cool smile, and my own lips stretch into what I know is a goofy grin.

‘Hey.’ I make room for her. I set the book down before she can see it’s a school one.

Cassie and the new twins come up behind her. I know they’re called Zara and Zoë because they’re in my art class.

‘So what’s he like?’ Jasmine asks. She takes out a plastic lunchbox and offers me a carrot stick like we have lunch together every day.

I take one. I love the idea of being someone who eats carrot sticks with Jasmine, even though it’s probably obvious to look at me that I’ve just had a gravy chip with F Scott Fitzgerald. I hope I don’t smell of gravy.

‘What’s who like?’ For a stupid moment I think she means Gatsby.

‘The new boy, of course,’ Jasmine says. She hugs her knees.

‘Um.’ I crunch my carrot stick. It’s not like I’ve talked to Luke.

Zoë or Zara leans back and sighs. ‘I came here for the boys,’ she says, ‘and so far they’ve been a bit of a let-down.’ She glares at me as if this is somehow my fault.

‘The upper sixth are a better-looking year group,’ Cassie says with an expert air. She licks the lid of her yogurt, and moves closer to Jasmine.

‘Well, I’ve been banking on some fit new boys,’ Jasmine says. ‘Because I’ve gone through all the acceptable boys in our year and the upper sixth.’

As I don’t know how many boys she’s gone through I have no idea if this means her standards are very high or very low.

‘There’s a real hottie in our art class,’ a twin says. ‘I bagsy him.’ She starts describing him in rapid, hushed tones. It’s obvious she’s describing Mihai, who’s Romanian, and gorgeous, but hardly ever speaks. She’ll be lucky. But I don’t say anything.

‘Anyway, Esther, as you can see, it’s slim pickings this year,’ Jasmine says, ‘so we want to know more about – what’s his name?’

‘Luke.’

She nods. ‘Nice.’ She waits. ‘Well?’

‘But I … I don’t know anything about him. I walked with him to the nurse. That’s it.’

‘But you – the way you were with him. We thought you already knew him.’

Zoë or Zara says, ‘You took all the handouts and all to keep for him.’

‘I was just being nice.’

‘Told you, Jas.’ Cassie’s voice is triumphant. ‘Just Esther being a good Christian girl.’

I open my mouth to say, No, I’ve given up on all that, but how stupid would that sound?

I have all his handouts safely in a folder. There was an envelope with his address. 11 Lilac Walk. I have no idea where that is, but I like knowing it. I might Google it later. No, I won’t. That would be weird.

‘But you were all – when he had that fit thing, you knew what to do. You talked to him like – like you knew him really well,’ Cassie says.

‘You were like – touching him, adds Jasmine.’

She makes it sound dirty. I knew I’d sounded weird. I bet he thought I’d been really forward. I have a sudden memory of my hand reaching out and rubbing his arm. I hadn’t planned to do that; it was just instinct. I only did what I’ve always done.

I shake my head. ‘I helped out at the special school’s summer scheme. Where my mum teaches? Some of the kids there have seizures. It’s no big deal. You know me, Jasmine – I’m good at looking after people. First aid and stuff.’ I give her a private kind of smile.

She looks at me blankly, and I realise she actually doesn’t remember results night, she was too drunk. Then I see the warning in Cassie’s froggy eyes and I know she remembers; she remembers every detail, but her eyes are telling me It Never Happened. Cassie was pathetic that night, and she clearly doesn’t like the fact that I wasn’t.

‘So you don’t know anything about him?’ Cassie asks.

‘And you’re not going out with him? – I told you she couldn’t be,’ says Jasmine.

‘Nope,’ I say. ‘He’s all yours.’

The four of them exchange glances.

‘I’d give him one,’ Jasmine says. ‘Definitely.’

‘Me too,’ says Cassie, who always agrees with Jasmine.

The twins look at each other. ‘I don’t know,’ says one. ‘What if he had a fit on the job?’ She shudders and wriggles her fingers like she’s touched something gross.

‘Zoë! That’s minging,’ Zara says.

‘He can’t help it,’ Jasmine says. ‘And he is very cute.’

They’ve lost interest in me now I’ve nothing to offer them, but they aren’t rude enough to get up and leave – or maybe they just can’t be bothered. Lunch is nearly over.

‘Would you, Esther?’ Cassie asks.

‘Would I what?’

‘Give him one?’

Give him one what? I nearly ask. I shrug. ‘Probably,’ I say nonchalantly.

‘Well, bagsy me first go,’ Jasmine says. She gives me a narrow look that makes her eyes look all mascara and no eyeball.

The bell clangs and I stuff The Great Gatsby back in my schoolbag. I know, as I watch them all dash off to class without asking me where I’m going, that it’s the last time they’ll bother to be friendly.

As for giving him one. My chances with Luke have never been great, but now those four have decided he is very cute they’re non-existent. And I’m certainly not going to make the mistake I made with Jasmine and think we’re friends or something just because I helped him out. I have got some pride.

This is all too hard. It was never like this with Ruth or the other girls at our Christian youth group. But I can’t think about Ruth now, and I’m not thinking about Luke Bressan either.

Much.

Luke

‘Take the day off,’ Sandra says next morning when she catches me looking for painkillers in the kitchen drawer. I don’t know where things are in this house yet.

‘I’m fine. It’s just a headache.’

‘You can’t be fine if you need painkillers.’ She reaches up into a high cupboard and hands me down an old biscuit tin. I check out the array of tablets, go for the strongest ones. She hands me a glass of water. I swallow two pills and sneak a couple into my pocket for later. The headache’s fading, but it’s as well to be ready.

I sit at the table and pour some cornflakes into a bowl. I ache everywhere. Why don’t I ever have a seizure in a nice soft padded cell? Or even on carpet?

Sandra puts the tin back up in the cupboard. ‘Bill, you tell him.’

Bill looks up from The Belfast Telegraph. ‘Tell him what, love?’

‘That he’s not up to going to school.’

Bill takes off his glasses. ‘Looks all right to me. Sure isn’t it great the lad wants to go?’ He sets the paper down. ‘She can’t get used to somebody wanting to go to school. Half the kids we’ve had, you’d to beat them out the door.’

‘Not literally beat,’ Sandra cuts in, as if I’m going to get straight on the phone to the Social. She leans over Bill and pours herself a cup of tea, but she doesn’t sit down. ‘Is there any point in going in on a Friday? Sure it’s nearly the weekend.’

I spoon cornflakes determinedly into my mouth. No wonder she ended up only being a foster carer with that attitude to education. ‘I’ve already missed most of a day. All the AS courses will be starting. I don’t want to get behind.’

And if I wait until Monday, if I have all weekend to remember waking up in a puddle of piss on that classroom floor with everybody staring at me, I might not have the courage to do it. I have to get it over with now. But I can’t tell her that. I can’t let her see I’m bothered, that in my stomach, pecking uneasily at the undigested cornflakes, is a fluttery bird that won’t keep still.

‘Well.’ She shakes her grey frizzy head and folds her arms across her big chest. I know she’s used to getting her own way. I know that’s one reason I’ve been put here. Sandra and Bill won’t stand any nonsense. But I’m insisting on going to school, not staying out all night drinking. ‘At least let me drive you.’

When we’re driving out of the estate, she says, ‘You’re a stubborn one. Brendan warned me about that.’

I wonder what else he’s warned her about, but I’m not going to ask.

_____________

I hesitate at the door of the sixth-form centre but I can’t make myself open it.

‘Hey, can we get past?’ Two girls push by me in a whirl of perfume and long blond hair. They may or may not be in my tutor group. Most of the girls here look the same. The door slams behind them.

There must be a library but I don’t know where. I decide to try to find my tutor-group room. I take a couple of wrong turns – all the corridors are identical tunnels of scuffed cream walls punctuated by black bins and blue doors. But at last I find it, Room 33. It’s empty. I head for the same seat I had yesterday. There’s nothing to show what happened – no stain on the floor; no marks on the desk. It’s only in my head that the seizure lingers. I take out my timetable and study it. History. English lit. Maths. Economics. Good solid subjects. Brendan encouraged me to keep on art but that would be a waste of time. It’s not like I’m good enough to make a living at it. ‘It’s good for you to express your feelings,’ Brendan says – which is the kind of puke-making thing social workers always say. I take out a pencil and doodle in the corner of my timetable, without thinking, just a little Celtic knot, and then I’m annoyed because it was all neat and perfect and now it’s messed up. I check in my new pencil case but I don’t have an eraser.

The door creaks open and the bird fluffs out its feathers and beats its wings against the bottom of my stomach.

It’s The Girl. She’s carrying an art folder, and her darkbrown hair is pulled back in a short pony tail. I look down at my timetable and then force myself to look up. She’s right beside me. She hugs her folder. I read her name upside down. Esther Wilson.

‘Hey,’ she says.

‘Hey.’ I swallow.

Esther stares at her feet. ‘Are you OK now?’ Her cheeks are very pink.

‘Fine. Thanks for …’ I wave my hand.

‘You didn’t miss much. We got some handouts. I took copies for you. I thought Baxter might forget. He’s a bit senile.’

I wish everybody would forget. I wish they were all a bit senile. This girl, setting her folder down on the seat, rummaging in her bag, is embarrassed just talking to me, her face burning and her words tumbling. And she was the one who’d been so cool. What’s everyone else going to be like? The bird inside me starts having a seizure of its own.

‘Here.’ She hands me over three sheets of A4, slightly crumpled, and an envelope with Sandra’s address on it. ‘Sorry. The folder got a bit squished in my bag.’ Her voice is gruff and low and quick, not the reassuring calm voice I thought I remembered.

‘No, that’s great. Thanks.’ I glance at them. Term dates. PTA. Coursework Deadlines. ‘Are you going to sit down?’ I ask.

‘Oh.’ She looks uncomfortable. ‘I don’t think Baxter will make us stay in the same seats.’

The bird sticks its head under its wing and stalks off.

‘Suit yourself. Thanks for the handouts.’

I start reading them to show her I don’t need company, I’m only being polite.

But she hesitates. ‘Do you want me to sit here?’ She pulls at her growing-out fringe.

I shrug. I read about how parents can help raise money for the new changing rooms, and how late coursework will not be tolerated. The chair beside me clatters as she pulls it out. She sits down. Glances across at me. Nervously. I can’t believe this is the same girl. But the warm clean smell of her cardigan is the same.

‘You’re quite safe,’ I say. ‘I’m not going to have another fit on you.’ I cross my fingers under the desk because that’s a promise I can never make.

Her cheeks blaze. ‘Look, you could have ten seizures a day and it wouldn’t bother me. That’s not what I meant.’

‘Oh.’ I fold the handouts; slip them into my blazer pocket.

The clock over the door says five to nine. Already the corridor outside is filling up with chatter and buzz. Before I can ask her what she did mean the bell clangs. Baxter comes in and dumps a bulging briefcase on his desk. Other people mooch in past him, yawning, chatting, slipping phones into pockets, pulling earphones out of ears. I look down at my timetable so I don’t have to make eye contact with anybody. Double English first. Maths. Break. I read the meaningless room numbers and teacher initials and wonder when it will all make sense.

‘Hey.’

I think someone must be saying hello to Esther, but when I look up, there is one of those girls they mass-produce here. Tall, blonde, tanned, beautiful, short black skirt skimming perfect thighs. Beside her a skinny girl with big eyes and mousey hair. Definitely looking at me. They don’t seem to notice Esther, who’s leafing through The Great Gatsby.

‘Oh my God, are you OK?’

‘We thought you were dying.’

‘We were so worried about you.’

Their fussing tentacles around me. The headache throbs at my skull again.

‘Jasmine, Cassie, sit down,’ drones the teacher before I have to say anything, and the darker girl sighs but obeys him.

‘You’re in my English class,’ the blonde girl says. She smiles. ‘I’ll show you where to go if you like. After assembly.’

‘Jasmine!’

‘Sorry, sir.’ She flounces past my desk, her silky hair floating after her. She looks back and smiles before sitting down.

Esther chews the side of her thumbnail.

‘Do you have English first?’ I ask her, guessing from The Great Gatsby that she’s doing English. ‘With – um – Mr Donovan?’

‘Yes. He’s new. But I suppose they’ll all be new to you.’

‘Will you show me where to go?’

She smiles a slow wide smile. ‘What about Jasmine?’ she asks.

I shrug. ‘What about her?’

The boy in front turns round. He has a face like a pink cushion. ‘Wow,’ he says. ‘Two girls fighting over you on your second day.’