Maddie’s life is a tangled mess of secrets.
She’s grieving for Nan, struggling for Mum’s attention, and scared she’s losing Dad too. She keeps everything knotted up inside, unable to find her voice…until she’s paired with Kieran Black – the bad-boy troublemaker in her class – and finds her confidence growing.
But when Maddie’s hit by a secret that could bring her whole world crashing down, can she find the strength to face her fears?
“Secrets and mysteries abound in Anne-Marie Conway’s haunting novel.” The Sunday Express
“It could happily sit beside novels from the likes of Cathy Cassidy; what makes this one special is the brooding atmosphere of secrets waiting to be discovered, which builds like a gathering summer storm.” Books For Keeps
“A gripping story which catches the importance of friendship – even when there are dark, dark secrets.” Love Reading 4 Kids
“She has a wonderful writing style which makes the book hard to put down.” YA Yeah Yeah blog
“I adored this book… It was sad, gripping, touching, surprising, exciting and everything you could want from a great book.” What Lexie Loves blog
For Paula:
the best big sister anyone could wish for.
About Tangled Secrets
Praise for Anne-Marie Conway’s Butterfly Summer
Dedication
Prologue – Six Months Ago
Chapter 1 – Missing Nan
Chapter 2 – The Nurture Group
Chapter 3 – The Woman in the Cemetery
Chapter 4 – Allergies
Chapter 5 – Kicking Off
Chapter 6 – Sharon
Chapter 7 – Photos in the Attic
Chapter 8 – Jumping In!
Chapter 9 – A Day Out with Dad
Chapter 10 – Samantha Black
Chapter 11 – Hit-and-Run
Chapter 12 – Asking for Help
Chapter 13 – Another Change
Chapter 14 – Opening Up
Chapter 15 – Struggling to Cope
Chapter 16 – The Girl in the Cafe
Chapter 17 – Charlie’s Check-Up
Chapter 18 – Running Away
Chapter 19 – Facing Mum
Chapter 20 – Kieran in Trouble
Chapter 21 – Coming Face-to-Face
Chapter 22 – Jasmine
Chapter 23 – Pushed Out
Chapter 24 – A Message From Kieran
Chapter 25 – Blind Panic!
Chapter 26 – Being Brave
Chapter 27 – Stones Instead of Sand
Chapter 28 – Pancakes for Tea
About the Author
Sneak Preview of Butterfly Summer by Anne-Marie Conway
Forbidden Friends by Anne-Marie Conway
Acknowledgements
Copyright
I didn’t understand what was happening at first. It was Sunday morning, three weeks before Christmas, and Nan and I were walking up to the shops, our arms linked together against the cold. We were going to make a crumble for pudding and we had all the ingredients we needed except for flour. Nan’s crumble was the best, especially her apple and blueberry; it was all soft and sweet and gooey.
I was just telling her about my purple ribbon, how I was going to stop sleeping with it under my pillow – how babyish it was to have a comforter now I was in Year Eight – how Mum kept nagging me to get rid of it. I was talking away non-stop, listing all the reasons I didn’t need it any more, but I had a funny feeling Nan wasn’t listening properly.
“Did you hear me, Nan?” I shook her arm to get her attention. “I’ve set myself a target. I’m definitely going to stop sleeping with my ribbon by the end of Year Eight. I could probably give it up right now if I really wanted to, it’s just…”
I stopped for a second and glanced up at her. Something was wrong. She was breathing funny, leaning against me, but not in a cosy, cuddly way, more like she needed me to hold her up.
“Nan?” I tried to keep her steady, to stop her slipping, but she was too heavy. “Nan, what’s the matter?”
She shuddered slightly and then let out a long, strangled groan, a horrible sound that I’d never heard before, slumping down onto the pavement.
“Nan! Nan! What’s wrong?” I dropped to my knees next to her. “What’s wrong? Get up, Nan! Please, get up, you’re scaring me! I don’t know what to do!”
She was gasping for breath, trying to say something, but her words were thick and slurred, impossible to understand.
I looked around, my heart thumping wildly. I needed an ambulance. I had to call for an ambulance. I pulled my phone out of my pocket, but I couldn’t make my fingers work properly, they wouldn’t press the right numbers, they were too big and clumsy and the screen was blurred.
“Help!” I cried, but it came out as a whisper. “Please. My nan’s ill! Please, someone, help me.”
A man ran across from the other side of the road. “Something’s wrong with my nan,” I tried to say, but nothing came out. “We were going to the shops. We were going to make a crumble. I was just telling her…I was just…” My mouth was moving but I couldn’t hear anything, it was like someone had switched the sound off.
The man seemed to know what to do. He put his coat over Nan to keep her warm and called for an ambulance. He held her hand and talked to her, telling her over and over that everything was going to be okay. He asked me my name and if I knew my mum’s phone number. I think I told him, or tried to at least, but I can’t remember. I can’t remember anything very clearly after that, except for Nan’s twisted-up face, and the horrible choking noises she was making, and how desperately I needed my purple ribbon.
Nan had been dead for exactly six months on the day Sharon called. I had no idea there was any connection at the time, between Nan and Sharon – I only found that out much later.
It was a Monday afternoon in June, the first day back after half-term, and I was home alone, sitting at the kitchen table doing my homework. I didn’t bother answering the phone at first – I was in the middle of a tricky comprehension and I knew it wouldn’t be for me – but a moment later it rang again, and then again.
My heart began to beat a bit too fast. Why would someone call so many times? Why didn’t they just leave a message on the machine? I started to imagine the worst: the police calling to say Mum or Dad had been in an accident, or after-school club calling to say Charlie was hurt. I told myself not to be stupid, but when it rang again I snatched it up, my hand damp with sweat.
“Hello?”
“Can I speak to Oliver Wilkins, please?”
It was a woman asking for Dad, but I didn’t recognize her voice.
“He’s not in at the moment,” I said, wishing I’d left it to ring. “Can I take a message?”
There was a long silence.
“Hello? Can I take a message?”
“Sorry, yes, I’m still here,” said the woman. “Could you write down this number and ask him to call me as soon as he gets in?”
I reached for the notepad where we write phone messages and she read out a mobile number, and then repeated it really slowly.
“Who shall I say it is?” I asked when she’d finished.
I could hear her breathing but she didn’t say anything.
“Hello? Who is it?”
“Sorry,” she said, her voice catching slightly. “It’s Sharon. Just tell him it’s Sharon.”
There were a few more ragged breaths then a click and then nothing.
She’d rung off without saying goodbye.
I couldn’t concentrate on my comprehension after that. I spent ages doodling my name across the top of the page in bubble writing and then shaded in the letters using different colours. I’ve been finding it harder and harder to concentrate lately. I have these stupid thoughts that go round and round my head like a toy car on a track.
Sometimes I can make them go away – if I’m watching something good on telly or sketching in my art book – but it doesn’t take long for them to creep back in, especially when I’m at school. It usually starts with a question, like, why did my nan have to die? And then that leads to another question, and then another, until whole chunks of the lesson have disappeared while I try to work out the answers.
I glanced up at the kitchen clock, willing the hands to move faster, wishing Mum and Charlie would hurry up. Nan used to pick Charlie up from school when Mum was working. She’d bring him back here and make our tea while I sat at the table, doing my homework, nattering on about my day.
The house was too quiet now. It felt too empty. Charlie goes to the after-school care club and I have a key to let myself in. I’m usually only home alone for an hour, max, but it seems to stretch on and on. The first thing I do is turn on the radio, and sometimes the TV as well, to help drown out the silence.
I’d just about finished shading the last letter of my name using my favourite colour, dark purple, when I heard Charlie bursting through the front door like a mini-torpedo.
“We’re home, Maddie!” he yelled from the hall. “And you’ll never believe what’s happened!”
He came crashing into the kitchen, knees bent in one way, feet sticking out the other, fists clenched by his sides. “I still didn’t get picked for the football team. It’s so unfair. Mr Maddox handed out the letters at the end of the day and Rory and Leo got picked but I’m not even a sub!”
Charlie was born nearly three months early – imagine a bag of sugar and that’s how tiny he was. The doctors didn’t even think he’d survive the first night. He’s nine now, and more or less fine, except he’s still pretty small for his age and his legs are sort of twisted in the middle and very skinny.
“Hey, what does Mr Maddox know?” I started to say – I hated seeing him upset – but he was already off, racing into the garden to kick a ball against the wall. Mum staggered in behind him carrying a load of shopping bags.
“Turn the radio down, Mads, for goodness’ sake, we could hear it halfway down the road. I honestly don’t know why you have to have it on so loud.”
A few minutes later every surface in the kitchen was covered in packets and boxes and bags. I got up to help, pleased for an excuse to stop doing my homework – or pretending to do it anyway.
“Listen to this,” said Mum, waving a bag of pears at me. “According to a report I was reading at lunchtime, pears are the new superfood. They’ve actually got more fibre in them than a whole box of bran flakes.”
She tipped the pears into a bowl, grabbing one and holding it up to the light as if she might actually see the fibre. She comes up with a different “superfood” every few weeks. It was blueberries last time and fresh ginger the time before that. It’s all part of her mission to Help Charlie Grow. He’s got his annual check-up in a few weeks and she’ll be gutted if he hasn’t shot up at least a few centimetres – not that she’d ever let on to Charlie.
When we’d finished unpacking and everything was in its proper place, she made herself a cup of tea and sat down at the table.
“I do feel sorry for Charlie,” she said, glancing out of the window. “I wish they’d give him a go in the football team, even for one game. I know he’s not as strong as the others but it would give him such a boost. How about you, Mads? How was school?”
“Okay,” I said.
“Did you get your mid-term assessments back?”
I shook my head, my face growing hot. “I think we’re getting them tomorrow…Mrs Palmer had all this other stuff to hand out and she ran out of time.”
We always do loads of tests at the end of each half-term and then find out the results first day back. I hated lying to Mum but there was no way I was telling her what I actually got. All my grades were down except for art, and my effort marks were rubbish. I was supposed to be seeing Mrs Palmer tomorrow to have a little chat about my progress, but there was no way I was telling Mum about that either.
I picked up my pen, trying to dodge her gaze. I had no idea if she believed me or not – she was probably too worried about Charlie and the football team to notice anyway.
“I’ve got to finish my homework,” I said. “It’s taking ages. Oh and someone called for Dad.” I pushed the notepad across the table.
Mum glanced down at it, frowning. “Sharon?”
I nodded, watching her face. “Do you know her?”
She picked the notepad up still staring at the number. “No I don’t think so. What did she say?”
“Nothing really. She just left this number and asked if Dad would call her.”
We’d finished eating dinner and cleared away by the time Dad came home from work. He’s an electrician so he often finishes late. As soon as I heard his key in the door I started to relax. No reason really, just the fact that everyone was home. It’s been like that ever since Nan died – a niggling worry that Mum or Dad or Charlie might be snatched away from me at any moment.
Charlie rushed out to greet Dad, launching into the whole football saga before he’d even said hello. We used to fight to tell him our news when he got in from work, tripping over each other to get to the front door, but not any more. I could easily get there first if I wanted, I’m much faster than him – it’s getting the actual words out that I find so difficult.
I hovered by the door, listening to Charlie babbling away. People always used to say we were identical, me and Charlie – two little chatterboxes with the same shiny dark hair, pale skin and turquoise-blue eyes. We still look the same, obviously, but there’s only one chatterbox in the house these days.
Dad scooped Charlie up for a hug and carried him back in to the kitchen, laughing. “What a welcome!” he said. “You nearly knocked me clean off my feet! And how are my two favourite girls?” He plonked Charlie down and opened the fridge to pull out a beer. “I can’t get over this weather! It’s only the first week of June and it’s already nudging twenty-seven degrees.”
“I’ve left some pasta for you on the stove, if you’re hungry,” said Mum. “And someone called Sharon rang – she wants you to call her back.”
“Sharon?” He paused to take a swig of his drink. “I don’t know anyone called Sharon. It was probably one of those cold-callers trying to sell me something.”
I was pretty sure it wasn’t someone trying to sell him something. The woman sounded really upset. I opened my mouth to tell him so and then shut it again. If it was that important she could always call back.
Dad heaped the rest of the pasta into a bowl and collapsed on the couch to watch the football with Charlie. It was England against Holland and England were losing 3–0. I sat down next to him, tucking my legs up and snuggling in. “Can you believe this, Maddie?” he said, pointing at the screen, but I wasn’t really interested in the game – I just wanted a cuddle.
A few days after Nan died I looked up strokes online to see if they run in families. I found out that if you have a parent who had a stroke before the age of sixty-five you’re four times more likely to have a stroke yourself. I didn’t understand the statistics or how they worked it all out, but since Nan was Dad’s mum and she was only sixty-three when she died, it sounded as if Dad could drop dead at any moment.
Charlie was still going on about the school team when Mum took him up to bed at half-time. He said he was determined to get picked before the end of the year – to prove he was as good as Rory and Leo if it was the last thing he did.
“That’s the spirit,” said Dad. “The England team could do with some of your skills right now judging by this pathetic performance!”
When Mum came back down she made herself another cup of tea and started the ironing, pulling one of her work shirts out of a mountain of wrinkly clothes.
“Hey, Sophie,” said Dad, dragging his eyes away from the screen. “Did you hear the one about the woman who went to visit her elderly dad in the old-age home? She walked into his room and said, ‘For goodness’ sake, isn’t there anyone here who could iron your clothes?’ And the old man looked at his daughter and said, ‘What are you talking about? I’m not wearing any clothes!’”
Dad started to laugh and I couldn’t help laughing with him. “Do you get it?” he said to Mum. “The man wasn’t actually wearing any clothes. It was his skin! His skin was so wrinkled she thought it needed an iron. Who needs ironed clothes anyway?” he added, still laughing. “Life’s too short if you ask me.”
“Actually no one did ask you,” said Mum, rolling her eyes, but I could tell she was trying not to laugh too. And for a tiny moment, with Mum ironing her shirt and Dad cracking jokes and messing about, I could almost pretend that everything was just the way it used to be.
I had the dream again that night. The one where Nan and I are walking along the road together and I’m talking to her, but my words are all strung together like one long sentence – hundreds and hundreds of words pouring out of my mouth like an avalanche. And when I turn to see if she’s listening I realize she’s lying on the pavement, completely still, as if she’s made of stone. “Wake up, Nan!” I shout. “Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!” But it’s at that point that I wake up myself, my heart racing, my face wet with tears.
I’ve been having the same dream on and off ever since Nan died. The details change a bit each time, but it always ends the same way. I hate the dream. I don’t want to remember Nan like that – cold and frozen and still. My nan was soft and warm, like apple and blueberry crumble, full of stories and jokes and the cleverest wise words.
It took me ages to fall back to sleep, for the images to fade completely from my head. I reached under my pillow for my purple ribbon, curling it round my fingers, rubbing it against my face. The knots in my stomach unravelled slowly and I snuggled down under my covers.
Nan used to say I shouldn’t be embarrassed about sleeping with my ribbon – she said it was just like a teddy, or a comfort blanket – but who needs a comfort blanket when they’re nearly thirteen years old?
It was a struggle to get out of bed the next morning. I wondered if I could pretend to be ill to get out of my meeting with Mrs Palmer, except I knew Mum would never go for it, not unless I actually threw up or had a raging temperature. Charlie only has to cough for Mum to keep him at home but it’s a whole different story with me.
I dragged myself up and out of the house on automatic pilot. It usually takes me about twenty minutes to walk to school, but much longer when I go extra slow on purpose. I slowed down even more when I got to the corner of Banner Road, just in case the new boy Kieran Black was there. He’s been on my case ever since he joined Church Vale in January, winding me up, calling me stupid names like “Maddie Mouse”.
I kept my head down as I came up Banner Road, relieved there was no sign of him – praying he’d get sick of picking on me if I managed to stay out of his way. Gemma was waiting for me just outside the main gates looking as neat and tidy as usual, her thick brown hair tied into two perfect plaits.
“Hurry up, Maddie!” she called out, running to meet me. “Did you finish your comprehension? It took me hours and hours to do mine and it was soooo boring. I nearly gave up to be honest, but seriously, you know what Miss Owen’s like…”
She chatted non-stop all the way into school, flicking her plaits over her shoulders as we made our way down the corridor towards our lockers. Gemma and I have been best friends for ever. We were paired up in our very first lesson at Church Vale and we’ve been pretty much inseparable ever since – the sort of friends who share everything.
If I had to describe Gemma in three words I’d say she’s clever, clever and clever! She’s easily the cleverest girl in Year Eight. Some of the others think she’s a swot, especially in maths and science – always getting the best grades, always the first to hand in her homework – but they’re just jealous. It’s not as if she ever shows off about it.
She was brilliant when I first told her about Nan; she actually cried on the phone when I explained what had happened. I was off school for ages – two weeks before Christmas plus an extra two weeks for the holidays – but she rang me nearly every day to see how I was feeling and to fill me in on all the gossip. She said she couldn’t wait for me to come back, but that I was lucky I’d missed my end-of-term assessments, especially one of Madame Dupont’s killer French tests.
It really helped to talk to her, and even to laugh about the test, but for some weird reason, once I was back at school, neither of us mentioned Nan again, almost as if it never happened. We went straight back to talking about rotational symmetry and history projects and how much we both hate Kieran Black – and I have no idea how to tell her that I don’t really care about any of that stuff any more, that I’m not even listening half the time.
I might seem okay on the outside, but on the inside I’m still struggling to understand how everything can change from one split second to the next.
There were the usual announcements at registration: one of the boys’ toilets was blocked up; the guitar teacher was ill so there wouldn’t be any lessons. I wasn’t paying much attention to be honest, but then, just before the bell, Mrs Palmer called my name and asked me to stay behind for a few moments.
“It’s nothing to worry about, Maddie,” she said, as the others filed out. “I just wanted to remind you that we’re meeting today at lunchtime…”
She paused for a moment as if she expected me to say something. Anything. I practised the words in my head – Okay, Mrs Palmer. Don’t worry, I won’t be late. It should’ve been so easy, but thinking the words wasn’t the same as actually saying them. I opened my mouth and closed it again, my face growing hot. It’s been like this ever since Nan died. A panicky feeling whenever people are waiting for me to speak, like the words are stuck in my throat and something bad might happen if I dare to let them out.
“In my office at twelve then,” she said eventually, a sorry look in her eyes. “It won’t take long.”
I hate it when she looks at me like that, like I’m a massive let down. She used to say I was one of her best students, an asset to the class. At the end of my first half-term in Year Eight she described me as a happy, chatty, likeable girl who always tries her best. I stared over her shoulder wishing I could turn the clock back, wishing I could make her proud of me again…
There was a sign on the wall with one of those motivational quotes.
Talking about your goals is the first step towards achieving them.
I was talking about my “goals” when Nan collapsed. Going on and on about my ribbon and how I was going to give it up. I remember how happy I felt as we walked into town that day, chatting away without a care in the world, looking forward to Christmas, and then – BAM!
“Maddie? Maddie! I said it won’t take very long…Maddie? Are you okay?”
I dragged my eyes away from the sign and back to Mrs Palmer’s face, forcing myself to focus on what she was saying; nodding to show her I was fine, that I was listening.
“I’ll see you at lunchtime,” she said slowly. “Off you go or you’ll be late for class.”
Gemma had saved me a place. She leaned over to ask me what was going on but Miss Owen shot her a warning look and held a finger up to her lips. No one messes about in Miss Owen’s lessons, apart from Kieran Black; they wouldn’t dare. She’s the sort of teacher who gives out detentions for breathing.
We’ve been doing autobiographical accounts this term – researching famous autobiographies like Nelson Mandela’s A Long Walk to Freedom. It was a really good topic to start off with, especially the Nelson Mandela bit, but now we’re supposed to be writing our own autobiographies – or, as Miss Owen put it, a lively and interesting account of our lives so far including important events and significant milestones.
I’d written loads about Charlie being born. How he had to spend the first three months of his life in the special baby unit. How many times he stopped breathing. How he was too small to fit into any of the normal-sized baby clothes or normal-sized nappies. How Mum had to use a special machine to breastfeed him. How she and Dad were up at the hospital so much Nan had to move in to look after me.
It was Nan who settled me in to Banner Road Nursery, the second significant milestone in my life. Charlie was home by then but he still needed lots of extra care. Nan said I screamed the place down on the first day, clinging onto her like a limpet – and that I carried on like that for weeks and weeks. She said the first time I ran into the classroom without a backwards glance she stood in the middle of the playground with the other mums and cheered.
I started to doodle the word LIMPET across the top of the page. I tried to make the letters cling onto each other like a real limpet clings onto a rock, adding little shells and starfish as I went along, shading the starfish using this special technique we’ve been learning in art to make them look more three-dimensional and lifelike.
I’d almost got all the way across the page when Gemma nudged me. I glanced up and realized Miss Owen was standing right in front of me with her arms folded, tapping her foot.
“Maddie Wilkins, are you with us, or do I have to send out a search party?” she said, not even trying to hide her sarcasm.
A few of the others began to laugh. She’d probably said my name at least four times by then. “I said I’d like you to read out the beginning of your autobiography, please.”
I scraped my chair back and stood up, wiping my palms on my skirt, staring down at my book. My opening paragraph seemed very personal suddenly. I didn’t want to tell everyone about Charlie being premature and there was no way I was going to say the word “breastfeed” in front of the entire class.
“Come on then, Maddie,” said Miss Owen. “We don’t need to hear the whole thing, just the first couple of sentences will do. Beginnings are so important.”
I knew I was going to cry. I could feel the tears building up. Reading my work out in front of the others has become a total nightmare. I swallowed hard, trying to clear the lump in my throat, blinking very fast to stop the tears coming, but just at that moment Kieran Black yelled “DRUM ROLL!” and started to bang his hands on the table.
I closed my eyes waiting for him to stop but the banging got louder and louder. It got so loud I had to put my hands over my ears. Miss Owen swung round to face him. “Pack it in, Kieran!” she yelled over the noise but he just laughed at her and carried on banging as if he was playing the drums in a band.
He doesn’t care what Miss Owen or any of the other teachers think of him – the only thing he cares about is winding me up, like he’s made it his life’s mission or something. I have no idea why, it’s not as if I’ve ever done anything to him – maybe he’s just desperate to get a reaction from Maddie Mouse, the quietest girl in Year Eight.
Miss Owen had to send him to the head, Mr Rawlins, in the end. She barked at us to carry on with our writing and followed him out to make sure he didn’t disappear. As soon as she left the room I sank back down, relieved it was over, burying my face in my book.
“He’s such a loser,” said Gemma, trying to make me feel better. “I’d like to hear the beginning of his autobiography – his parents probably took one look at him and ran away screaming!”
I’d only ever been in Mrs Palmer’s office once, back in September, when she met with us one at a time to talk about settling into Year Eight. It was just over eight months ago but it felt more like eight years. It was very neat and tidy, with alphabetical files on the shelves and framed photos of her family on the walls.
“Sit yourself down, Maddie,” she said, pointing to the chair facing her desk. “It’s much cooler in here, thank goodness. Can you feel the breeze?”
I nodded, and sat down quickly, tucking my skirt under my legs. Mrs Palmer sat opposite me, and opened a brand-new green folder with Maddie Wilkins written across the front. I stared at it nervously; it looked so official.
“I wanted to have a little chat about how things are going,” she started. “I’ve seen your mid-term assessments, obviously, but it’s not just your grades I’m concerned about. I’ve heard from other members of staff that you’re finding it very difficult to speak in class, that you never put your hand up any more or join in with discussions…”
She was giving me the sorry look again. I stared down at the folder, wondering what was in it.
“You’ve always been one our best students,” she went on. “Hard-working, confident, chatty. But if I’m honest, you seem to be struggling at the moment.”
I wanted to say I was sorry, that I couldn’t help it, but my mouth was too dry.
“I was just wondering if there was anything in particular bothering you, at home or at school? I know that you lost your nan recently, Maddie, and I do understand how hard it can be to concentrate on your work if you’re feeling upset. How much it can get in the way…”
I raised my eyes to look at her again. Mum had phoned in to tell her about Nan when it happened back in December, when I was off school. But how was I supposed to explain that I was worried all the time – that I had a constant knot of anxiety in my tummy like I’d swallowed too many sour sweets in one go and they’d got all clogged up inside me.
“Now I can’t force you to talk to me,” said Mrs Palmer gently. “But we’d love to see the old Maddie back, the old happy Maddie…”
She paused for a moment, nodding and smiling, as if I could somehow pull the old Maddie out of a hat, right there and then in her office – as if it was as simple as that.
“So the thing is, Maddie,” she went on when I didn’t say anything, “I’ve decided to put together a small Year Eight nurture group.”
A nurture group? What on earth was a nurture group?
“I’ll be calling your mum and dad later today, to talk to them about your progress in general and about the group, and to get their permission for you to attend, but a lady called Vivian is going to come to the school twice a week for the next six weeks, until we break up for the summer holidays. She’s a trained counsellor and she’ll be meeting with you and one or two others from Year Eight. It will be very relaxed and informal, so there’s really nothing for you to worry about.”
A counsellor? Did I really need to see a counsellor? And why did Mrs Palmer have to talk to Mum and Dad? They didn’t even know about my assessments yet – they’d be upset enough about that. I could just imagine what Mum would say, how disappointed she would be.
“I know it might sound scary, the thought of talking to a stranger, but in my experience it’s never a good idea to bottle things up.” She opened the folder and started to write something down. “This will be the first time we’ve run a nurture group at Church Vale,” she said, scribbling away, “but I’ve got a feeling it might be just what you need.”
I sat very still, my whole body burning up, trying to work out what she was really saying. A nurture group. What did it actually mean? Who else would be in it? Would everyone know? Vivian’s special group. We’d be like the freaks of the class.
“Do I have to do it?” I whispered, forcing the words out, my heart hammering against my chest.
She paused for a moment, glancing up. “I would like you to give it a go, but please don’t think of it as a punishment, and it’s certainly nothing to be ashamed of. We all need a little bit of help sometimes, Maddie.”
I stared down at my lap, willing my heart to slow down. Mrs Palmer was right, I did need help. But no one could undo the past or change what had happened, however well trained they were.
“The first meeting will be next Monday at nine. It means you’ll miss registration, but we’ll let you know if there are any important announcements. The meetings will take place in the Blue Room just along the corridor from the art supplies cupboard. Do you know where I mean?”
Of course I knew – everyone knew. The Blue Room was where all the “special needs” sessions were held.
I went to look for Gemma and found her having lunch in the canteen.
“What did Mrs Palmer want?” she asked, shifting up to make room for me. “You’re not in trouble are you?”
I shook my head, glancing round the canteen. I really wanted to tell her, but it was so embarrassing, like admitting out loud that there was something seriously wrong with me. Most of the Year Eights were sitting in big noisy groups, all trying to speak over each other. It was difficult to imagine they had a single worry between them.
I closed my eyes for a moment, wishing I had my purple ribbon with me. I’d do anything to be as happy and carefree as they seemed to be, to feel normal again, even for five minutes, but there was no way I could go to a nurture group.
How was I supposed to open up to a complete stranger when I couldn’t even talk to my best friend?
Gemma wanted to hang out after school. A few of the others were going to the park to get ice creams from the cafe and she was desperate for us to tag along. She pressed her hands together under her chin, practically pleading with me to go, but I couldn’t face it – pretending to have fun while Mrs Palmer was probably calling Mum right that minute to tell her about the nurture group and my grades and how badly I was doing.
“Come on, Maddie,” she said when I shook my head. “We don’t have to stay for long. Just for a bit, please.”
“I’m sorry, Gem, I can’t. I’ve got way too much homework, stuff I didn’t do over half-term. I haven’t even started my history project…”
“Why don’t I come back to yours then? I’ve nearly finished mine but I really don’t mind helping you…”
I shook my head again, searching for another excuse, but she turned to go before I could think of anything. Why was she so desperate to hang out at the park anyway? We used to spend all of our free time together, on our own.
“Suit yourself,” she said, her voice flat. “I’m going anyway. I’ll see you later.”
She walked off in the direction of the park without looking back. I felt terrible. I should’ve just told her about the meeting with Mrs Palmer and the nurture group; it’s not as if she’d laugh at me or anything. But then she’d want to know why I had to join and who else was in it and a million other details and I’d already decided I wasn’t going, even if I had to beg Mum to write me a note or tell Mrs Palmer when she called.
I trailed home down Banner Road and through the cemetery, stopping to sit on my favourite bench. It’s one of those really ancient cemeteries filled with old, faded gravestones and a huge weeping willow. It’s nearly always empty during the week apart from maybe one or two people visiting a grave, or cutting through from Morley Avenue to Banner Road.
Mum was worried at first when she realized the route I took to and from school was straight through the cemetery. She thought it might upset me, walking past Nan’s grave every day, but it’s just the opposite. I like going there. I don’t talk to her or anything; I just find it comforting to know she’s still close by.
I remember asking Nan once if she believed in heaven. We were at the funfair on a ride that went so high you could almost touch the sky.
“Do you believe it’s like a real place,” I said, “with angels and harps and pearly gates?”
Nan opened her mouth to answer but just at that moment the ride plunged back down to earth and we clung hold of each other, eyes shut tight, screaming our heads off.
“I’ll tell you what, Mads,” she said later as we sat on the grass eating warm, sugary doughnuts, our hands sticky with jam. “I don’t know about pearly gates and angels, but jammy doughnuts on a summer’s day with my favourite granddaughter – that’s my idea of heaven.”
I’m not sure how long I’d been sitting on the bench when I noticed a woman coming through the old, rusty gate. She was about Mum’s age, wearing jeans and trainers with a blue silk scarf wrapped tight around her head, covering her hair. I pulled my legs up under my chin and watched as she began to pick her way through the graves, stopping to read each one in turn.
Some people like to walk around the cemetery out of curiosity, to read the words that have been etched into the ancient stone for hundreds of years, but as the woman got closer I realized that she must be searching for a particular grave. She was clutching a small bunch of flowers in one hand and a wad of tissues in the other.
I decided to try and draw her in my sketchbook. I love, love, love drawing. I’d happily do it all day long if I had the choice. Drawing, sketching, doodling – anything really as long as it involves a piece of paper and a pencil. I reached into my bag for my book –’