Chapter 1

He came to our house that night, not so long ago, with a smile of crooked teeth and a dimple on either side and handed me mistrust. He came with the smell of rain and night clinging over his skin and taught me the art of deception.

                He came with his dead eyes that sparkled with indecent pleasure and taught me what it was to know of horror.

 

Chapter 1

10 months and four days.

My introduction to my thirty first home had been a sign in bright pastel blue letters saying ‘Welcome to Sunny Haven’. As I watched the sign disappear in the passenger side mirror, I couldn’t help but think that a town that claimed to be both ‘Sunny’ and a ‘Haven’ was trying far too hard to sell their merchandise.

Returning my gaze to the road, my eyes blurred over a series of similar looking houses, with similar white picket fences and similar looking four wheeled drives. I suppose that this is what suburban life looked like.

A man on a ride-on lawn mower (excessive, considering the small patch of grass he was mowing) tilted his head to follow us as we drove past. The way his gaze followed the car as it went past gave the feeling that beneath those sunglasses was a distinct look of disapproval. For the first time I became consciously aware of the numerous scratches and dents in Henderson’s tiny old Ford.

Glancing quickly at Henderson from the corner of my eye, a feeling of unease began to settle in the pit of my stomach. There were many things I liked about Henderson; like the way he squinted through his thick glasses at each road sign he passed, despite having been to a place several times before. Or the way he always turned the radio on to blanket the heavy silence in old jazz. I even liked how his car was always consistently messy and smelled faintly of dogs. True, all of these things were present now, but there were some subtle differences too - and it was these differences that had me on edge.

There was the distinct smell of cigarettes – though I had never seen him so much as spark a lighter before. His tie was put on crookedly too, and his usually immaculate trousers had dog hair scattered on it and were creased in odd place. Then (and perhaps the most alarming of all the differences) there were those dark circles under his rather absent eyes.  

I’ve been told that to be a social worker is a hard job, with a high burn out rate. One of my old social workers (maybe number four), a middle aged harassed looking woman, had said ‘no matter how hard you try, you can never truly feel that you are doing this job well’. Too heavy caseloads, not enough funding, not enough homes. Maybe the job was catching up on consistent and reliable Henderson. but I didn’t ask if that was case. That was not how this dynamic worked.

“You said that they were religious?” the question (for that was what it was ultimately) came out begrudgingly. Our relationship had always been one where he initiated conversations, and I gave the bare minimum in response. There was a moment of silence in which I felt him shift slightly in his seat; an almost uncomfortable gesture. This told me everything I really needed to know about what the answer was going to be.

“I did.”

Tension and worry oozed thickly through his voice, but somehow I felt that wasn’t so much directed to me. I turned to look at him. His eyes remained glued to the road, but I saw that tell-tale muscle twitch in his jaw.

“Are they old testament religious, or new-age fog machine religious?”

Twitch. That muscle had been twitching a lot on this trip.

To be fair, I was coming into this with a sense of dread which was largely based on past experience. In my lifetime I have been placed in twenty-two different homes. I had seen all the different types of homes, motives and styles. The large majority had been...disappointing.

There are many, of course, who genuinely want to do the best they can for you and I have had a few of these, but they had all been relatively short lived because they were either temporary placements until a more permanent one could be arranged, or my behaviour had forced them to reconsider having me in their home. When I first entered the system I wasn’t exactly the MVP of foster children. I suppose that once you get the reputation of being difficult, people are less inclined to agree to have you in their home on a permanent basis. Peoples circumstance change - they can no longer put in the time or energy for a kid in the system with the amount of troubles that no doubt my file claims me to have.

But that was then and this was now. 

Henderson suddenly turned the car off the main road and I had to quickly grab on to the violin case protectively before it slipped off my knees. I guess he found the street he was looking for, though it looked remarkably similar to all of the other houses I had seen on my drive in, with their immaculate gardens and perfectly mowed lawns.

Dread and anxiety began to snake its way in alarmingly quickly up from my stomach and into my chest. I closed my eyes against it and took a deep breath. Concentrating on the flickering pinks and blue that creped its way under my eyelids as I ran my fingers over the soft material of the violin case. Slowly but surely the raging dread retreated back down.

You would think that I would get use to the apprehension and nerves that are involved in coming into a new home. Of course when I say ‘home’, what I really mean is simply the “roof over my head and the place in which I eat – if you’re lucky”. To me the word home implies comfort, and reliability and a sense of belonging somewhere. It has been a long time since I felt that.

I felt the vehicle begin to slow, and I opened my eyes and inhaled deeply. As Henderson pulled the car into a driveway, I couldn’t help but note a few distinct facts. Like that there are no oil stains present on the driveway, or how the lawn was edged so perfectly that not a single blade of grass seemed to cross over onto the pristine white concrete of the driveway.

Looking closer, I saw that there was one not-so-subtle difference to this house compared to the others I had glimpsed on the way in – and that was the roses. Though I know nothing of gardens and what makes one better than the other, the vibrant, reds, yellows, whites and pink stood out and seemed to shine in the sunlight. There didn’t seem to be a single rose whose petals were wilting.

Henderson turned the key in the ignition and the rackety engine died, enfolding us in a tense silence. For a long time neither of us made a move to get out of the car. It felt like once I moved, this twilight period where things are still unknown about this new family would be broken. Once I got out of this car I would have to face the awkward transition into this household. There’s an easy bliss in remaining ignorant and I was more than happy to extend that period for as long as I could manage.

This idea was taken from me when the front door opened and a middle aged woman came out to greet us.  

This woman was wearing an apron which looked well used. Though whatever it was she cooked whilst wearing it, it sure didn’t look as though she ate a lot of it herself. It was hard to tell under the heavy looking clothing whether she was the healthy or the unhealthy kind of thin. Though there are certainly dark bags under her eyes and her face had an odd pinched quality to it…but perhaps that’s just how your face looks when you have your hair pulled back into such a tight bun.

When she gave us a smile, wiping her hands on her apron, it seemed like it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

A man followed her out, and it was he that my attention was directed to immediately. There are people in life that demand your attention when they enter your room, some unnameable quality about them makes them stand out more than others. This was something that Mr Abbott possessed. It wasn’t charisma…but there was definitely something. He was older, probably mid to late fifties, and his hair had turned predominantly grey with only a few strands of black remaining. It was immaculately cut and parted perfectly straight though and seemed to be slicked back with some kind of oil.  His eyes were small for his face, or perhaps they just appear that way because of his huge caterpillar eyebrows which had retained most of its original dark colour compared to the hair on his head. He was a far cry from the Amish type appearance I had imagined.

Mr Abbott did not offer a smile, not even a half-baked one like his wife’s.

I looked at Henderson and he gave a weary smile.

“Shall we get this over with then?” he said as he opened his door.

I paused for a just a second, rubbing my thumb along the violin case one more time for luck. Smooth and cool. With a growing amount of tension, I placed a smile on my face and climbed out of the car.

The twilight period had broken.

“Hello.” Mrs Abbott said quietly. She held out her hand for me to shake, I intentionally focused my eyes on the roses so as not see the scar running along my palm as I reached out to shake it. Her grip was frail and her hand felt like twigs. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too.”

“Can I take that for you?” she reached out to take the violin case but I snatched it back before I could consider what I was doing.

“No!”

It came out sharper then I had intended, and I felt my face flush in embarrassment.

“I mean, no thank you,” I said, backtracking quickly, “I’ve got it...thank you.”

If she was taken aback by my less then hospitable reaction, her face did not portray it. That forced smile of here didn’t even quiver.

“Please,” Mr Abbott said in a deep, almost gravel like tone, “come inside. My wife has made scones for lunch.”

With that he turned and went back inside the house. Mrs Abbott mutely followed him inside.

I heard the car boot shut and Henderson appeared from around the back of the car with my two backpacks which contained all of my measly possessions.

I waited for him to lead the way before entering the house.

The first thing that I saw upon entering the house was a framed cross stitch pattern with a bible quote in calligraphy writing sitting directly opposite to the front door so that it would be impossible not to read it.

“For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. John, 3:16”

I suppressed a sigh and then looked at the rest of what I realized was the living room. I knew they were religious, and I had expected some religious artifacts, but I was surprised by the sheer amount of it. Above the couch was a huge cross was a Jesus hanging off looking mournful with his crown of thorns. There was a framed picture of what I assumed was Jesus, with his halo and light appearing from behind him. There were other verses of the bible above the fireplace.

There was no television. No photos. No little decorative ornaments.

“Your bedroom is up the stairs and to the left,” Mr Abbott told me, “you can go unpack…if you like.”

The ‘if you like’ was tacked onto the end of the sentence, but it was merely a formality – because it was evident by Mr Abbott’s tone that I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.

“Lunch will be in ten minutes,” he added. I felt instinctively that it would be best not to be late.

“Ok. Thank you.”

I went up the stairs, the steps squeaking as I put pressure on them. At the landing I noticed three other doors, all closed. I turned to look at my door, and wasn’t entirely surprised to see that a cross stitched quote was hanging in a frame on the door too.

“Whoever believes in the Son has entrenal life; whoever does not obey the Son shall not see life, but the wrath of God remains on him. John 3:36”

I turned to see Henderson climbing the stairs, my backpack on his shoulder.

“These people are a bundle of laughs aren’t they?” I said to him, gesturing with my eyes to the quote.

“Shhh,” he looked behind him awkwardly to see if the Abbott’s were in hearing shot, “…there are worse things than being serious.”

I sighed. He was using the ‘there are worse things’ line a lot. I opened the door and wasn’t overly surprised by what I saw: A bare room only big enough to contain a wardrobe- not a built in kind, but one of those old fashioned standalone ones. I had the brief thought of how it looked how I imagined the one to Narnia would look like when I was younger.

…just one more chapter…

I shook the thought away and turned my attention to the rest of the room. A single bed with a metal frame, a small old fashioned wooden desk and an equally old looking wooden seat.  The walls were a very awful floral wallpaper that looked faded in patches - especially where the sun hit the wall through the single tiny window.

 The pride and glory of the room hung above the bed, right over where my head would be resting when I sleep. It was a giant wooden cross with a desolate Jesus hanging off it. There was even red paint leaking from his hand and feet. Basically the replica of the one in the living room, except it somehow seemed more…grotesque.

 I put the violin case down on the bed and Henderson placed the backpack down next to it, scratching at his chin absently as he observed the cross.

 “At least you don’t have to share a room,” he offered.

I didn’t reply, but he was right. That was a major bonus. There was silence for a few moments, broken by the sound of cutlery being placed out downstairs.

“Anna.” Something in his tone made me turn to look at him. The lines on his face looked deeper than usual, the shadows under his eyes darker. Again I was struck by how shabby he looked compared to how I remembered him. “Please…give this a good go.”

I decided to throw him a bone and smiled.

“I will. You wait, when you next see me I’ll be a model Christian teen…without the teen pregnancy, obviously.”

He gave a half-hearted grin, thinking the conversation over I made a move to go back down the stairs but Henderson held out his hand for me to wait,

“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said, twisting his wedding ring round and round his finger, he averted his eyes towards his feet and I had the overwhelming urge to put my fingers in my ears like a child, “as it turns out, Madeline isn’t doing very well and it’s…possible that if things…” his voice broke and he cleared his throat nervously, “progress…then I might need to take time off. In which case, you will be passed on to someone else. I just wanted to let you know, in case...”

He let the sentence hang in the air, the unsaid words flashing between us like neon lights.

"I'm sorry to hear that your wife isn’t feeling well.”

My words sounded very mechanical – and they felt mechanical too. Though I meant them, though I cared…in my own way, I felt as if I was saying these words off a script. Memorized and rehearsed without any real sentiment. Though internally I began to panic as to what this could mean for me.

Selfish, selfish, selfish.

 He nodded and looked down towards his feet, I saw his shoulders shake in what looked like a sob and my stomach turned nervously. But when he looked back up his face was composed, albeit his eyes looked a little watery.

“Breast cancer,” he said after a deep breath to recompose himself, “chemo is dragging her through the ringer.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah…well…these things happen, right?” his voice hitched and he cleared his throat again, “Come on, let’s go have some scones.”

It’s funny, but I had never really given much thought to Henderson’s personal life. I guess it hadn’t concerned me. But now seeing this small little man and the way his face crumbled, I felt like I could physically feel the worry and tension ooze off him in waves. It made me sad to think of it, it also made me impatient to see him leave so that I no longer had too.

                Out of sight and out of mind and all that.

 

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

 

If my first day in this town was what was typically expected, then Sunny Haven was in fact not that sunny. Rather, it was cloudy and desolate and that wind (which carried the aroma of pine along the streets) had a bite to it. It felt like standing too close to the edge of a cliff and preparing yourself for the gust of wind that would tip you over the edge; though I expect that was more to do with the Abbott’s than it was to do with Sunny Haven as a whole.

Despite the dreary condition, there were a few people out and about. I had already past two families at the park, walking their dogs. I had also received an odd look from a blond lady walking very fast whilst pushing a stroller. Though I had some of my less….shabby...clothes on (black jeans relatively unworn and a blue fitted blouse) I still felt the odd prickle that I was scruffy and unacceptable looking. Perhaps if I was wearing a matching pink tracksuit like her I would fit right in.

I had been pleased to get out of the house, especially after the awkward occasion that was lunch. Mrs Abbott had picked at her scones like a small uncertain bird. Straight backed, elbows tucked in and a single crumb at a time. Henderson’s feeble attempts to make conversation with Mr Abbott could only be described as ‘beating a dead horse’.

I, on the other hand, could handle awkward silences like a pro and resolutely stared down at my plate, imitating Mrs Abbott. I was taking the clues as to how I should behave off her, a habit I had picked up very early on. Every household has different rules and expectation; like taking off your shoes before going inside or saying grace (which we had done). Occasionally I would feel Henderson’s eyes on me, perhaps pleading for me to make some kind of bonding attempt. I knew that my attempts to converse would probably go as successfully as his did - less so, since my knowledge of any kind of conversation starters were far more limited.

     And so an awkward fifteen minutes had passed by until finally Henderson cleared his throat and pushed back his chair, exclaiming something about traffic.

     I couldn’t help to think that it was alright for him. He could leave the deadpan stares and clinking of cutlery in the rear-view mirror but I would be stuck in it for the foreseeable future. Then again, I can’t say that being in a family of few words was my idea of hell. With a slight gleam of optimism that was out of character for me, it had crossed my mind during that lunch time experience that perhaps this would work out after all.

Mr Abbott accompanied Henderson to the door, and I followed Henderson out to his car.

There was an awkward moment when he looked as if he was going to hug me. But he didn’t, because such behaviour would be unprofessional. But his eyes softened and he took off his glasses, giving his eyes a tired rub with his thumb.

‘Call me if anything goes wrong,’ he had said to  me, ‘otherwise I’ll call you every week to see how things are going, and I will come for a visit at the end of the month – which is only a week and a half away. Don’t hesitate to call, about anything.’

   I nodded, and couldn't help but think that his words sounded very automated. His mind was clearly already somewhere else – most likely with his ill wife he would no doubt be itching to get back to. Before he shut the door, I decided to give him something encouraging.

'‘Henderson,’ I said, ‘I will keep my shit together.’

He smiled, ‘Good girl.’

And so he left. One final wave out the window, around the corner and he was gone. I took my time walking back into the house, steeling myself to have the conversation that I needed to with Mr Abbott (it was long later where I realized I hadn’t even considered going to Mrs Abbott about it). He had been reading the bible at the table, I interrupted him with an awkward throat clear, and then told him that I wanted to go searching for a job at the local shops.

It had taken a bit of convincing, more than I would have thought necessary for something so proactive. In between the conversation he would have these unnaturally long pauses where he seemed to be analysing my very soul. He asked me questions like: “Why do you need a job”, “what kind of places will you be applying at?” and “what could you possibly need money for?”.

When I had finally answered his questions to his satisfaction, he told me where the shops were after a stern reminder that Sunday was a day of rest and as such I could not work it. I had asked if I could work after church in the afternoons, and he had simply stared at me, repeated the whole ‘seventh day is a day of rest’ speech. I had managed to step on his toes on the first day – must be some kind of personal record.

 That wasn’t the worst of it though, he had deemed it necessary to give me some parting words of advice. Just as my hand had touched the doorknob and I could almost taste the freedom, he cleared his throat from behind me. Startled, I turned to him and he looked at me with a very solemn expression for a moment:

 ‘I do not tolerate drugs of any kind in this house.’

At the time, I had thought about saying something in a mildly offended tone, but I couldn’t find the words. So I simply turned back towards the door and turned the door knob. I could feel his eyes on my back the entire time, it felt as though he almost expected me to say something – to argue. But instead I just left.

I guess you couldn’t blame him for assuming I was a drug user. After all, I was a child of the state; stereotypes would predict that I wasn’t stealing or dealing, I would be smoking. As I walked I wondered if Mr Abbott was having images of me hitting up the local drug dealer in seedy back alleys (though it didn’t look like there was such a place in Sunny Haven).

As soon I had stepped out of that door, it was like someone had physically stepped off my chest allowing me to breathe deeply again. I wasn’t entirely sure if it was just my nerves and the new environment, or if it was the less then hospitable vibes of Mr Abbott that made that house feel so constricting. Either way being out of there was a good feeling.

Each step I took away from that houses I savoured.

It only took me ten minutes to walk to the shops which consisted of only a small block of mismatched buildings. There were many options in which I could ask for a job, two cafes, one quite shabby looking and the other appeared quite (for a lack of another word) privileged. There was a diner too, with the wonderful smell of fresh apple pie oozing out its doors. There was also a petrol station, a grocery and even a pet store. All had potential, though none were advertising for staff on their door.

I walked past the diner, thinking the petrol station might be worth a go when something caught my eye across the road.

I did a double take and looked back at the peeling blue sign.

‘Bright’s New and Used Bookstore’.

In the window there was display of the classics, a mismatch of different editions. There was the Great Gatsby, Pride and Prejudice, the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, of Mice and Men and the Three Musketeers. You didn’t see many bookstores that weren’t part of a chain store very often and it gave off the vibe that you would never know what you would uncover there.

I stopped walking for a second, debating.

Your meant to be saving Anna, you don’t need any books…

But I couldn’t help myself. I darted through the traffic and went through the door. As the door opened I heard a bell dingle in the back. The smell of books greeted me, musty, wooden and dusty. A smell that I adored.

Every wall in the store was head to toe shelves, put into section by a carved wooden sign that hung from the ceiling saying ‘Crime’, ‘Teen’ or ‘Biographies’. Further mismatched bookshelves were places sporadically throughout the store, and a large table sat in the middle, covered messily in books that were on sale. What kind of genre these books were was anyone’s guess.

A boy who seemed a little older than me looked up as I entered. He graced me with an obligatory quick smile of acknowledgment and then returned to what he was doing which seemed to be making some kind of display – crime books, by the look of the covers.

I went to the closest wall and ran my fingers along the various spines of the books, reading the titles as I went.

“Looking for something specific?” the boy said from his display. He had a soft voice, quiet and a little bit unsure. I turned to him to see him still focused on his work, squatting down on his hunches and sorting through a pile of books on the floor. The only reason I knew he had in fact spoken was because he shot me a look from under his messy mop of curly brown hair that had fallen into his eyes. His shoulders were a little hunched, but he had the build of somebody who could play rugby – not at all the sort of person you would expect to work at a bookshop.

“No, nothing specific...thanks.”

I wandered my way through the bookshelves to the classics section. Running my fingers along the spines of the books at random. I would pull one out every now and then if the title sounded familiar or interesting in some way, and read the blurb.

    Fifteen minutes later, I brought my three books to the counter.

   I stood there a little while, gazing around awkwardly. The boy was still hunched over his pile of books, stacking carefully. After what felt like an uncomfortable long time, I gave an awkward throat clear. The boy jerked a little and spun around, one of the books falling down off his carefully stacked pile. His face flushed a little. He immediately got up, wiping his hands on his trousers and hurried around the counter. He was quite a lot taller than I had first thought. Of course I was quite short, so everyone seemed tall to me.

“Sorry,” he said, making his way around the counter, “you’re so quiet I forgot you were there.”

I shrugged.

“No big deal.”

“Quite an eclectic collection you’ve got there.”

“Well, they do say variety is the spice of life.”

He gave a small smile – indulging the idiotic comment.

“I tried reading this one once,” he said, holding up ‘A brave New World’, “but honestly, it was so dry I wanted to claw my face off.”

I laughed, “it’s almost like you want me to spend less money.”

“Good point…” he said, “I stand corrected, best and most engaging thing I’ve ever read.”

He handed me the bag and the receipt.

“Thanks…”

I turned to leave

You never know until you ask.

A familiar voice rang through my head so loud I came to a stop mid turn. A memory of the sing song voice and the smell of musk ran through me suddenly. I forced it down again and bit the inside of my cheek.

Not now.

Turning back around, I dug deep to find some courage.

“Hey, ah…I’m new in town and I was wondering if you knew of any jobs going at the moment?”

I hope that it wasn’t as jumbled and fast as it sounded in my ears. Asking for help was something that made me feel as if a golf ball was residing in my throat. 

“Actually, our staff member who does Saturday’s and the afternoon shift on Friday is moving out of town to go to Uni. If you like, I can go ask the boss if he’s willing to interview you?”

Surprised by my luck, I stumbled over my words of consent.

“That would be amazing, thank you.”

He disappeared out the back and reappeared with an elderly man behind him. As it turned out, all the staff at this store wouldn’t be the type of people you would expect to work there. Despite being in what I would guess to be late sixties, the boss had a burly physic better suited to be a logger then that as an owner of a book store. He gestured for me to go into his office with him and we sat down. A few minutes of random chitchat and I felt that I liked the man. He came across as honest, and the laugh lines around his eyes would crinkle with his easy smile.

“Well now Anna Gray, if that’s your real name,” he had said, to which I gave an awkward laugh, “that’s an awfully long list of references for someone your age. So long in fact that I am inclined to not believe it.”

I paused for a second, debating, then decided that the truth would be the best bet.

“I’ve been working since I was twelve, and I’ve lived in twelve separate towns since then,”

“Twelve towns, you say? What, are your parent’s carnival workers?”

Something you always note when you are foster child is the way the word ‘parent’ is thrown around. People assume that you have parents, people assume that they are still around. Every time parent, or family, or mum, or dad, is mentioned it is like someone physically reached right on through my rib cage and gave my heart a small squeeze. Just a gentle reminder of what I’m lacking.

“No...I’m a foster child,” I said, “apparently not one of the cute keepable ones.”

The last comment was an attempt to lighten the mood, but the way that Bob frowned and I couldn’t help but clear my throat awkwardly and stare off behind his head.

“Well that explains that then. So you can talk the talk but can you walk the walk?”

 “Would you like to see?”

 He gave a hearty laugh, “That’s what I like in my employees, a thirst to prove themselves! Off you go then, show me you’re behind the counter skills.”

 So I did. It just so happened that as we exited Bob’s office, the boy was just about to ring a customer’s purchase up on the till. Bob called across the store for him to wait, and I walked behind the counter, took the book from the elderly lady.

 I had used that computer system before, so I quickly scanned the barcode on the back of the book, checked the price on the sticker against the one on the computer and found it matched. I told the elderly lady the price, and she spent five minutes digging through her purse for her credit card, she talked aimlessly whilst she was doing so, telling me about how she was buying this book for her granddaughter who was overweight. How she had heard on the radio that it was a good one. All I had to do was give a few encouraging ‘oh?’ and ‘Really?’ which was great, since I wasn’t the best at smalltalk.

    I put through her card, asked if she wanted a bag (yes) and sent her on her way.

    “Well then,” he said, “looks like you’ve got a job.”

    I thanked him and shook his hand. He told me to come back on Friday and sort out the paper work then.

    I left feeling surprised that it was that easy and happy with myself. I found myself standing still on the pavement and debated my options. It was not appealing to go back the Abbott’s when I had only just escaped from there. Surely they wouldn’t know if I delayed a little bit longer, they would think I was still looking for a job...

It was decided within in a few seconds.

It didn’t take long to find a small park which consisted of a couple of empty park benches and a small playground. I took a seat and started reading ‘A Brave New World’.

 The book was difficult to get into, political and scientific and fill or ideas that I didn’t quite grasp. I could see what the boy – Leyton was his name right? – was talking about.  I found my gaze wandering as I began rereading lines. It just so happened that there was a bunch of boys jogging around the park - all wore the same clothes so I was assuming they were some kind of team. I looked up as one of the ones in the lead passed me by. Broad shoulders, wavy blonde hair and a body that made me wonder what he looked like naked. He saw me looking and flashed me a grin, revealing nice teeth for someone our age, with some pleasing dimples on the side as he passed. I couldn’t help but give a small grin myself. I felt mildly embarrassed about being caught out, but in my experience it’s better to pretend you’re not, because then they won’t take advantage of it.

 Watching him run away, perhaps a little straighter then he had been before, I began to think that maybe this town wouldn’t be so bad after all.

    I went to return my attention to my book but something caught my eye in the carpark, and I had to do a double take to attempt to figure out what it was that had given me the urge to look back. Then I saw it - a white ute which looked suspiciously similar to the one sitting outside the Abbott’s garage when we first arrived. I was too far away to see who was in the driver’s seat, but I suddenly began to feel a little nervous.

Surely it was ridiculous to contemplate the idea that the Abbott’s might follow me to check up on what I was doing? That definitely looked like a silhouette of a man in the driver’s seat though... No, I’m probably mistaken…surely that would be far too extreme, even for them?

For about ten minutes or so, I attempted to continue reading – but I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling. Every few seconds I would glance back up to see if the ute was still there. Eventually I gave up trying to shake it and began making my way back to the Abbott’s. The trip out had been far too short for my liking, and my feet felt heavier on the way back than it had leaving.

As I walked into the Abbots driveway, the site of the ute greeted me – exactly where it was when I left. I stepped around it precariously, looking for signs of disturbances, but nothing stood out. When I entered the house, I found Mr Abbott was sitting at dining room table as though he hadn’t moved. A small part of me laughed at the silliness of the whole thing – I was getting paranoid.

Mr Abbott asked how it had gone, I told him that I had got a job. I told him it was the second hand book store and he didn’t react one way or the other about it. But he did turn his attention to the brown paper bag I had in my hand.

“I got some stationary for school, and a few books to read,” I said in a way of an explanation. Normally I wouldn’t offer up this information unless someone had asked me straight out, but something about the way he was looking at it, made me feel like I had to inform him.

 “Can I see your books please?”    

Again, this was a request that wasn’t really a request. I mutely handed the bag over. Hoping that he was simply interested as to what it was that I bought, or checking that there wasn’t any hidden drugs.  Somehow, I knew that wasn’t the case.

He stared at the books for a few minutes. Then turned those steely grey eyes on to me.

“You cannot read these in this house. They are not suitable.”

“Not…suitable? But they’re...they’re classics.”

"They are not suitable,” he repeated, “there is a bible in the drawer of your bedside table, I think you will find that it will keep you busy for a while.”

 With that I watched in horror as he gripped the books, tearing them slowly and torturously right down the spine. Each section he ripped, he dropped deliberately into the bin, whilst I simply stared transfixed in shock.  

I looked back at his face in shock, and he stared at me with an expression that screamed “what will you do about it”. Red hot anger seeped through every inch of my body, my hands clenched involuntarily against my side.

NO!

I shook myself, turned and left without saying a word – not trusting myself to even open my mouth. Each movement was countered by an all-consuming urge to go back to his smug face and scream and hit. But that was not the plan. That was not how this was going to go.

10 months, four days.

Here was my first lesson about what life was going to be like at the Abbott’s house. And it didn’t bode well.

Chapter 3

Chapter 3            

 

I have had every other sort of foster parent so I suppose it should have only been expected that I would get religious zealots somewhere along the way. The Anderson’s wanted me to work in their grocery store every day after school for free. The Paige’s would not acknowledge my existence unless there was a social worker visit. The Carters taught me how to steal for them.

Of course, most were only dealing in shades of grey, the large majority had good points about them. But, of the twenty-two homes I had, there had only ever been one set of foster parents whom I got so very close to feeling comfortable with.

They were the Carptenter’s. Barry Carpenter I didn’t get to know very well, he had a building company, newly formed and worked late a lot of the time. When he was there he was quiet. But he would pour me a glass of orange juice, bring home a chocolate bar now and then and sneak it to me when Mrs Carpenter wasn’t looking. And his smile was genuine.

 Belinda Carpenter talked enough to make up for both of them. She chatted the entire eight months I stayed with her. She had this funny laugh too, that sounded more like a giggle but it was all in one tone. I would call it her Sponge Bob laugh. I was seven at the time, still having nightmares at night, still having meltdowns. But she took it all with a gentle touch and a forthcoming smile.

    For the first two months, I did not trust either of them overly much. I was always waiting for the other foot to drop. She spoilt me a lot though; she liked to buy me pretty little dresses and bows – she even took me to get my hair cut since going into foster care. She would even sit down and help me with my homework at nights.

The turning point for me was about three months in. We had gone out to the movies together, I can’t remember what the movie was about, but I remember she brought the largest size of popcorn and we managed to eat it all in the movie. Once we left, she had said with a giggle that we were both going to turn into popcorn. A lame joke, I know, but it had made me laugh at the time.

She had put her arm around my shoulder, hugging me to her side. It was the first time she had done so, and I was surprised by how nice it felt. It was probably the smallest of gestures to her, but to me it meant everything.

 But then I saw him.

A small boy, blonde hair so very different from my own. It stuck out in funny angles on the crown ‘like a ducks behind’ a sweet voice told me in my ear, and in my mind he even walked the same, funny little waddle on his short pudgy legs, his arms spread out wide to keep himself balanced. But I suppose all 1.5 year olds walked a bit like that.

 For a moment, I had really believed it was him. For that one moment, I was filled with a feeling that was very close to joy. Memories of giggles and calls of ‘Ann-be’ and bath adventures rolled round through my mind.

I hadn’t realized, but I had stopped still like a statue in the middle of the mall. Belinda, had to do a double take when she realized I wasn’t beside her anymore.

 But then the little boy turned around at the call of him mother, whose voice was stern and slightly panicked because he was wandering away from her at a surprising speed for such short legs. He gave a giggle and a smile. And of course it wasn’t him. No blue eyes, no rosy cheek. The voice was wrong. The smile was wrong. Wrong – wrong –wrong.

 Then it happened.

 I always imagined that the meltdowns are a results of dark waves. They were inky black, filled with scattered memories or people, smells and sounds and lingering touches and all of the thoughts I would push down and not allow myself to acknowledge. Sometimes it would be still and flat and only brush against the barrier I had created. Then sometimes it would swell, and push just a bit more firmer – testing it. Then sometimes it raged and pummelled and hit the wall, violent and angry and determined to be acknowledge – a storm raging at being pushed aside. This is the time when I would feel like the walls are closing in, that a hand was slowing creeping up to my heart, winding itself around and tensing – ready to squeeze and the slightest provocation.

Meltdowns (like what happened that day in the mall) are when the walls crumbled and fall completely because there is too much pressure. The thick black liquid would flow into every corner and crevice of my mind. Consuming everything in its wake - determined to be acknowledged, demolishing any attempt to be held in check.

My wall had broken and I had dropped to the floor and howled. Screams and violent thrashing – no tears though, never any tears. I can’t explain really how it felt physically, really, because I felt that I was stuck in my mind. I couldn’t get my breath, though I managed to scream. It was like my brain was stuck on the image of the boy, who was not the boy. Stuck and fuming and unable to move on from it and filled with fury that literally made me feel like I was boiling from the inside out. The walls are a lot more secure now than they were when I was seven years old.

Belinda had run to me. She didn’t try to ask questions. Nor did she pay attention to all the people who had stopped to stare at the crazy kid having a fit in the middle of the mall on a crowded Saturday afternoon. Instead, she got to the ground, scooped me up onto her lap – which was no small feet considering the fact I was trying to hit her. She cradled me, arms wrapped uncomfortably tight around my waist – a pressure that was oddly reassuring. She squeezed and squeezed and didn’t say a word.

When I began to gain more control over what I was doing, she loosened her grip and used one hand to stroke my hair. I was able to breathe more deeply, and still she didn’t say a word.

A man came up to ask if she needed any help, she simply told him no, that we were fine. If she was embarrassed by my display, or uncomfortable by the numerous people in the busy mall who had stopped to watch, she didn’t let on.

Once I was calm enough and I wasn’t about to hit her, she picked me up and carried me all the way back to the car. That night she stayed in my bed until I fell asleep. The next day she made me pancakes and we carried on as usual. Except that instead of leaving me be when I had nightmares, she would come in and lie down next to me – I guess she was encouraged by my reaction to her that day, so that she now felt comfortable doing so.

I grew very fond of her for that. I began to feel comfortable in their home, just a little, I began to feel like I belonged and that perhaps I could find some sort of place here.

It was Belinda who suggested that I started to write things down – she said that she sometimes did that when she founds things were hard, and that she had too many thoughts in her head. She said that writing them down made it calmer in her mind. That maybe I could try and see if it was helpful.

                I did and it did and I’ve carried on the practice right up to this day. Sometimes I would go long periods without writing down anything, sometimes I would simply draw a picture or a sad face or a happy face. If it was particularly bad day, I would scribble across the page until it was black and the pen was ripping through the paper.

But, in my time at the Carpenters - I would sometimes get the inkling that things weren’t as good as I had thought they were.        

The house was small, and the walls were thin. Sometimes late at night I would hear Belidnda sobbing, and soft soothing murmured by Barry. This happened only occasionally, and I would stick my finger in my ears and pretend that I hadn’t heard it.

In their tiny backyard, they had small swing set. When I arrived it was covered in spider webs and had begun to rust. I loved that swing set and would often swing on it for a good hour, face turned to the sky.  I once caught Belinda watching me on the swing, her eyes were watery and far away, and her lips turned down in a sad grimace.

It was five months in when I began to doubt the permanence of this placement. I wrote it down in my diary – one of the first proper entries I had done.

It goes something like this, though I cleaned up the spelling:

Bell didn’t come get me this morning from bed. So I went to the kitchen and made my own breakfast. They were fruit loops and they are yummy. I heard Bell crying. I went into her room and she was in bed, but all her sheets were red. And her PJ’s too. She was crying. She told me to ring Barry. But I didn’t know the number, so she screamed at me to give it to her. So I did.

Then I hid under my bed because I don’t like the red.

I spent over ten hours hiding under that bed that night. Barry had come home very quickly after the phone call. I could hear Belinda crying hysterically through the walls, even my fingers in my ears couldn’t drown on those sobs. There was also quite a few swear words and curses at the higher powers being thrown around. I don’t handle crying well, but that was nothing to how I handled blood.

As it turned out, Belinda had been trying to get pregnant for a long time, and this was her third miscarriage. Barry had explained it all to me in simpler terms a few days later. At the time he had come straight home and took her to the hospital, first he tried to get me out from under the bed to come along, but I simply screamed at him and covered my ears. So he had asked the neighbour to step in.

I can’t remember the neighbour’s name, but I remember she tried for a very long time to coax me out with promises of cartoons and chocolate, but to no avail. In the end she pushed some toast under the bed along with a pillow and a blanket. And I eventually slept there, only to find myself on top of my bed the next morning. When I am feeling particularly bad, I often wake up underneath the bed – though a lot of the time, I don’t remember going there.

Belinda never did bring up that night. And neither did I. Barry went back to work a few days later, looking very stressed and pale.

Things went back to normal, except Belinda injected herself in to my life more then what was usual. She took me to parks, read me stories half the night, we went to theme parks, we rode bikes together – in fact I think she was the one who taught me how. She would often take me out of school to do these things – a point of friction between her and Barry. I had a vague understanding that something was not right with how she was behaving.

One month later, two things happened.

Belinda got pregnant again, and did not miscarry.

And Barry’s company went bust.

There was a month of Barry’s desperate attempts to find another job, Belinda went to work at her old job at a cafe – but she would only do so for a short period, fearing for the babies health.

Financial issues is a hard thing to process when you’re seven. Though I knew that we were struggling, I didn’t really consider the implication that might have for me – at least not until my birthday.

Belinda had baked me a giant chocolate cake and covered them in candles. She made my favourite for dinner – lasagna and cheesy potatoes. It was a wonderful night, at least on the surface. I suppose if I had really thought about it, I would have found all of the food a bit odd, considering we had been living off very basic and cheap meals for the past month. Corn beef, cabbage – potatoes – that kind of thing.

I noticed, to a degree, that everything seemed very forced, like they sung just a bit too loud. Tried just a little too hard to make me smile.

I heard them talking when they were doing the dishes. I was reading a new book they had brought me (can’t remember what it was exactly). If I ever have my own kids, I will be sure to remember that just because kids are playing, doesn’t mean they can’t hear what you’re saying.

‘We need to tell her,’ said Barry. He sounded sad but certain.

‘And we will, but tonight is her birthday for God’s sake, let her have the night.’

‘You can’t put it off for much longer, it’s not fair.’

‘Shhhh!’

I continued to pretend that I couldn’t hear what they are saying. But I think on some level, I knew what this meant. I was going to leave.

A few days later they told me, but I was prepared by then. They sat down on either side of me on my bed, whilst I played with a doll and resolutely refused to look at either of them. I knew what was coming and I was damn well not going to make it easy for them. They told me that they had to move back to their home town and stay with Belinda’s parents for a while, until they got back on their feet. They were going to lose their home, and they had no more savings.

They said they couldn’t take me with them, not right away.

They said they would keep in touch, and once things became more stable they would send for me.

They explained it all for a very long time, I think because I had refused to acknowledge them they thought that perhaps I didn’t understand. But I did. I was going to a new house.

They were leaving me behind.

Belinda even informed me that because she was pregnant now, she couldn’t work – that she had to focus on looking after it. It was definitely a mistake for her to tell me that because in my eight years old brain I had thought that the reason I was left behind was that baby, (it was a girl, her name was Melody – they had sent me a card when she was born). They had their own child now, so they no longer needed me. They picked this indefinable lump in her belly over me – and her telling me that simply confirmed my suspicions.

When my social worker came to pick me up, Belinda went in to give me a hug but I pulled out of it – ran down the steps, and hopped into the car. I looked out the window for a second, and I could see Barry hugging what looked to be a sobbing Belinda, whilst the social worker was attempting to talk to them.

I hated them, especially that lump in Belinda’s belly. If it wasn’t for that baby they would still take care of me. I refused to answer any of their letters, or any of their phone calls. They tried for a few months, and then they became less frequent until eventually they stopped calling all together. I had convinced myself that I did not need them. That I was better off.

Now that I’m older and wiser, I accept that perhaps I had acted unfairly, that their reasons were legitimate and understandable. Situation changed, and of course they would focus on their own baby. I do believe that they would have kept me if things had turned out differently, if I had forgiven them – quite frequently I regretted not returning their messages.

That is not to say that I still don’t believe that the baby changed things. I believe that for Belinda, I was filling the void that her own child would fill. That she wanted a family very much, but was struggling to have her own, that I became a little bit redundant with the birth of that baby.

Despite the heartache, I learnt two important things from those eight months: For every home I would ever go into, I was never there for me, I was only there to fill some kind of need. Whether it be financial, logistical or simply to provide them with the self-righteous idea that they are good people, better than others, for taking on a delinquent troubled child.

This was easier to swallow then the second thing I learnt.

The only family I would ever have, the only people who would put me first, was the one that I lost when I was six.

Chapter 4

 

There was a mahogany coffin, sitting at the front of the church. The church was empty and dark, I can’t recall seeing any pews, or windows or lights or even an alter. But it was a church, I knew this in the way that you just know things in your dreams.

There was only the coffin, lit from its own invisible light, sitting there waiting. Then there was me. Standing in the back, hands sweating, heart pounding.

As I watched, the lid creaked open with a terrible groan that I felt right to my core. I had to go look, I didn’t want to, but I had no control over it. This was why I was here and it was necessary.

So I walked towards it, step by slow step. The coffin seemed to get closer faster than you would expect, only five steps away. I wished to stop walking. I wished to turn around - but I couldn’t. It was like there was puppeteer above, jerking me feet closer towards the coffin.

Four steps.

Then there was another noise, a wet tearing and ripping. It was an indecent sound that made me feel as if I was listening to something wrong and unnatural. It made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Three more steps.

I wished to wake up. Somewhere, I could hear a dripping noise, but it wasn’t water – it sounded to...thick. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from, I did not think I wanted to.

Two more steps.

I could smell something now...like a bowl of rotten fruit, except somehow richer. It was coming from the coffin, there was no doubt about that. My heart was beating hard, my breath caught in my throat.

One more step.

…don’t want to I don’t want to I don’t want to...

But I gripped the sides of the coffin, almost feeling the coolness or the wood, and bent over to look.

It was a head.

Just…a head.

Blood congealed around his neck where it had been severed. My stomach retched when I realized whose head it was. It was a familiar face, a beloved face.

Night night, don’t let the bed bugs do any biting tonight.

His dark hair was dishevelled, as it always was. There were the little crinkles in the corners of his eyes that reminded me of a laugh, deep and throaty. Stubble was spread across his chin, which I use to hate so much but...

-‘Baby, tell you father that we don’t like to kiss men goodnight when their faces are all scratchy like that.’-

...now I wanted to touch it.

I reached out for his chin wanting to feel it beneath my fingers. The bloodied stump below the head no longer seemed important. Perhaps if I just touch it....just a little bit more...perhaps...

His eyelids flew open, and I froze – hand still out stretched, scream stuck in my throat. His now revealed eyes were clouded over and sightless, there was no hidden intelligence or glint of humour to be seen. Not familiar, not how they should be. I wanted to retract my hand and back away, but my body no longer seemed to respond to me.

Suddenly that detached heads mouth started to stretch and sag. As it did so, it made in odd sound – like crinkling paper. The skin pulled away from the teeth, melted and morphed in front of my eyes. It was no longer the beloved face that I remembered, but his face. My stomach lurched as a maggot crawled out from behind a bulging eye.

 That mouth kept on stretching, until it formed into a wide grin, revealing crooked yellowing teeth. It hissed at me, blood frothing out from under its teeth.

 ‘...if you cry, you die...’

 

I jerked awake gasping and reaching out in front of me as if to defend myself.

Where am I? WHERE AM I?

Sucking in a deep breath, I closed my eyes tight, and opened them again. Reaching for the pillow behind me, I shoved it over my face, biting down on the cotton and screamed.

Out of breath, I took the pillow off my face, waiting for panic to subside. But the muffled scream hadn’t served its function this time. My heart still pounding in my ears, I began groping urgently beside me to switch on the light on my bedside table. The need to check that my room was in fact empty was overwhelming.

CLICK

I stumbled out of bed and looked around the room- empty, of course.

I went into my draw, rummaged through a pile of pills I kept in a makeup case, hands shaking, breathing shallow. It took me what felt like a year to find what I was looking for. Valium. With shaking hands I quickly unscrewed the bottle, shook it onto my palm and popped one in my mouth, swallowing it dry.

I sat on the edge of my bed, bent over so that my head was between my legs and focused on taking in slow deep breathes, trying to get myself to calm down. Mentally filling in the crack in the wall which kept the images out.

It had been a while since I’ve had to take a Valium. I attempted not to, especially if it was school day. It made me feel like a zombie and my concentration went right out the window. But I figured with church being that morning, I could treat myself. The thought of going to church made me tense up like a coiled spring.

Once, when I was twelve I passed out in the middle of mass. My then psychologist claimed it was due to post traumatic stress. Reverend Masters told me in a very grave voice that it was because God had finally found me and his love was such a shock I fainted (he said it in a very proud voice, as if I should be thanking him for such a humiliating experience). Whatever the reason, I did hyperventilate, I did panic and I did end up being carried from the hall in complete embarrassment, black spots dancing in front of my eyes.

If this wasn’t enough to worry about, the day before Mrs Abbot had taken me shopping with strict instruction from Mr Abbott to buy something decent for church. I guess the standard jeans and singlet wasn’t good enough.

Normally a chance to get new clothes would be a good thing. But I knew that the clothes I would be getting would not be ones I would be pleased to wear – and I was right. We went into a store that looked as though it sold clothes to middle aged women.

Mrs Abbott, I soon found out, did not possess a strong will. When she encouraged something that was truly hideous, I would pick out something similar but less ugly and say things like ‘But oh – this one is cheaper.’

She would agree without much enthusiasm. But I wasn’t sure she was capable of being enthusiastic.

None of the clothes we got in that trip would be ones that I would voluntarily buy or indeed feel good about wearing. All had conservative neck lines, most were colours that were in no way flattering. There was even a blouse that had frills. I cringed at the idea of going out in public in these things.

  On the plus side I got some decent cardigans that looked similar to what most people would wear, I even managed to talk Mrs Abbot around to getting some of the more brightly coloured ones rather than the grey, tan or white.

Ten months and three days. I had told myself in the store.

But in the corner lay one of the most hideous outfits I have ever had to wear. A grey pleated plaid skirt, a salmon coloured shirt with bloody awful frills around the collar, coupled with hideous closed toed thick black shoes with an equally awful thick strap going across the centre was laid out.  This awful outfit was what I was, apparently, to wear to church this morning.

I pushed that thought out of my mind and concentrated on feeling the effects of the valium slowing my heart rate. It took around twenty minutes for me to feel safe to stand.

I checked my watch and noted that I was only five thirty.

I thought longingly of the books that Mr Abbott had thrown in the trash. I had other books, my iPod and my cellphone – all of which I had locked in the violin case the night before, out of fear that Mr Abbott would take them because they were...offensive. I had also taken to hiding my various prescribe pills and hiding them in little pocket, inside sun glasses cases – that kind of thing.

                 The morning flowed be slowly, and I dressed early. When I had looked in the mirror (the only one being in the bathroom). I felt humiliation ebb its way up my neck. I tossed my wet hair, making it go wavy and left it loose, hoping that some of its length could hide the shocking shirt. I applied a bit of makeup, just enough to make my face look less awful with the colour of the blouse. I was careful not to make it too obvious though, because I was sure that make up would be amongst the list of the many things that Mr Abbott doesn’t approve of.

                I put on one of the cardigans we had got the day before in an attempt to hide the ruffles. Though I suppose it was a little better, it was not enough for me to feel comfortable.

                Who the hell cares anyway? It’ll probably just be filled with a whole bunch of middle aged people sitting stiffly on wooden pews.

At 6:30 I went down stairs to get some water, I was surprised to find the Abbotts up. Mrs Abbott was at the stove, stirring something with a wooden spoon and Mr Abbot was reading the bible at the table. He looked up at me when I entered, and I immediately felt uncomfortable.

“Good morning,” he said, eyeing the outfit I had on with what looked a bit like satisfaction.

“Morning,” I mumbled back.

I sat down uncomfortably at the table staring at my hands. Not a few minutes later did Mrs Abbott pour some porridge into a bowl and place it in front of me and another in front of her husband. We ate in complete silence, the only noises the sound of spoons hitting plates and Mr Abbots oddly loud swallows. I shovelled the bland sludge into my mouth mechanically, not daring to ask for some brown sugar or maple syrup.  The effects of the Valium made everything seem coated in hazy ease. A pleasing feeling of numbness spread through my body.

*

As I got out of the ute I couldn’t help but admire the beauty of the church, with its magnificent stained glass windows and large mahogany doors. People were already filing in and I noticed in a detached sort of way that they were not all middle aged like I had hoped.  That boy going in now sure looked like a high schooler.  Looking down at my awful skirt, I plucked at the pleats like somehow they would magically disappear.

Trailing behind the Abotts, we entered the church and took seats near the back, only because the majority of the others were already full. They were typical church pews, hard and wooden and very uncomfortable. There was a quiet jumble of voices around the church as people greeted each other warmly and up the front someone was playing a slow calming tune on a piano. Watching two elderly ladies greet each other in the row in front of us, I couldn’t help but notice that no one had greeted the Abbott’s.

Looking out of the corner of my eye, I examined Mrs Abbott. She had her bony hands clasped in her lap and was staring to the front of the church with deadpan eyes…maybe she liked to partake in Valium too. Mr Abbot, on the other hand, was clutching a very worn bible in front of him and was sitting straight back, a solemn expression on his face. The corner of his mouth was slightly downturned and I got the feeling that he wasn’t impressed with the general air of comradery and laughter.

The valium was in full force now, I felt detached, rather calm. I could still feel the pressure against the walls I had built, testing for a weak spot - but I was confident that they would hold.

I just had to get through this hour, and that was all. It would be fine.

"Hey,” the voice came near my ear suddenly and I gave a surprised jerk in my seat to turn. A pretty blonde girl was standing in the aisle next to me. Where did she come from?

“Sorry,” she said, obviously seeing my surprise, “I was just wondering if anyone is sitting here?”

“No. Feel free,” I said, ushering for her to take a seat absently, which she promptly did with a gracious smile.

She sat down next to me, one leg crossed over the other delicately. A long flowing blue skirt over the top of a sleeveless black blouse, a large belt joining the two together and showing off her slim figure. Her hair was a mess of shiny blond curls which she had plaited and clipped back either side of her part so it was out of her face.

I went to turn back to the front, but she smiled at me.

“Sorry,” she said again, “but I don’t think we’ve met, have we?”

“No. It’s my first time here.”

“Oh fantastic, welcome!” (she said it so enthusiastically I was tempted to question how genuine it was).

“Hayley, just in case you wanted to know – which I’m sure you don’t.”

 “Anna,” I said, shaking her outstretched hand.

She opened her mouth as if to say more, but the organ had suddenly stopped and a general hush came over the church. I turned my attention to the front and saw a man come to the podium, dressed in traditional black clothing. He was maybe mid forties had blond hair cut short and smiled, arms open in a gesture of welcome.

 “Welcome,” he called his voice soft and smooth, “what a pleasure it is to see so many people here today – and I do believe I see a few new faces.”

I couldn’t be sure, but I think his gaze flickered two me for a second. I felt myself straighten uncomfortably.

     "For those who don’t know me, my name is Reverend Bishop. Today I have what I personally feel is a truly inspired sermon on forgiveness, though feel free to correct me if I’m wrong,” there was a light endearing chuckle throughout the church, “I am serious though, I have been known to be wrong, just ask my wife – she would be happy to agree,” another wave of chuckles, “but first let us stand and start with a hymn.”

     Everyone stood and the organ started up again, playing a cheerful little tune.

    “Here,”’ Hayley whispered, passing me an open song book. The title on the page was ‘Awake my Soul, and with the Sun.’ I had no attention of signing, but I took the book anyway with a begrudging smile.

   A mess of people began singing in and out of tune throughout the church, and it sounded oddly joyous. Feeling increasingly uncomfortable that I wasn’t signing, I followed along half heartedly, finding it difficult to focus both on the tune and the words at the same time. I was also feeling quite abashed by Hayley, who was truly belting it out in an amazing melodic voice, quite confident and not even slightly embarrassed by it, apparently.

   When the song finished, everyone sat and Reverend Bishop started his service. He spoke well, soft it places, then gradually louder as he came closer to the point. He didn’t quote much directly from the bible, but rather discussed stories. He talked of the importance of acknowledging that we all make mistakes, of how we need to learn to forgive not only other for their mistakes, but ourselves as well. We needed to learn to strive harder, to talk to God more often for guidance, so that we can learn from the mistakes in our future. He even told a story of how he himself made a mistake not so long ago, when a man crashed into him whilst he was driving with his daughter, and how he had yelled at the man. Calling him names he dare not repeat.

   God had told him later of his mistake, and he rang the man and apologized for his behaviour. And the man apologized to for his driving. It was a typical sermon, I suppose (not being an expert in such matters), but the way he spoke, and the little touch of his own true stories made it better that the few sermons I have heard before. In my Valiumed state, it felt almost like I could see the words dancing before me.

  “And now,” he said after he did a quick prayer, “my lovely daughter has a song for us while the donation plate is being passed around. Once it has made its rounds, we will give communion.”

 To my surprise, Hayley quickly got up, making her way to the front gracefully long stride. She lightly kissed her apparent Dad on the check, again with absolutely no shame, then sat down behind a keyboard - quickly adjusting the microphone to her level.

 She sang a beautiful song, with absolute confidence. It was a slow song, filled with emotion in every word. You could hear the she meant and believed in every word that she sung. The church was dead quite as they all listened, enthralled. I wondered if maybe she was older then she looked just by the confidence that she projected.

 It looked like she had inherited her Dad’s ability to keep a rooms attention.

 As she sang, a decorative bowl was passed around and people were putting coins and notes in it. I noted with mild surprise that neither Mrs Abbott or Mr Abbott put any in. I followed suit, not having anything on me anyway and turned and passed the bowl to an elderly lady behind me, who smiled and said “thanks dear.”

 When she finished, Reverend Bishop did the whole communion speech and the organ started up again. People got up and began filing down the middle. I was sitting furthest from the middle of the aisle, so it was slow progress to the middle.

 When I got there, I let a family go before me from the aisle behind, and then filed in behind them – creating a gap between me and the Abbott’s which was not wholly unintentional. I was staring out of the stained windows, admiring the colours…

 “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” I jumped at the whispers so close to my ear and turned startled to look behind me for the culprit. With an inward groan I realized it was the boy that had been running around the park the other day. I had seen him after all. Perhaps it was the valium, but I didn’t feel as awkward as I should do.

 “Park Boy,” I whispered back as a way of acknowledgment.

 “I almost didn’t recognize you,” he said and I glanced back, seeing him look me up and down still with that little cheeky smile on his face, “dressed as you are.”

 “Didn’t anyone tell you?” I replied with an air of confidence I didn’t feel I actually possessed, “It’s dress-up-like-your-Grandmother day.”

 He laughed and then looked quickly abashed as the mother in front of me gave him a stern look. He wasn’t abashed too much though, because he leaned in next to me again – I could smell mint in his breath.

 “Ahh well, I guess I missed that memo. Mustn’t be in the loop as you are.”

“Yes well, it’s a privileged circle. I wouldn’t feel too bad if I were you,” I hissed back.        

 We were almost in front of the line now, when he lent in really close.

 “You know what?” he whispered, so only the two of us could hear, “I find girls that dress up as librarians rather...sexy.”

       I raised my eyebrows at his blatant flirting in the middle of a church.

   "Oh please. You probably find effeminate socks sexy. Besides, it was grandmother, not librarian...and to be quite frank, if you find grandmothers sexy, you may have problems.”

    And with that I went up to Father Bishop, though I heard a distinctly muffled laugh from behind me. I raised both my hands palm upwards, seeing the person before me do that. Fake it until you make it – this sentiment was something I was quite good at.

     “May the body of Christ be with you,” he said, placing the rice cracker in my hand.

     I hesitated, cursing Park Boy for distracting me so that now I didn’t know what to do. Father Carson gave a small smile and mouthed ‘Amen’ at me. I quickly said amen, moved to the women holding the chalice next to him – saw that the mother in front of me had dipped her cracker in and followed suit. I popped the cracker in my mouth, finding the mix of the wine and cracker quite odd and not really that pleasant.

    Everyone was getting ready to leave though people were standing idly chatting with each other. I was making my way over to the Abbott’s, having to step through people roughly to carve a path. It wasn’t until I was right next to them that I realized who they were talking to: Reverend Bishop.

    Whatever it was that they were talking about, Mr Abbott looked like he rather not have to endure it. But as soon as the Reverend saw me he smiled and extended his hand.

  "Ah Anna, is it? Samuel was just telling me about your arrival here in Sunny Haven. How are you finding it so far?”

  I shook his hand politely, conscious of Mr Abbott’s eyes on me.

 "I’ve only been here a few days so I haven’t got much of an opinion yet,”’ I said.

 “That’s a nice honest answer – I’ll ask you again in a month and see if you’ve formed one yet.”

Looking behind him he made a gesture to someone across the room,

“Have you met my daughter Hayley?’

 And so it was that Hayley came to join us, I felt secretly glad by the increasing uncomfortable looking Mr Abbott, remembering the books he ripped sitting in the trash. It was quickly established that I was going to the same school as Hayley, and she said she would be happy to show me around.

 “Oh hey, there is a few people that go to our school here - how about I introduce you to a few of them? Just so you know a few people when you go tomorrow,” she looked at Mr Abbott and added, “quickly, of course.”

"That would be great,” I said, thinking how this would no doubt piss off Mr Abbott so I’m all for some forced interactions.

She took my hand and took me off in the opposite direction – weaving in and out of people.

“Baxter!” she called, and the blonde haired park boy turned to look, “this is Anna, she’s new – Anna, this is Baxter Jesup.”

Baxter extended hi hand, smiled and said: “Nice to meet you.”   

I can play along with this, I thought. Plastering my own smile on my face I shook his hand.

“You too.”

“What classes are you taking? Maybe we’ll be in some of the same ones.”.

I listed off a few and we discovered after a while (because I couldn’t remember the names of my teachers on the transcript) that, along with Hayley, we were in the same English class. Baxter and I also shared physical education together.

It was a habit of mine to make first impressions of new people, and as we chatted aimless for a few minutes I couldn’t help but do this to Baxter Jesup. Blond, tanned, broad shoulders and a typical jock no doubt. My first impressions of him was the all American boy, the giant flirt and very much the hormone ridden teenager. Probably had average grades, probably going for some kind of sport scholarship. I would hazard a guess as to say that he had his share of sex, and that he was good at it. Although that could be wishful thinking on my part.

Hayley Carson. The Preacher’s daughter. She was kind of girl who would pick you up hours out of their way because you had a flat tyre and not bat an eye at doing so. Because it was expected of her by her father or by God…whichever one she claims to be more important on that particular day. She would go to the grave saying it was because she was a nice person though…and perhaps she is.  Probably a bible pusher. Probably has many ulterior motives.

But watching Baxter and Hayley talk for those few minutes it dawned on me that there was something going on. The way Hayley’s hand lingered on his arm, the smile that he gave her (not cocky or mocking, like the one he gave me, but almost shy). The way they almost leaned in too far to hear each other’s answers. They had a thing for each other…but no doubt neither had acted on it.

As soon as I realized this, I had chalked Baxter up as an emergency possibility.

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

My feet were dragging as I walked back to the Abbott’s and my shoulders ached from all of my newly acquired text books weighing down my bag. I had refused to leave any in my lockers, wanting to get a jump start on the homework for the week. But it wasn’t the homework that had my stomach in a knots but rather the events of the day. All though my intention right from the get go was to fly under the radar, be anonymous and float in that happy middle ground of highschool life where you are neither popular nor a misfit. But that was not how things had turned out.

                I couldn’t help but think of Henderson as I walked, wondering what he would have thought about the drama I had gotten myself into on my first day here.

When Henderson had first taken over my case load, I was thirteen. I wore too much eye makeup, was too thin and had too many piercings – and I hated everything and everyone, or at least wanted it to come across that I did.

Henderson had taken off his glasses, leant forward with his elbows on the desk and we had started to talk. Usually I attempted to remain as quiet and nonchalant about everything my social worker said, but for the first time in my life someone had asked how I wanted things to go.

The first things he had asked was if I still wanted to go to the psychologist. I informed him that I never had wanted to go in the first place. He made the compromise that I could go to a counsellor instead and only once a week rather than twice.

                ‘You understand though, if the counsellor is ever concerned about your welfare, or thinks you need different professional help – they will be required to contact me and I will make different arrangements right away, to what I see fit.’

                We agreed that counsellor and my doctor would work together and liase, and if either of them were concerned they would contact him and he would take those concern very seriously.

                I also told him my feelings on group homes. He told me that sometimes there are no other choices but group homes left – but if it came to that, he would make sure it was for as little time as possible. I had wanted a guarantee that I wouldn’t have to go back to a group home, but I still found the blunt honesty a welcome change.

                Then we got on to the topic of school and my failing grades.

                ‘All of your teachers say you are bright, just unwilling to do the work,’ he said, ‘why don’t you put in the work - is it because you don’t like the classes?’

                It wasn’t that. It was because I knew that I would more likely shift school before the year had finished – and would have to start all over again. The amounts of time I tried to cram a designated book in before the exam, or learn a different topic to learn. It got tiring. Exhausting – until I felt I no longer cared anymore. Also, I was accountable to anyone, no-one really gave a shit about my grades...and I had begun to feel the same.

                ‘I had your lawyer fax over what your inheritance is roughly worth,’ he said, and then pushed a piece of paper to me.

                The mythical inheritance that I knew of only in passing. To me, somehow who had never had any money over fifty dollars at a time, it seemed like I would be rich. But Henderson corrected me.

                ‘I know this seems like a lot, but in the grand scheme of things – it’s not.’

                He discussed with me what I could use it on. We talked of owning properties, of investing it. But then he talked about college.

                ‘It’s my understanding that both of your parents – ‘

I had flinched at that word, the familiar invisible hand clenching itself around my heart. My lips had automatically pressed into a hard line and my shoulders straightened and tensed. If he had noticed, which I have no doubt he did, he did not let on.

‘ - were college educated. Your father was an English professor, your mother taught music at the local high school. Don’t you think that something they would have wanted for their daughter is to be college educated too?’

I had refused to answer. This was a topic that was off limits to me.

‘Look,’ he said sitting back in his chair, ‘the fact of that matter is that going through college is, as cheesy as it sounds, investing in your future. You will always have the degree, you will always have higher appeal in the job market. You will be free from relying on anyone else ever again. Free to make your own decisions. Free to come and go as you see fit. And you will have far more options available to you.  Just think it over, if not for your parent’s memory – then at least for yourself.’

That was how the obsession started. That day I had resented Henderson for bringing it up, resented him for talking of my parents as if he could possibly know what they had wanted? Though certainly the parents card had struck a nerve. But the idea of being independent and secure started a small flame in the centre of my being, growing and morphing over a few months until suddenly it was all I could think about. I could picture the end, the time when I would no longer be a child of the state, but my own person.

Free.

In my mind, once I turned eighteen, everything would instantly be better and happier. There would be possibilities and a future and a life that was worth living.

Henderson and I came up with the plan. He helped me open up my own bank account and helped me to get my first ‘official’ after school job by pulling a few connections (and by official, I mean actually have contracts and Not being payed under the table at below minimum rates). He even found someone to tutor me for free in my worst subjects (science), at least until I had to move to a different town – but by then I didn’t need a tutor.

Gradually my grades improved, and when I got my first ‘A’ in English Henderson brought me an iPod out of his own money to celebrate. He told me not to tell anyone because it would be frowned upon.

‘If people ask, just say you stole it.’

I had laughed at this.

I began to count down the days and spent all my time focusing on two things. My job and my grades. Everything else was by the by.

So when I woke up this morning, ready for my first day at Sunny Haven, I wasn’t concerned about making friends or being an outcast – though I appreciated the efforts that Hayley went to in order to make me feel more comfortable (her words) on my first day, I suppose. Really my mind was only concerned with the classes, how the teachers marked, and what texts they would prescribe. I knew that coming in during the second term meant that I would have to be playing catch up.

My Abbot had dropped me off that morning. Though I had wanted to walk, that was firmly denied. But he would still be at work when school finished so I was allowed the luxury of making my own way home then. Though he warned me, very sternly, that if I was not back by 4:15 at the latest, Mrs Abbot would call him and there would be hell to pay – of course he didn’t say that (he would never talk about hell in such a blasé way, I’m sure), but it was implied. I had clenched my teeth and swallowed my retorts, simply nodded like a good little girl and went on my way.

I had ducked my way through a crowd of students sitting by the school steps, making myself invisible amongst all the other teenagers. Schools always sound the same. A bubbling brook of different voices, high pitch giggles, swear words scattered throughout, the dull thrum of iPods turned up way to loud and the clack-clack of nails on phones.

It was easy enough to go by unnoticed in high schools. Don’t meet anyone’s eyes, don’t speak up in class too often. Be careful you don’t dress too ostentatiously, but not too conservative either.

                I would have to be careful about the conservative side at Sunny Haven. I had left the house in a cardigan over my top and jeans. When I knew Mr Abbott had safely left, I had undone the cardigan buttons to reveal a basic v neck top that wasn’t high necked and obscenely baggy.

                Still, I definitely didn’t look trendy – though at least I didn’t stick out in my pseudo Amish gear.

                I had made my way first to the reception, where the receptionist immediately knew who I was (I immediately thought that this school must be small for her to realize she didn’t recognize me immediately). She went into a bit of a fluster as she hurriedly went about gathering all of my different papers and bits of paper. She then exclaimed that she would find another student to show my around – but I wasn’t about to allow that.

                ‘It doesn’t look like a big school, I think I’ll be fine by myself,’ I had informed her, taking the papers quickly before she had a chance to insist. I walked aimlessly down the corridor, my footsteps echoing back at me on the linoleum floor. There was an odd student here and there and although I got a few curious looks, no one seemed overly concerned with me. That was exactly how I wanted it to be.

It was when I was flipping through my bits of papers when I made my first mistake of the day. It had come in the form of as a soft melody played on a guitar plugged into an amp. I recognized the tune almost immediately, like a lost friend, but in my mind the twang of the guitar morphed into the smoothness of the violin. I couldn’t place the title of the song.

My feet began moving as if by their own will towards the music. I went down a corridor and heard the music coming out of an open doorway. I hadn’t even hesitated in entering that classroom and it was only when I saw what’s-his-name from the book store (Lawrence? Larry? Leyton  - yes that’s it!) was the source of the music did I snap out of my psudo trance.

He was hunched over, eyebrows narrowed, playing out the notes off a few scrap pieces of paper laying on the floor in front of him. Bobbing his head slowly to the tune, a look of deep concentration on his face but somehow also seemed to be very peaceful. I felt envious of that expression.

As soon as I entered he looked up at me and stopped playing. The sudden silence jarred me back to reality and I felt instantly like I was under a spot light.

‘Oh – no, sorry. I ahh…I got turned around.’

I immediately spun around to make my exit, only to have it barred by a girl with bright bottle red hair, too much eye liner and wearing dark clothes from head to toe (including violent looking combat boots). She had looked me deliberately up and down slowly, one eyebrow raised in a gesture that was very clearly meant to be condescending. There was no mistaking this visual take down.

‘Who the hell are you?’ she asked, with deliberate venom.

None of your goddamnbuissness! Piss off back to the underworld!

No...no...blending in, being invisible…

‘Anna,’ I had replied slowly, pretending to be oblivious to the hostility radiating off her in waves, ‘I’m new. Excuse me, I’ve... got to find my locker.’

I had stared at her for a second and waited for her to get out of my way for far longer then was necessary. But she just continued to stare with that vile look and awful arched eyebrow.

If only I had retained a drop of control. But it was something about the way she was looking me, like I was something she had stepped on, that had just made my blood boil. Just thinking about it now made me tense up. Who the fuck was she to look at me like that!?  

I had pushed past her. Just shoved far more forcefully than I should have with my shoulder right on past her.

‘Watch it bitch,’ she hissed after me,

‘My mistake,’ I had said sweetly as I could muster and I had walked away quickly. At the time I had tried to convince myself that my small retaliation had gone unnoticed. But I knew deep down that wasn’t the case – only to be proven correct throughout the rest of the day.

Leyton’s pissed off tone had followed me down the hall.

‘Jesus Christ! Ivy, do you have be such a…”

I did find my locker eventually, after two wrong turns – which was unusual for me, but I was feeling a bit flustered. It took me three goes to get it open, only to find someone left a bunch of scrap paper and screwed up pictures inside it.

It didn’t take long after that to find my English class. People were already milling in. I had slipped inside around a bunch of girls with painted lips and glossy hair. One of which appeared to be Hayley. She waved brightly at me as I passed, I smiled but carried on down the aisle. Already feeling like I had enough socializing to last me the day this morning. There was a seat one row from the back which had my name on it.

                I sat myself down and went about getting myself organized with pens and paper, deliberately trying to keep as anonymous as I could. I spied Baxter from across the room, throwing a football up and down in his hand and laughing loudly was some equally broad shouldered boys. He must have felt my gaze, because his eyes fixed on me and he winked almost smugly. I rolled my eyes as the two boys with him turned to have good look and a laugh.

The obnoxious fake red head came striding into the room, Hayley’s group of girls blatantly parted to let her through, their smiles melted away and a look of unease replaced them. As she passed Hayley she held up two fingers to make a v and wiggled her tongue between them in a crude gesture. Even from where I was sitting, I could see Hayley blush and shift uncomfortably. Not a few second after came Leyton, looking a little bit ticked off. The red haired girl had sit in the back right corner and kicked a chair out with her boot in a gesture for him to come and sit down. Leyton ignored that and came and sat at the empty seat next to me.

                I couldn’t help but catch the scowl that dripped across her face as he sat himself down and felt slightly smug – quickly followed by a smidge of anxiety.

                Meant to be blending in….this is not a  “blending in” situation you are creating.

‘Hey,’ Leyton said leaning across the aisle, ‘sorry about Ivy...she’s....well, I don’t really know what she is, to be honest.’

‘Over protective girlfriend who, in an odd stroke of fate, has a name that fits her personality?’ I had suggested it in an innocent tone, all too aware that she was sitting on the other side of the classroom, boots on desk and glearing in my direction. Leyton had laughed and I had the distinct feeling that small laugh had just sealed my future with Ivy.

‘Ex-girlfriend,’ he said with a smile, ‘although she seems to forget that’s what she is sometimes.’

As he got out his books I had trouble placing this soft spoken musician with the glearing evil witch across the room. I remained silent for a second imaging what those two together looked like. Did they have sex? She sure doesn’t look like a prude…imagine that – all scratches and angry like.

Ah stuff it, Ivy has already got it out for me – there’s no point denying that.

                ‘Hey, sorry.’ I blurted, before I could think it over, ‘but that tune you were playing seems really familiar?’

                ‘You play?’

                ‘No, I just...recognised it.’

                ‘It’s Canon in D Major – Johann Pachabell.’

                ‘Oh, right…thanks.’

Then, just as now, I could hear the remnants of that song. Accompanying it was a visions of a women with long blonde hair holding a violin, swaying back and forth as she played – like it was almost a dance. It was possible that I could have slipped into a deep hole that would have been hard to claw out of if it wasn’t for a greying man who came into class and sat down at the front desk. I had to, in a very physical way, pull my attention back to focus on him instead.

Students began to settle into their seats and turned to face him expectantly. They showed him a lot more respect than I had seen directed to teachers at my past schools. Is this what happens when you go to a smaller school? Or is this a sign of the teacher’s personality?

                As the class fell into silence, he put his hands together and directed his gaze around the classroom. His eyes fell upon me and he gave a small smile.

                ‘Ah…a new girl! Welcome to Sunny Haven High. Would you mind standing up and introducing yourself?’

                Oh god. One of these kinds of teachers.

                With a heavy sign, I moved back my chair and winced as it made in awful scraping sound against the floor.

                ‘Hi.’ I said uncomfortably, ‘my names Anna Johnson.’

I sat straight back down.

‘Straight to the point I see. My Name is Mr Porter. I’m sure the students hear will make you feel more than welcome.’

There was a distinct loud snicker from the other side of the classroom and my teeth clenched. I looked over and Ivy met my eyes with that same condescending smile spread across her face. She cocked an eyebrow at me and give another snigger. The message was clear - she was going to make my life unpleasant.

Thinking about it, my stomach turned in regret and frustration. I wasn’t able to stop it, despite all my internal reminders of the plan and the end goal. The fury that boiled up in the pit of my stomach was familiar and unrelenting.

I felt instinctively that this suburban girl was all snarls and hisses. She didn’t know what it was to be in an actual fight and a smug part of me wanted to let her know EXACTLY who she was fucking with.

I looked back at her, my expression as neutral as I could muster. When she realized I wasn’t going to look away she put her feet down, leant forward on her desk and narrowed her eyes.

Bitch, your fucking with the wrong girl.

                The fury was itching for that opportunity. It took all I had, there in that classroom, to pull myself together. I had felt as if I was standing on a plank, one wrong step and it would be over. It was right at that moment that Leyton had adjusted his sitting position to block my view and the glearing contest was cut short. Thinking back to it now, I’m fairly certain he had done that on purpose.

‘You’ve arrived at a perfect time as we are just starting Shakespeare’s Othello.’

                There had been a few groans scattered around the room as Mr Porter got up off his chair, carrying a box. He began going down rows, giving out a book to each student as he went.

                ‘I think you will all find this tale to be both incredibly sad, incredibly complex and a remarkable story about the depths that jealousy and discrimination can have on the human mind. To get this topic started, you will be put into pairs and allocated specific scenes and acts. Together with your partner, you are to go through what literary techniques appear in your allocated scene, what messages, they are trying to send, and in what ways they support a specific theme – which we will be going over later.

                If you CANNOT sort yourself out into pairs, I will do it for you.’

He looked at the class with a stern expression over the top of his glasses.

‘Take five minutes to do this out now.’

                My stomach turned over at the idea that I had to have a partner for a project. I worked so much better alone…

                There was rumble of chairs squeaking on floors and talking as people began splitting up.

                Ivy came over quicker than I thought possible. Perching herself on Leyton’s desk so she her back was to me in a very clear gesture of ‘fuck you’. She put herself into a position that looked over the top sexual.

                ‘Shakespeare….could this BE anymore boring,’ she sighed dramatically, ‘perhaps we could make it more interesting if we worked on it at my house? Perhaps in the bedroom?’

                She had trailed her finger over Leyton’s arm and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes and shift uncomfortable in my seat. Watching as everyone peers off, I began to hope that maybe I could get away with doing it by myself. But then Leyton had to open his goddamned mouth and hammer the last nail in the coffin that was my under-the-radar plan.

                ‘Don’t think so Ivy. Anna and I are working together.’

                I had looked at Leyton with a death stare, but he had strategically ignored it.

‘What?’ she said slowly.

He shrugged apologetically.

‘Well we work together, so I figured it would be easy to get the project done. You know, snippets here and there when it’s quiet at the shop.’

‘Why would you want to work with this ugly bitch?’ Ivy said slowly, oozing venom with every word. She turned to look at me, her face was flushed slightly – maybe in embarrassment, maybe in anger. Leyton opened his mouth to no doubt argue with her but I held up my hand to stop him.

Leyton had already put the knife in by denying her like that and before I could think better of it, I couldn’t help but give it a little twist.

‘So sorry to interrupt your…bedroom time. But I hear you can get some truly excellent resources to help with that off the internet. You know, so you can go fuck yourself.’

The effect was instantaneous, Leyton snorted a laugh before quickly stifling it by covering his mouth. Ivy’s face went from pink to dark red, her whole body began to contract in on itself. Every cell in my body began to scream in preparation for the physical violence that looked like it was coming.

At that moment, Mr Porter clapped his hands together and began demanding student to go back to their seats. Ivy let her gaze linger on me for a moment and I knew, with that hate in her eyes, that this wasn’t over by a long way.

                So much for keeping a low profile.           

               

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 15.08.2013

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