I’m still plucking up the courage to talk to Mum and Dad about them splitting up. I haven’t done it yet because (a) they don’t seem to be arguing any more, and (b) something massively momentous has happened.

I was sitting in my science class this afternoon with Alice, pretending to understand what Mr Jackson had asked us to do. I know it had something to do with a Bunsen burner and some liquid, but other than that it was a complete mystery to me. Alice wasn’t being much help either cos she was busy trying to finish her French homework, which was due in next period – Madame Dupont is not universally known for her tolerance and compassion when her pupils are late with homework. You could show her video evidence of your dog literally eating your French verbs and she would still look stony-faced and give you a detention slip.

I had a quick glance over my shoulder to the bench behind me, where Ben and Jack were sitting, to see if I could get any clues about what to do. And that’s when it happened. Ben smiled at me! It was only a little smile and he looked away straight afterwards, but it was still a smile – just for me!

That smile made today the best science lesson ever. Even when Mr Jackson stormed over to our bench and started yelling at us and asking why we hadn’t actually done anything purposeful all lesson. Even when I could see Moronic Louise nudging her equally stupid friend and sniggering at me. Even when Alice was a bit fed up with me for not attempting to keep us out of trouble and under the radar with Mr Jackson. All I could do was look kindly at my fellow classmates and hug the memory of that smile to myself.

Alice instantly forgave me when we got out of science and I told her why I’d been acting so strangely. She understood completely that I could not be expected to focus on the mundanities of the science national curriculum while forces of nature were aligning the stars that would bring Ben and me together. Or something like that.

I float home after school and drift into the kitchen. And of course Mum can tell that something is up.

‘Had a good day, Liv?’ she asks, peering at me over the top of her reading glasses.

‘S’all right, I s’pose,’ I mumble back, trying to play it cool and pretending to be absorbed in the back of the newspaper that she’s reading.

‘OK – spill!’ she says, folding up the paper and putting it on the table. ‘We both know you want to tell me something.’

I think for a moment. Should I tell her? I’m pretty sure she’ll get why I’m excited – but all of a sudden I feel a bit embarrassed about actually saying the words. My camera is lying on the kitchen table where I left it this morning and I pick it up, glad to have something to do with my hands while I think about what to say.

‘I know something’s going on, Olivia Ellis.’ Mum leans forward and rests on her elbows, looking me in the eye.

‘Maybe,’ I say, grinning inside. I actually do want to tell her but it’s kind of fun, making her wait like this.

‘You know you’re going to tell me anyway, so get on with it!’ Mum has utterly no patience and she won’t take no for an answer. Which is actually pretty cool most of the time – I hardly ever want to keep things from her and she often has good advice (sometimes she has some terrible advice too, so I just ignore her on those occasions). I aim the camera at her face and push the button. Great – that’s ‘impatient’ sorted for my Isaac project.

Then I plonk myself down in the chair opposite her and make sure I have her full attention.

‘Ben smiled at me in science!’ I lean back, smug in the knowledge that she will understand what an eventful day this is. She does not disappoint.

‘OK – I can see why you’re looking so excited! I presume we are talking about the Ben. Mr Gorgeous, Mr Sporty, Mr Clever?’

‘Err – yes, Mum. How many Bens do you think I like?’

‘Just checking,’ she says. ‘So, it’s been a good day then?’

‘The best!’ I tell her. ‘I really thought he didn’t like me, but maybe I was wrong.’

‘Earth to Liv – you were definitely wrong! Why on earth wouldn’t he like you? I happen to know that you are extremely likeable. In fact, there would have to be something wrong with the poor boy if he didn’t like you.’

‘It was just a smile, Mum,’ I say. ‘He hasn’t asked me out or anything.’

‘Do you want him to?’ asks Mum, smiling at me across the table.

I can feel a red blush spreading across my face as I think about all the reasons why I like Ben. I’m glad that Dad and Isaac aren’t home yet – there is no way I could have this conversation if they were around.

‘I’m not sure,’ I whisper, suddenly feeling that Ben’s smile could have meant just about anything. ‘Yes – maybe – I don’t know.’

‘It’s hard to know what to think about boys sometimes, isn’t it?’ says Mum and I look at her in surprise. What would she know about it? She’s been married to Dad for fifteen years.

Mum laughs. I guess my face is telling her exactly what I’m thinking.

‘Yes, Liv, believe it or not I was once your age. And I did like the occasional boy or two, or five. I do remember what it’s like – and mostly I remember it being very confusing!’ She takes hold of my hand. ‘Ooh, cold hands!’ Mum tucks my hand inside both of hers and rubs, warming my fingers.

‘But it wasn’t the same for you,’ I tell her.

‘No?’ She moves on to my other hand.

‘Everything’s different these days. You and Dad are always saying that.’

‘Some things are different,’ she corrects. ‘Other things will always be the same, and sometimes the only way to cope with things is by knowing that you are not the first person who has ever had to deal with a situation. And you will definitely not be the last.’ She stops rubbing my hands and stares out of the window and it feels like I’ve lost her for a moment.

‘Mum?’ I say, and she snaps her head back towards me. ‘I don’t know what to do next.’

‘You don’t have to do anything special,’ says Mum. ‘Life is an adventure, Liv. Sometimes you just need to let it happen. Ben smiled at you – so smile back!’

I grin at her, feeling happy inside.

‘I just need you to remember something really important,’ Mum says, and I groan. Here it comes – the talk about keeping safe and behaving myself. I should have known that she wouldn’t be able to resist giving me a lecture.

‘I want you never to forget that I understand. I know how it feels. It’s not always going to be easy for you to talk to me – but there’s something I want to give you that I hope will help when you need reminding that you’re not on your own.’ Mum pushes back her chair and stands up.

‘Get a snack and meet me upstairs in my room. Give me five minutes.’ She leaves the kitchen and I’m left wondering what it is that she’s talking about.

I make myself a drink and grab a biscuit from the pig tin. Isaac bought it for Mum for Mother’s Day a few years ago. It’s hideous actually, but Mum claims to love it. I think she only uses it cos she doesn’t want to hurt Isaac’s feelings and it was really a miracle that he bought her anything at all. He doesn’t normally get the point of giving things to other people and I end up putting his name on whatever I’ve bought.

By the time I get upstairs, Mum is dragging a box out from under her bed and wiping an inch-thick layer of dust off the top.

‘Ooh, what’ve you got there then? Family heirloom?’ I say, throwing myself on the bed.

She hauls the box up and puts it down next to me. ‘As close to a family heirloom as you’re likely to get, so be impressed. Go on then, open it up!’

I have to admit, I am pretty excited. Ideas about what might be inside the box are flying into my head – precious jewellery maybe, or a vintage summer dress that would make me irresistible to Ben. I yank open the lid and look inside.

‘Books?’ I say. ‘And dusty, ancient ones too!’

‘Hang on a minute, Liv – and less of the ancient if you don’t mind. These aren’t just any old books. They’re my diaries from when I was young.’

Diaries, hey? My ears prick up at this and I start to feel a bit less disappointed. This could be hilarious – I bet Mum was a real goody-goody when she was a kid.

‘Now, I’m not a world expert on anything but what I do know about is being an eleven-year-old girl. You don’t have to read them all now, but I’m giving you these diaries to read whenever you think that nobody understands you.’ Mum gives me a hug and starts to put the lid back on the box.

‘Hey, let me have a look at them then,’ I protest.

‘Not a chance – not with me sitting here!’ she laughs. ‘Far too embarrassing. And I don’t want you quoting the daft things I used to write about over the breakfast table, OK?’

She stands up and heads out of the room, stopping in the doorway and turning back to me.

‘I’m going to the shed to pot up some plants – give me a yell if Dad phones. Put these in your room and read them when it feels like the right time. There’re some pretty good rules for life in there, you know!’

I grin at her and pick up the box. Heading down the hall to my bedroom, I can hear Mum go downstairs, humming a tune that I vaguely remember.

I sit down on the window seat in my room. It’s my favourite place to sit and think. If I close the curtains, then nobody can see me but I can look out and see everyone walking down the street outside our house. Today they’re all rushing, heads bent against the driving rain that is pelting down and I’m glad to be inside.

I open up the box and pull out the first book. It looks really battered. The front cover is all creased and there’s a stain that looks like it might once have been Weetabix. The title says My Secret File: A Do-It-Yourself Dossier For Your Darkest Thoughts and the price on the back says 95p. Crikey – it must be old then – you can’t buy anything for 95p nowadays.

I open it up. The first page says My Vital Statistics and is full of fascinating (not!) facts about Mum, like she weighed 5 stone and had size 2 feet and brown eyes. Nothing remotely interesting here then. The next page is pretty similar – she’d written that her nickname was ‘Rat’ and that she was eight years and two months old. Her handwriting is terrible. I can’t believe she has the nerve to have a go at me for writing sloppily. I can barely read what she’s written in some places! I flick through and then find this page:

– MY PETS: Rover, my fish

– MY FAVOURITE BOOK: All the Famous Fives

– MOST USELESS THING I OWN: My Little Pony

– HOW MUCH POCKET MONEY I GET EACH WEEK: None

– HOW MUCH I’D LIKE TO GET: 50 pounds

– NOW A SERIOUS ANSWER: 10p

– IF I HAD £100 I’D BUY: A big doll

– FAVOURITE FOOD: Angel Delight and fish fingers

– BEST RECORDS: Culture Club, Adam and the Ants

– I AM TALENTED AT: Licking my nose

Hahaha! Mum had a My Little Pony! She is always telling me what a tomboy she was and that she spent all her time playing outside and climbing trees and helping out in the garden – and it turns out that all she actually wanted was a ‘big doll’? What a waste of £100. If I had £100 I’d buy a new iPod or loads of iTunes vouchers or a touch-screen phone. What was she thinking?

I’m a bit concerned about her lack of ambition as well. Settling for 10p a week pocket money? Seriously? I know stuff was cheaper back then, but that’s taking the mickey. What could she possibly have bought with 10p? I suppose she could have saved up for six weeks and treated herself to a Mars bar – she really loves them!

I’ve never actually heard of the bands she’s written down, but that isn’t particularly surprising cos I haven’t heard of any of the music that she listens to now either. It’s always really embarrassing whenever she takes me and Alice anywhere in the car. She goes on about developing our musical education and then puts on a load of rubbish that nobody would ever want to listen to.

I return the book to the box and slide the whole thing into my wardrobe, pushing it to the back. It’s just as I thought – funny, but irrelevant to me in every way.

I’m just finishing my maths homework when Mum calls me down for tea. I’ve been repeating this maths homework now for the best part of two and a half weeks and every time I hand it in Mrs Woods hands it straight back with a ‘Not good enough, Olivia’. I have literally no idea what I need to do to improve it, so today I have resorted to the only option available to me. The homework is to do with some magic cube (nothing remotely magical about it as far as I can see) and I have taken the drastic action of drawing all the cubes again and colouring them in with the nicest felt tips that I could find – had to search in my old art box for ages to find any that hadn’t run out. If she isn’t happy with it tomorrow, then I can do nothing more. I have utilized every mathematical and non-mathematical skill that I have and I am now empty of ideas – so this had better work …

I walk into the kitchen and instantly stub my toe on the big cardboard box that is, for no reason whatsoever, sitting in the middle of the floor.

‘Isaac Ellis!’ I roar, hopping around the kitchen in agony and clutching my foot.

‘What?’ asks Isaac, who is sitting at the table. He takes one earphone out of his ear. Evidently I am not important enough today to have his full attention.

‘Do you think it is remotely possible that you could not constantly leave this stinking pile of old junk in the doorway?’

‘Yes, it is possible that I don’t leave it there constantly. Yesterday I left it in the bathroom,’ he says, turning away from me. This conversation is boring him.

‘Yes, well, maybe, if I find it in my way again, I’ll leave it outside for the bin men,’ I spit. I know this is unwise, but I am fed up with the way we all have to tiptoe around Isaac and what he wants. It’s so unfair – the minute I leave so much as a shoe on the floor in the hallway I’m told to tidy it up.

‘Olivia,’ warns Mum, casting a look at me, but I am too cross to pay attention.

‘I could actually break my neck if I fell over that box of old tat.’

Isaac takes both earphones out now and turns off his iPod, very slowly. He rarely loses his temper, not since Dad taught him how to count to twenty before saying anything if someone is upsetting him. I watch him, seeing him counting in his head, and wonder what he’ll do when he gets there.

Isaac’s box is very precious to him. The box itself is nothing special but it is full of really important things that Isaac can’t do without. He’s had it forever and every now and then he’ll add something to it, but he’ll never take anything out. I can’t see why he wants any of it. It’s all old and a bit manky – stuff like a Coke can that Dad gave him when they went to watch football. (The one and only time that happened, Isaac totally spun out with all the crowds and they ended up sitting in the car for most of the time. I’d have thought he’d want to forget that event, personally.) There’s a bit of clay that’s moulded into some weird shape: I don’t think even Isaac knows what it is, but apparently it’s necessary for his very survival. Then there’s stuff like a badge saying Happy Second Birthday and a totally disgusting feather that he plucked off a dead bird in the garden. Like I said, none of it makes any sense to anyone other than him. But Mum says that it doesn’t hurt anyone and makes him feel secure, so we mustn’t make a big deal of it.

Isaac’s obviously counted to twenty because he gets up and walks over to me. I hold my breath. Isaac isn’t often violent but we’ve had some fairly big fights in the past. This time, though, he just picks up his box.

‘It’s not tat,’ he mutters, and goes through to the living room.

I feel awful. I know it’s wrong to try to wind him up, but he does get all the attention round here and sometimes I just can’t help it. Mum sighs at me, but gives Isaac a big thumbs-up when he comes back in and sits down at the table.

‘Good choice, Isaac. Well done for ignoring your sister,’ she says pointedly.

Yes, all right – I feel bad enough already. It would have been easier if he’d had a meltdown. Now I just feel a bit rubbish.

Dad comes in and the rest of our meal passes as uneventfully as a meal in the Ellis family can do. There is a moment of crisis when Isaac’s tomato ketchup oozes perilously close to his peas – he cannot stand bits of his food touching each other and has been known to leave the table in a strop if this happens. However, disaster is averted when I leap to the rescue and spoon up the excess sauce before it reaches the vegetables – and nicely land myself back in the parental good books, so a success all round.

After tea we do our jobs. Isaac checks the chart and happily informs me that it’s my turn to dry up. He races through the washing-up with surprising speed – usually he has to make sure that each plate has been scrubbed thirty-five times or something, and then dashes into the living room to put the TV on. It takes me ages to finish the drying but I don’t mind because I’m still feeling pretty guilty about being unkind to Isaac.

I finally finish and walk into the living room where I stop dead in the middle of the floor. I can’t believe it! There, on my side of the sofa, where I always sit to watch television, is Isaac’s box. His grubby, smelly box, that I demanded he move, is sitting in pride of place and resting on my favourite, comfy cushion. And Isaac is sitting upright next to it, watching excitedly for my reaction.

‘What? Not OK! Mum, Dad – tell him!’ I squeal.

Isaac bursts out laughing and Mum and Dad join in. I stand with my hands on my hips for a few more seconds and then start giggling. I walk over to Isaac and give him a high-five before settling down on the floor, which is where I spend the rest of the evening. Every now and again, one of us will look over at the box and start sniggering again. In the ad break I fetch my camera and take a picture of Dad pointing at the box and laughing. That can be ‘amused’.

It’s the best evening we’ve had in ages and all because of my brother. You see, Isaac doesn’t do joking. With Isaac, it either ‘is’ or it ‘isn’t’, and jokes are based on ‘what-ifs’ and ‘maybes’. He was mad at me, but while he counted to twenty he thought of a way to get me back that was funny. It might not be the best joke you’ve ever heard, but in my family it’s the most hilarious thing we’ve ever seen Isaac do.

That makes today a pretty good day. I’m starting to think I might have got it wrong about Mum and Dad too – surely two people who laugh like that together can’t have fallen out of love?