I wake up on my perch with my hand still clasping Nana Josie’s chime. Someone’s put a duvet over me. I must have fallen asleep so early. I tuck the chime inside the cushion cover, and as I do I feel the letter from Simon Makepeace.
‘I didn’t want to disturb you. You must have been exhausted. At least you’ve had a good night’s sleep.’ Mum yawns her way downstairs. ‘I can’t believe you actually slept on that!’
‘I did!’
‘It can’t be that comfortable; there’s no room to stretch out.’
‘I curl up anyway.’
Mum sits down next to me and tests the springiness of the seats. There is none.
‘It’s got horsehair stuffing. The upholsterer asked me if I wanted it restuffed – maybe I should have . . .’
It’s like Mum’s been hit by a thunderbolt. She suddenly grabs hold of my arm, where my eczema is definitely getting worse. It’s started itching on the other arm now, and a bit in the crease behind my knees. The thing about the scratching is that most of the time I don’t even realize I’m doing it.
‘It could be the sofa you’re allergic to! Make this the first and last time you spend the night here, OK?’
‘I can’t be allergic to it. I’ve been sitting here for years.’
‘That’s true . . . but you’ve never slept on it before. Maybe your skin will settle down again when you get used to your new school. I’ll get some cream for you later. Are you worrying about starting secondary? Do you want me to walk in with you, just on the first day?
‘Yes, OK, a bit, no! Which question do you want me to answer?’
‘Sorry!’ Mum laughs. ‘I would like to walk you in though . . .’
As if that would help! I might as well take along a loudspeaker announcing to everyone how nervous I am: ‘Baby of the family arrives at school, walked in by her mummy!’
‘I’ll be fine, Mum!’ I say, shrugging off the duvet and going through to Mira’s room to get dressed.
I inspect the rings under my eyes in the mirror, then put on the school uniform laid out ready on the chair. Mira was right. I should at least have got a blazer of my own. I’m lost somewhere inside this one. I pull the skirt up where it’s sliding over my hips. Nothing fits except the tie.
‘Mum, I’ve decided I do want to have my own uniform.’
Mum gives my oversized blazer and me a sideways glance, but carries on cooking.
Five, four, three, two . . . right on cue, the smoke alarm goes off. I grab a tea towel and waft.
I used to think the alarm going off all the time was funny when Krish and Mira were around, but now when the shrieking noise starts I’m the only one here left to waft the smoke away and it makes my head ache.
‘You know, Laila, it’s not very helpful to wait until the first day of school to finally agree to having a new uniform!’
‘I thought you wanted me to have one that fits.’
Mum attempts to unstick the pancake from the bottom of the pan with a spatula.
‘OK, we’ll go at the weekend.’ She sighs.
I sit at the table and eat my way through the extra-crispy pancake.
Mum places a mug of tea in front of me.
‘Milk, no sugar, there you go! I won’t have time to make pancakes every day, but as I’m starting late this morning, you’re in luck. I’m going to have to get more organized from now on though! Maybe I’ll leave cereal out at night so you can help yourself . . .’
‘Thanks, Mum.’ I take a sip of tea. I think I’m getting to like the taste.
After breakfast Mum insists on taking a photo of me in the front room.
‘A new uniform would have been better, but the first day of secondary school is the first day of secondary school – history in the making!’
‘I think it’s happened to quite a lot of people before. Do you have to, Mum?’ I groan.
She’s holding up her iPhone and clicking away.
I force a smile.
If Mira had been here I would have asked her to do my hair in a French plait, and Krish would probably be trying to pick me up or make my tie more fat or skinny. They would be standing either side of me like cheerleaders, building me up.
‘The first-day photo’s a tradition!’ Mum says. ‘There you go . . . posted to Facebook.’
‘Were you posting stuff when Mira and Krish started secondary?’ I ask.
‘No . . . but!’
She shows me the photo. Even after all that sleep I still look tired, and the blazer makes me look like I’m wearing a black box.
‘Like it?’ she asks.
‘What difference does it make?’
‘Oh, don’t be grumpy, Laila.’
I groan at her status update.
My last baby off to secondary school!
Great. I’m right next to Krish’s video post of the snake in our kitchen. It’s got tons of likes and comments. I read over a few of them again.
Where ARE you? The Tropics?
Is that seriously in your house?
My ma says you have entered the cycle of change! Janu X
Quiet night in with a Cobra!
Sorry, can’t make it over for dinner tomorrow! Have to file my nails!
You call the RSPCA? What did they say?
BTEC in Reptiles? Is that sssssssssssserious!
Just an ordinary Saturday night in the Levenson household!
Remembering the madness of that day cheers me up.
‘What’s so funny?’ Mum asks.
‘Nothing! Just those comments about the snake!’
Mum shudders. ‘Don’t remind me! I’ll say goodbye before we open the door.’
She opens her arms and I let her hug me properly until her phone pings us apart.
‘Some messages for you!’ She hands me her phone.
Mira: Good luck, sis! xxx
Nana Kath: You’ve put her in a boy’s blazer!
Krish: Skinny crew then!
Hannah: How did it happen so fast? Share your pain!
Nana Kath: And why does she look so exhausted? What time did she go to bed?
Priya: Rock that look!
Anjali: Pretty girl!
Dad: Our beautiful baby Laila at secondary . . . Noooooooooooooooo!
I pull the tie even tighter to try to stop myself from welling up. What is the matter with me? It’s up to Mira and Mum to do the crying . . . not me. That’s how it’s supposed to be.
I step out of the door and walk down the steps.
‘Be careful how you cross the road, Laila; people don’t always stop at that crossing,’ Mum says as I shoo her back into the house. She laughs and closes the door.
Jeff the postman is standing by the tree reading the snake poster.
‘No one claimed it yet then?’ he asks.
‘Don’t think so,’ I say, trying to get past him before he starts up one of his ‘chats’.
‘Is that you off to secondary, Laila? It feels like five minutes since you were born! I remember . . .’
Oh, not again! I must have heard this the-day-you-were-born story a hundred times before.
‘. . . I came to the door to deliver a parcel, and your mum answered with her own little parcel wrapped-up in her arms! You can’t have been more than a few hours old.’
This weird little nervous laugh comes out of my mouth. ‘Well, I’ve got to go!’ I say as I squeeze around Jeff’s trolley.
There are a few people I know a bit from my year group in primary walking the same way in as me. We don’t exactly say hello, but they don’t seem to mind when I walk along with them. Everyone looks smaller in their uniforms, especially compared to the older years. Some of them look like giants. I listen to the Year Sevens chatting together, asking about each other’s summers, wondering what the tutors will be like, worrying about getting lost, feeling stupid in their uniforms . . . I could chip in, but I feel so on the outside. It’s not their fault. I suppose I’ve never really made much of an effort to make friends with anyone except Kez.
Everyone gets pushed and jostled and there are so many students taking up the pavement that I feel a bit panicky. I look down the path to the Unfriendship Bench. I tell myself that if I don’t walk past it, then maybe everything will go back to how it’s always been with me and Kez. I follow the pavement to the second entrance into the park. No one else is walking this way except a really old lady with an ancient dog that can hardly walk itself. I can’t tell which of them is waiting for the other. She smiles at me and I smile back. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this lonely.
I’m at the school gates now, looking down the path towards the bench. It doesn’t feel any better looking at it from this side. I wait for a minute or so longer to see if Kez is coming.
‘Waiting for a friend?’ the lady at the gate asks.
I nod.
She taps her watch. ‘Dearie! You have two minutes to get into school.’
I nod.
‘You’d better go on in now. You don’t want to be late on your first day!’
In primary I think some teachers used to think that I helped Kez. That she depended on me instead of the other way around – the way it actually is.
