35

‘One last time, Ro,’ Mr Modi, the head of Year Ten says. ‘Why did you physically attack Sienna?’

‘I only pushed her,’ I say quietly.

It wasn’t my fault Sienna made such a meal out of falling over, knocking over a load of paintbrushes on her way down and howling like a Premier League footballer trying to get a penalty.

Mr Modi sighs. ‘Fine, then why did you push Sienna?’

‘I don’t know, sir,’ I say.

He sighs again. ‘So, you just pushed her for no reason? She did absolutely nothing to provoke you?’

I’m grappling for a plausible answer when his phone rings.

‘Excuse me, Ro,’ he says, turning his back on me to answer it.

While Mr Modi is talking, I take an inventory of his wastepaper basket and conclude he has a thing for chunky KitKats.

‘Right,’ he says, replacing the receiver. ‘If you’d like to come with me, Ro. We’re wanted in Mrs Hibbert’s office.’

 

Mrs Hibbert is not alone.

‘Welcome, Ro,’ she says in her husky Liverpudlian accent. ‘Take a seat. Now, have you met Ms Habib? She’s our head of pastoral support.’

‘Hi, Ro,’ Ms Habib says, smiling.

‘Hi,’ I say faintly, a fresh helping of dread pinning me to my chair.

‘How are you doing today, Ro?’ Mrs Hibbert asks, her tone uncharacteristically gentle.

‘Er, OK,’ I say, trapping my sweaty hands under the backs of my thighs. The upholstery is rough and scratchy against my damp palms.

‘Just to reassure you, Ro, you’re not in trouble. OK? No one is.’

That’s when I know for sure this has nothing to do with me pushing Sienna.

‘We just want to have a bit of a chat,’ Mrs Hibbert continues, nodding at Ms Habib.

Ms Habib angles her chair towards me and smiles. Her teeth are very white. ‘We just have a few questions, Ro, about things at home.’

The word ‘home’ makes my blood run cold.

‘Nothing to worry about,’ Ms Habib adds. ‘All very straightforward.’

Then why is my heart beating so fast? And why is sweat dripping down my back, pooling at the waistband of my skirt? And why are my ears ringing? And why do I feel like my brain has been freshly stuffed with cotton wool?

Ms Habib looks down at the notebook on her lap, flipping back through the pages. They’re filled with handwritten notes.

I wonder who told. It could be anyone. Practically the whole of Year Ten was at Jack’s party.

Ms Habib looks up, smiling another toothpaste-ad smile. ‘Now, let’s start with the basics, shall we? You live the majority of the time with your mum, is that correct?’

 

They keep referring to it as a ‘chat’. It doesn’t feel like a chat, though; it feels like an interrogation. They think they can throw me off the scent with their smiles and kind voices and assurances that everything would be OK, but I knew the score the second Ms Habib got her notebook out. I downplay or deny every single suggestion that there’s an issue at home, feigning confusion at every step, stretching my acting skills to the absolute limit.

‘So, would you say you and your mum have quite a normal mother-daughter relationship?’ Ms Habib asks.

‘Yes, of course,’ I say, blocking out pretty much every memory of Bonnie from the last ten years. ‘Totally normal.’

I have no idea if they’re buying it but I have no idea how else to play it.

Half an hour later, it’s all over.

‘If you’d like to wait outside, Ro,’ Mrs Hibbert says.

After ten minutes Ms Habib and Mr Modi leave and I’m called back in to speak to Mrs Hibbert alone.

‘Mr Modi filled me in on what happened this morning,’ Mrs Hibbert says. ‘Has it got anything to do with what we discussed just now?’

I shake my head hard. ‘No, miss.’

‘We have a very strict policy on physical violence here at Ostborough Academy.’

‘Yes, miss.’

‘Having said that, I get the feeling the circumstances around what happened this morning are not that black and white.’

I don’t say anything even though I can tell she wants me to.

‘I think the best option for all parties is to suspend you for the rest of the day and start tomorrow afresh. Does that sound fair?’

‘Yes, miss. Thank you.’

She’s being generous. She could have easily just stuck me in the exclusion centre for the rest of the week.

‘Now,’ she continues. ‘Miss Tavistock in the office couldn’t get hold of your mother. But she’s managed to track down your stepmother. She’ll be here to collect you shortly.’

Melanie.

Great.

 

‘We’ll discuss this properly when we get home,’ Melanie says briskly as we walk towards her car. I spot Izzy in the passenger seat, playing on her iPad.

‘Why isn’t she at school?’ I ask.

‘She’s poorly. She thinks we’ve come to pick you up because you have a tummy ache by the way. I don’t want her to know you’ve been fighting.’

Of course not, for precious little Izzy must be protected at all costs.

‘I haven’t been fighting,’ I say. ‘I barely even pushed the girl. And what makes you think I’m coming back with you anyway?’

‘For one thing, I’m pretty certain your father is going to want to talk to you about this.’

‘Then he can wait until it’s my weekend at yours.’

Melanie stops walking and puts her hands on her hips. ‘Rosie, considering the circumstances, I don’t think you’re in any position to be calling the shots right now. We’ll drop you back at your mother’s later, but until then, you’re in my care and you’ll do as I ask.’

A fresh jolt of anger shoots up my spine. ‘No,’ I say.

Melanie’s perfectly plucked eyebrows leap halfway up her forehead. ‘Excuse me, young lady?’

‘No,’ I repeat. ‘You and Dad don’t just get to simply pick and choose when I’m “in your care”. What about the rest of the time? Where are you then? Do you know what my life is like when you’re not around?’ The words fall out of me in an angry torrent. ‘Of course you don’t!’ I say when she doesn’t answer. ‘You probably don’t even give me a second thought when I’m not shoved under your nose.’

‘You’re exaggerating!’

‘Am I though? My boss at work checks in with me more than Dad does!’

‘You’re just being silly now. Your dad is an incredible father!’

‘Wrong, Melanie. He’s an incredible father to Izzy. Me? His actual daughter? Not so great.’

‘Well, it’s not like you make it very easy for him, skulking round the place with a face like a smacked bottom. It’s a two-way street, Rosie!’

God, I hate her. I used to think I’d done OK in the stepmother stakes, that at least I hadn’t ended up with someone downright evil, but over the years it’s become obvious that Melanie’s breed, with her plastered-on smile and fake concern, is just as dangerous.

‘Ever wondered why I might look pissed off?’ I ask.

She hesitates.

‘Thought not. Because all you care about is yourself and your mini-me over there. You don’t give a toss about me. You never have.’

‘How dare you!’ Melanie cries, her face tomato red. ‘I’ve bent over backwards to welcome you into our family!’

‘He was my family first!’ I scream.

‘Well, he chose us, didn’t he?’ she says, smiling smugly. ‘Me and Izzy. I’m sorry if that hurts to hear, Ro, but it’s true, and no amount of kicking and screaming is going to change that.’

Izzy has stopped playing on her iPad and is watching us with interest through the front windscreen.

Melanie notices her, rearranging her features and waving. ‘Now, get in the car,’ she says to me through gritted teeth.

She actually thinks she’s won.

I stay where I am.

‘I said, get in the car,’ she repeats.

As if I’m going to go anywhere with her.

‘No,’ I say.

‘No?’ she repeats. ‘You’re walking on thin, thin ice, young lady.’

‘You can tell Dad that if he wants to talk to me, he knows where to find me. Bye, Melanie.’ I turn on my heel and start walking.

‘Rosie Snow!’ Melanie yells after me, her voice verging on hysterical. ‘Come back here this instant!’

I ignore her and keep going.