Dad didn’t reply to my email after all. Instead, my unanswered email was bounced back. I don’t mind admitting that I’m confused and no longer feel quite as confident as I did before. At this point I bring out the pirate island and retrieve Saint Gabriel and my list and I tell him he’s failed on getting me an email.

“Strike one,” I scold, flicking the medal with my fingers. “But I’ll let you off if you can get me into a school for wizards.” I get a pencil and draw a line through number four on my list and put everything back inside the treasure chest and then I take the plastic skull-and-crossbones flag and stick it on top to show my anger.

Dad, it seems, has poured poison on the little tree I was growing inside my soul. Slowly the leaves begin to wilt. Without hesitation I send him another email. Who knows, maybe I’m having an out-of-body experience. Mum once said a character in an old TV soap called Dallas died and then turned up in the shower and everything that had happened before was just a dream. So I run into the bathroom, climb into the shower, count to ten, jump back out and sit down at the computer again. Nope. Not a dream. Because the email I just sent to Dad has pinged back at me, unanswered.

That night I don’t sleep too well. I have a strange dream that I’m in Paradise. Only it’s not Paradise estate as I know it. Instead, I’m under a tree and leaves are falling on me like emeralds and Saint Gabriel’s medal is the sun. At first it feels amazing and I hold my outstretched hands to the sky, catching the gem leaves as they fall. Some spill through my fingers but others are brittle. A cloud passes over Saint Gabriel and it grows dark as more emeralds shower me and I want to call for help, only I have no voice. That’s when someone reaches out and, although I can’t see the person’s face, I feel the grasp of their fingers on mine. For a second I’m confused and want to pull away. But their grip is firm and somewhere deep inside I know I have to trust them. When I wake up, I swear I can still feel the warmth of their hand in mine.

Walking to school the next morning is horrible. In the ten minutes it takes me to reach the gates I’ve decided I might as well score number seven off the list. Our Lady of the Portal isn’t rising from mists of magic like a school for wizards – instead it’s sitting like a huge grey prison dumped in a gravel pit of utter misery. To make matters worse, one of the prisoners is acting weird. Christopher wants to know why I didn’t stay longer and watch him do tae kwon do. But just as I’m about to open my mouth, Jo says that she needs a chat, just the two of us. Unfortunately, this private chat doesn’t amount to more than a discussion on how Saint Gabriel died of tuberculosis, aged twenty-four. From the corner of my eye I notice Christopher get up and sit beside Kevin Cummings. He says very loudly that it’s not nice to be left out by people he thought were his friends.

After lunch Christopher is still in a mood. He doesn’t even crack a smile when Mrs Parfitt asks us to sit down because she has exciting news. “I have a new project for you to work on,” says Mrs Parfitt, looking around at twenty-eight not-so-eager faces. “We’re going to start Project Eco Everywhere.”

Kevin Cummings pipes up that that’s PEE for short and Mrs Parfitt tells him that if she wants an opinion she’ll give it to him. “Yes, Miss,” he says, slumping back in his chair.

Apparently, Project Eco Everywhere is going to be our opportunity to highlight how much we throw away and how we can actually create something really special. Mrs Parfitt calls it zero to hero, which means we’re taking items no one wants and using them to create an outfit immortalizing someone important in our lives. When we’re finished, not only are we going to model these outfits on a Project Eco Everywhere catwalk, but at a later stage we’re going to raffle them off to make money to donate to local projects that help educate people about litter.

“You can bring in old egg cartons, cereal packets, clothing, empty pie cases and wrapping foil or whatever else you find. Show me you can turn rubbish into something good. I want to see your hero emerge.”

“From the dump,” whispers Kevin Cummings.

“When I say hero, I think it would be nice if you look close to home. Do you have a parent or a sibling who could be your hero? I don’t want obvious superheroes from the movies. I want real heroes, if at all possible,” say Mrs Parfitt. “If you can’t think of a family member, pick someone else you look up to. And remember you’ll be wearing this on a catwalk, so big and bold is the way to go.”

“A catwalk?” yelps Jo. “I’m going to be a supermodel—”

“Wearing an old steak and kidney pie tin,” shouts Kevin. As Mrs Parfitt approaches him he slumps back in his chair again and pretends to zip his lips.

Mrs Parfitt stops, looks around and says, “The Project Eco Everywhere show is going to take place at the Amandine Hotel instead of at school. This is because they’ve offered the ballroom for free if we advertise them in our brochure. Isn’t it exciting? And…” The words hang tantalizingly in the air. “There might be a big surprise. I can’t tell you what it is yet because it isn’t fully organized. But let’s just say that you will want to do well on this project.”

I make a mental list of family members I could turn into heroes for PEE. It doesn’t take long. There is Mum or Ninja Grace… I think for a millisecond before deciding I’m going to do Dad instead. All right, so he’s not exactly top of my hero list at the moment, but this could be my new bright idea to bring him back into my life. I don’t know precisely how this bright idea will make that happen, but I’m working on it.

Christopher suddenly mutters that he’s going to do his dad too. For some reason I’m surprised. It’s not that I didn’t think he had a family – it’s just that he’s never mentioned them before. When I try to make conversation by asking him what his dad is like, he says that he’s like everyone else’s dad. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say that I doubt it.

“You’re doing what?” snorts Ninja Grace when I tell her about PEE. She’s waiting, arm-in-arm with Stan, at the school gates. “Did I hear you right? You’re making a hero outfit from rubbish and then modelling it on a catwalk. Sounds like a freak show to me.”

I shove my hands in my pockets and start walking. “Yeah, it’s all about showing how much we chuck away and how we can make something special from it.”

“You can have a pair of my laddered tights for ninety-nine pence. Cheaper than what they charged me at the pound shop,” quips Grace.

Stan laughs at Grace’s joke, strokes the face fungus growing on his upper lip and watches as at least one whole digestive in crumb-form drops out.

“I’m making Dad my hero,” I say.

There’s this dramatic silence. Actually, I think the birds stop tweeting. The world stops turning and all the rivers subside, leaving fish flapping on dry riverbeds. The sun disappears and I’m left standing in a vortex.

“You are not making Dad your hero,” squeals Grace.

Word ninja aims her samurai at my heart!

Stan looks awkward, which to be fair isn’t too far removed from how he usually looks, and his tongue pokes about for another ’tache digestive. After that he makes some excuse about getting home to watch his favourite quiz show. When Stan turns left at the fork in the road, Grace blurts out that she thinks I’m delusional.

“I don’t think so,” I say, scuffing my toes along the pavement.

“You see. You’re deluding yourself about deluding yourself.” Grace stomps alongside me. “Just because you’ve seen Dad on telly doesn’t mean he’s a hero.”

“Yeah, but…” I say.

Grace stops and looks at me. “No buts, unless you’re a goat.”

“But I’m allowed to have a dad,” I reply.

“Sure you are. Don’t think this’ll change anything though. Don’t expect him to want you back.” The word ninja storms off towards Paradise Parade, shouting, “You’re a mentalist!”

I trail after her, muttering how it takes one to know one.

As soon as I turn my key in the lock and enter the hallway, Grace calls me upstairs. But she’s not in her bedroom, she’s in mine. When I tell her she’s in the wrong room, a villainous smile plays on her lips and she lifts up a small slip of paper and dangles it in front of me, then swings it like the pendulum of a clock.

“I knew you were up to no good, and this proves it.” The paper wafts in front of me and my eyes follow it.

Trying to grab it, I shout, “I’m telling Mum you were snooping in my bedroom.”

“Oh no you’re not. For your information, I had to come in here to check on that mutt of yours because he was barfing up that toy pirate you left on the carpet. Did you want me to leave him with a plastic cutlass jammed between his canines?”

“No,” I reply. “But you were still being nosy and going through my stuff. Mum won’t be happy with you.”

“Get over yourself. You wouldn’t dare tell Mum because she’d want to know what it was about and it would be my duty to tell her you’ve been emailing Dad.” In this battle of threats, Grace is the winner and she knows it.

“I thought about emailing Dad,” I say, “but I changed my mind. I’m not going to bother.”

Grace rips the paper into tiny bits. “Correct answer! And if I were you I wouldn’t leave Dad’s email address taped to the front of your computer again. It’s rather obvious. You’re definitely not going to email him, are you?”

“I promise I will not email Dad,” I return. Satisfied, Grace asks me to hold out my hand, which I do. She sets the foamy, sick-covered pirate in my palm. Then she opens her other hand and lets Dad’s email address flutter down like confetti.

“Look,” Grace says, triumphant. “Your pirate is on the island of broken dreams and hey, it’s snowing.”

Despite being stuck with the worst sister in the world, I’m not going to break my promise to her.

So I won’t be emailing Dad again.

Next time, I’m going to see him face-to-face.