Allison! Kelly-Anne called out.
She was in the bathroom,
standing over a steaming tub of bubbles.
I stood at the door,
thought she was going to ask me where we
kept the conditioner.
Get in, she said.
I stayed by the door,
wore my best stepdaughter face.
It was my house.
She wasn’t my mum.
Anyway I was ten:
too old to be told when to wash.
And she’d been living with us three days:
too soon to be ordering me around.
Your hair’s mank, she said flatly.
You can’t go to school like that.
Get in.
The TV blared downstairs,
Dad watching Match of the Day,
Kelly-Anne and me keeping away after
Spurs got knocked out of the FA Cup.
I’ll have a shower tomorrow, I lied,
and stomped to my room,
slamming the door
just enough to show her who was boss,
not so much to make Dad mad.
She knocked.
Allison, you need a wash.
My hands were covered in ink stains.
I’d been wearing the same socks for days.
How had I not noticed?
Why had Dad never said anything?
I sniffed my armpit.
Shame, like slime, filled my whole body.
I began to cry.
I don’t want a bath, I shouted.
Kelly-Anne charged into my room,
put one hand on her hip,
with the other pointed to the bathroom.
Go and have a bath this minute, she hissed.
I narrowed my eyes,
felt like spitting at her.
Instead I had a bath.
It was lovely.
It was long.
And afterwards,
with an expression like concrete,
I let Kelly-Anne blow-dry my hair straight,
faking being furious,
secretly hoping,
even then,
that Dad would drop dead
and leave the two of us to it
forever.