Heartbeat Away (10 page)

She's not convinced. ‘Really?' she asks.

I shrug, not wanting to unload all my troubles on her, as Lyn, one of the nurses, appears at the end of the corridor.

‘Alice – I thought you had places to go and horses to see?' she calls.

‘I'm coming! I'm coming! Get your sharpest needle ready.' She turns to me and smiles. ‘Sorry, got to go.' Her green eyes look serious for a moment. ‘Here's my mobile number,' she says, scribbling it on a scrap of paper then handing it to me. ‘Text me or ring if you want to talk.'

‘Thanks,' I tell her. ‘I will.'

‘And come riding with me one day . . . we'll have a great time!' she calls as she follows Lyn through the double doors.

I make my way back to Dr Sampson's consulting room. Mum's there with him, waiting. Everything is fine. So much so, Dr Sampson says we can change to monthly checks. I expected Mum to be over the moon, but for some reason
she's unusually quiet the whole way home. Something's bothering her.

‘Joe spoke to Rick last night,' she says finally, as she opens our front door. ‘He didn't get that job.'

I feel my face reddening. Joe comes out of the kitchen and stands in the hall, looking at me with a disappointed expression. I can't help feeling angry that Mum has waited until he's around before she tells me off.

‘You weren't round at Leah's yesterday, were you?' she continues.

‘Becky,' says Joe sternly, ‘why did you lie to us?'

‘I . . . I don't know —'

‘Where were you?'

I glare at Joe, suddenly filling with anger. ‘It's none of your business!' I shout at him. ‘You're not my dad! I don't have to tell you anything!'

‘Becky,' says Mum quietly, ‘we want to know where you were.'

‘Nowhere . . . I was just out. I'm fourteen! Do you always have to know exactly where I am?'

‘Yes. You've been very ill, Becky.'

‘But I'm fine now, aren't I? Dr Sampson has just said he doesn't want to see me again for another whole month. He wouldn't say that if he didn't think I was well.'

‘Becky, you're not like other girls your age —' says Joe.

‘I am!' I protest furiously. ‘Don't you dare say things like that! And I don't need to be fussed over all the time like I'm going to break any minute!' I shout, running upstairs.

‘Becky!' calls Mum after me.

‘Leave her,' I hear Joe say.

I dash into my room, throw myself on my bed and sob like a five year old.

I stay in my room all evening. Mum comes in at about ten and sits down on the edge of my bed. She doesn't say anything but strokes my hair for a few seconds.

‘I'm sorry, Mum,' I whisper.

She puts her arms round me and hugs me tight. ‘It's not that we don't want you to go out, Becky,' she says. ‘I know it's not good for you to be wrapped in cotton-wool.'

‘I wasn't on my own,' I tell her. ‘We just spent the day at the park.'

‘We?'

‘Sam and me.'

‘Sam.' She thinks for a second or two then nods. ‘That boy who was here the other day?'

‘He's a really nice lad, Mum. You can meet him. You'd like him.'

‘I'm sure I would,' she says with a small smile. ‘I just wish you'd try to like Joe.'

I hug her tightly, but don't reply.

Seven a.m. My alarm clock rings. Outside, it's pouring with rain, and I'm so tempted to tuck down deeper under my duvet and not emerge the whole day, but I know this will only delay things, not sort them. I'm dreading facing Shannon and everyone else at school, but know that I don't have a choice. Mum won't let me skip school without a good reason, and I'm not going to lie to her that I'm ill. I can't let Shannon get to me. I've got to be strong, I tell myself. I take a deep breath, then I haul myself out of bed.

Downstairs in the kitchen, I make toast, but I'm too on edge to eat it. Danny wolfs it down as I make my packed lunch, checking the clock every couple of minutes, anxiously wishing I could prolong the moment until I have to leave. Joe pops his head round the door.

‘I'm off now,' he says awkwardly. ‘Have a good day.'

‘Thanks.' I mumble, lowering my head and avoiding his eye.

I know that walking into my registration form is going to
be the hardest part of the day, so when I get to school I hurry through the puddle-strewn playground and slip inside early, before the bell rings. I'm already seated in my usual place at the very back as the rest of the class file in. I lift up my desk, stash away my lunch bag then take out a notebook and start furiously doodling in it, desperately trying to take my mind off the looks I can feel burning into me. Somehow, just drawing the long curving neck and body of a swan calms me a little. I've drawn them so often, I'm getting really good at them now. I start to think about Callum again and wonder what all these swans have got to do with him.

With my head firmly down, I sit on the edge of my seat, ready and waiting for Shannon to start. But nothing happens. Puzzled, I pluck up courage and cast a furtive glance around the room, slowly realising Shannon's nowhere to be seen. Everyone else has arrived. Masher's standing on a desk re-enacting level five of
Death Tomb Aliens 4
to Wesley and Darren, and Leah, Alesha and Jodie sit in a huddle, chatting excitedly about Leah's party in a few weeks' time. The bell rings for the second time. Mr MacNamara bustles in and dumps his old tatty leather briefcase on his desk.

‘Settle down now,' he calls amiably. ‘Crombie, you've got precisely three seconds to get yourself off that desk and onto your chair . . .'

Masher gives a blood-curdling
Death Tomb Alien
roar and theatrically launches himself off the desk onto the floor as McNamara pointedly ignores him.

Slowly, everyone settles into their seats and the business
of registration begins. I breathe a deep sigh of relief as Shannon is marked down as absent. It's stopped raining outside and shafts of sunlight are falling through the windows and brightening the whole room. I can't help but smile. There is a God after all.

Fifteen minutes pass and MacNamara is just dismissing us for the first lesson, when Shannon slopes in.

‘You're late, Miss Walters!' announces Mr MacNamara.

She ignores him but throws me a hostile look and my heart sinks like a stone. I don't hang around, but hurry off to PE knowing that at least I can look forward to spending the next hour and a bit on my own in the library.

Or so I think. Miss Baudelaire is off sick. A Miss Strout is waiting for us in the changing rooms.

‘Miss Baudelaire usually sends me to work in the library,' I inform her politely.

‘Note?' she snaps, barely looking at me.

‘Um, I . . . I don't have one.'

‘No note – no skiving.'

There are suppressed giggles from a couple of the other girls. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Shannon slink into the changing room, chuck someone else's stuff off the slatted bench, then hang up her bag over the radiator.

‘Hurry up and get changed,' Miss Strout orders, then, turning to the class, silences everyone with a single penetrating glare. ‘Anyone late on the pitch will make up the time after school.'

I have no choice. I take my kit out of my locker then go over to the deepest, darkest corner of the changing room, as far away from Shannon as possible. I turn away so that no one will see my scar as I take off my school shirt. As quickly as I can, I pull on the pristine Aertex PE blouse and do the buttons right up to the very top. I change into the skimpy wrap-around skirt and pull on my trainers.

Miss Strout starts handing out red and blue bibs. ‘You can play midfield,' she announces, dropping a red one onto my lap.

‘Sorry?' I ask, trying to work out where on the netball court she means. ‘Is that wing attack or defence?'

More sniggers from the girls near me. Miss Strout glares at me, her face like half-set concrete.

‘Neither,' she chastises. ‘We're playing hockey.' Disgusted by my total ignorance, she throws me a withering look, then continues handing out the bibs.

For the last couple of weeks, while everyone else has been learning hockey, I've been in the library. Apart from knowing the game involves a curved stick and a ball, it's a total mystery to me.

It's spitting with rain outside and everyone's hanging around in the draughty changing room until the last possible moment. Even the sporty girls seem reluctant to head outside. Leah hangs back with Jodie and avoids looking in my direction.

‘Get a move on!' calls Miss Strout, marching through the changing room door. ‘We haven't got all day!'

Reluctantly, girls start to follow her, each collecting a hockey stick and a pair of shin pads from the pile near the door. I notice most of them have also put mouth guards in. I rub my tongue protectively over my front teeth, trying not to think about how I'd look without them.

‘Out the way, Scar-Chest,' mutters Shannon, pulling on a blue bib as she barges past me.

‘Don't call me that,' I say. The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. I stand rooted to the spot, trying to disguise the fear on my face.

She stops abruptly in the doorway, turning to look me up and down through her mascaraed lashes.

‘Why not?' she asks with a smile.

Deep inside me a tiny flicker of anger suddenly ignites and it's this small spark that makes me snap back, ‘Because my name's Becky. And that's Becky with a y. Not an i.'

A brief look of surprise floods across Shannon's face, but within a split second it vanishes, leaving her usual smug expression. ‘Whatever . . . Scar-Chest . . .' She slowly turns and picks up a hockey stick and shin pads then, strolling outside, catches up with Sophie Morgan. Leah glances warily at me but when I meet her eye she quickly looks away.

Still quietly seething, I follow everyone out onto the pitch. Miss Strout immediately directs me to Shannon's side. To our mutual disgust, we're pitched against one another. As I look down at the hockey stick I'm clumsily carrying, wondering how exactly the thing works, my heart begins to
pound excitedly and, without thinking, I adjust my grip so naturally that the stick feels like it's been moulded to my fingers.

Miss Strout blows her whistle, the game starts and I instinctively know exactly what to do. It's as if I've been playing hockey every week for the last five years of my life. I skilfully dribble the ball before whacking it to a red-bibbed team mate. A stunned Miss Strout eyes me curiously, trying to make out why someone who's so obviously in her element tried to skive off the lesson in the first place.

‘Mark up, girl!' she snaps at Shannon, who glares across the pitch at me and takes every opportunity to try to whack her stick across my legs when Miss Strout isn't looking.

To avoid her, I head for the shooting circle, as Leah and another red-bibbed attacker exchange passes, quickly gaining ground towards me.

Suddenly, Sophie Morgan charges up, barging in front of me. ‘Leah! To me!' she calls assertively, holding her stick poised, ready for the ball.

Leah hesitates, looking from Sophie to me, but then suddenly taps me the ball. Surprised, I stop it, dribble it past the last two blue bibs into the ‘D', then take aim, and drag- flick it straight into the net, where it hits the backboard with a loud and very satisfying clunk. A small cheer goes up from the red bibs. Shannon's giving me the evils now as Leah passes me on her way back down the pitch. This time, she doesn't look away but meets my eye with the faintest of smiles.

‘Great goal,' she says quietly.

‘Thanks,' I reply. My elation soars sky high until it suddenly hits me that I'm no natural-born hockey star, and my goal is no lucky fluke, either. I'm hot from running, but an icy shiver tingles through me as I realise my newfound skill has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with Callum.

Conflicting thoughts of Callum prey on my mind as I struggle to make sense of what happened this morning on the hockey pitch. I can't concentrate in lessons and I'm told off for daydreaming. Twice. When the bell finally goes for lunch I hurry back to my form room. Sophie and Shannon are there, deep in conversation, with their backs to the door. I decide I'm not going to hang around, so I slope in as quietly as I can, lift the lid of my desk and grab my lunch bag. In my haste, the lid slips from my fingers and crashes down with a bang. Sophie and Shannon immediately turn around and glare at me, daggers drawn. But then Sophie's expression changes as she smiles knowingly at Shannon.

‘Enjoy your lunch,' she says.

I don't hang around to hear any more but head straight out into the playground. I sit down on the furthest bench under the oak tree, take out my anti-bacterial wipes, carefully clean my hands, then open up my bag and reach inside. But instead of my usual peanut butter sandwich, my
fingers touch something else. Something warm, squidgy . . . and alive. I scream and reel backwards, throwing the bag onto the grass. I stare in horror at my hand, coated with filthy, germ-ridden soil.

A small brown lump emerges from my lunch bag. Slowly, the thing moves towards the bench.

It's a bumpy-skinned, dirty, slimy toad. And it's been in
my
bag. I shudder helplessly as my stomach turns a somersault and I have the overwhelming urge to be sick. As I fight down the sour acid taste rising in my throat, I realise I know exactly who's done this.

This time Shannon Walters has gone one step too far. She's pushed me over the edge and she isn't going to get away with it.

Furiously, I march back inside, down the corridor towards my form room.

‘Ignore her,' I try to tell myself. ‘Don't let her see how upset you are.'

But I can't stop. I'm beyond upset. I'm livid. The teasing is upsetting, the online comments are nasty, but this is far, far worse and she knows it. I'm going to have it out with Shannon Walters once and for all.