Glitter (3 page)

My dad stops the car in front of a grey concrete block of flats somewhere in London.

“We’re here, Liberty,” he says. “I need you to help me with your trunk because it’s not safe to leave it on the roof. It’ll be gone in a flash.”

“Where are we, Daddy?” I ask. “Who lives here?” “We do,” he says, running his hand through his hair, “for now anyway. I know it’s a mess, Liberty, but this is what it’s come to: a grotty flat in a grotty part of town.”

“But why here?” I ask. “Why not home?”

“Because, as Sebastian so delicately put it, we don’t actually have a home any more. He was right, Liberty; we
don’t have anything left. The bank has taken everything except a few personal bits. This flat belongs to a friend of mine, he usually rents it out, but it’s free at the moment, so I moved in yesterday and we’re staying here until I get back on my feet. It won’t take long, I promise, I’ve got my finger in a few pies already.”

I stare up at the ugly grey building.

“So we don’t have a home?” I whisper.

Some big kids are click-clacking on skateboards, a few girls are playing hopscotch and there are some really young children squealing and running around playing catch without any grown-ups watching them. The words “Welcum to the dump” are written in red graffiti on the wall near the lift. I’ve seen places like this on TV but I’ve never been to one in real life and I don’t feel very welcome.

My trunk is heavy and it keeps twisting around and hurting my wrist. I try my hardest to be strong, but it’s just too heavy for me. My dad sighs and ends up dragging it along on his own, while I manage our bags. He’s not talking and when we discover the lift is broken he groans and snaps while he bumps my trunk up the stairs. After we’ve gone up a couple of flights, he starts getting out of breath, so I try to help again. But he shakes me off, like I
am an insect trying to bite him.

Beyond the green front door of our flat I find a few unfamiliar rooms to explore. A tiny kitchen with grey tiles, a sitting room with glass doors leading on to a balcony that has a few dead plants on it, a small bathroom and two bedrooms, one with a double bed and one with a single. I spy a pile of my things already heaped on the single bed and go on in to make myself at home. The room is tiny and has musty damp smells lurking in the corners. Whoever graffitied “Welcum to the dump” was right. It is. I try not to remember my beautiful bedroom in our London house, with my own en suite bathroom and four-poster bed or my room in our French house with its deep blue walls and wooden shutters that overlook the pool. A sick taste rises in my throat, which I swallow down fast.

I look out of my bedroom window on to the car park below. A sad lonely tree is crying autumn leaves that scatter in the breeze and I wish the wind would blow me back to school where I belong. I kick the stupid bed. It’s small and tatty and old like the rest of this dump and I don’t want to be here. I lie down and stare at the ceiling. It looks like it’s made from a million tiny snowy mountains. I wish I were skiing on them. I close my eyes and imagine that I’m on
the Alps, in my skis. But then Sebastian spoils my dream by zooming past me, waving and reminding me that I’m not that good at skiing anyway; just like everything else, I’m actually quite rubbish. But I don’t care because I’m almost certainly never going to go skiing again. Now we’re poor I’m probably doomed never to do anything fun ever again.

I get bored of ceiling gazing and busy myself unpacking my trunk and arranging my belongings. I’m not sure if we’re allowed to put pictures on the walls, so I leave my posters in my trunk and put it at the end of my bed like a little seat. I make the bed with my duvet and stuff from school then try out the mauve plastic blinds. They don’t work very well so I pull them back up quickly so no one can accuse me of breaking them and sit quietly on my bed, waiting for my new life to begin.

After about half an hour of waiting nothing in my new life has happened. My dad hasn’t come to find me and I haven’t gone to find him. We’re like hide and seek gone wrong. Everybody’s hiding and no one is seeking. We’re just sitting waiting for something to happen. My tummy’s rumbling. I missed lunch at school and I was too scared to ask my dad to stop for food on the way. I can hear a quiz
programme blaring out from the television, filling our quiet flat with other people’s laughter and clapping and cheerful sounds. I should probably go and join him but I’m scared, I don’t want to make him angry again. I pull out my book of 100 favourite poems, flick through it and wish Matron had given me a book on 100 top tips on what to do when the credit crunch has turned your life upside down. It would have been more useful right now than poems.

After another hour of waiting, I am so bored with looking at poems that even a maths lesson would seem like fun, so I decide to go and explore. I’m nervous and can’t stop scratching the patch of worry eczema that’s popped up on my wrist. I’m
really
hungry and my dad must be
starving
as he looks like he hasn’t eaten for days. I can’t remember my dad ever cooking dinner for me. I can remember him flying through the door and bolting his food down before going off for a business meeting or a game of squash at the gym, but cooking isn’t something he’s able to do. All he’s really good at is work.

Eventually I creep out of my room and explore the dingy kitchen. I find a tub of margarine, a tomato and a litre of milk in the fridge. In the cupboard on the wall are
two tins of baked beans with sausages, half a loaf of bread and some instant coffee. I make us both some beans and sausages on toast and even though I don’t actually like coffee I make a mug for each of us to have with our meal. Maybe helping out will make him like me more.

“Eat your dinner, Daddy, ” I say, “before it gets cold.”

He doesn’t reply. He’s just staring at the telly, like I don’t exist any more.

“I made us some food,” I say, a little louder. “I thought you’d be hungry, Daddy.”

He just keeps staring so I balance his food on his lap and put a knife and fork in his hands. An old memory of how to eat food sparks up in his brain and he eats and eats and eats, without saying one word, until his plate is empty. I take it from his lap and give him his coffee, which he quickly drinks down.

“Do you need anything else, Daddy?” I ask.

“What do you think I need?” he storms, his words flashing through the room like lightening. “It’s a pretty stupid question, Liberty, isn’t it? But then I suppose that’s why you don’t seem to be able to get on very well at school. Even a fool could work out what I need. I need money! I need a job! I need a life! Look at me! I’m ruined! And if you
think a plate of beans on toast is going to make it all better, you’d better think again.”

I shrink back into myself, wishing I could disappear into the sofa, and then he’d never have to bother with me again. I keep my eyes on the carpet and my body very still. One wrong move and he’ll get more furious. One wrong word and I’m dead.

I hate my dad. I wish I could get up and shout my own head off at him and say mean stuff like, “Failure is not an option for a Parfitt, blah, blah, blah.” Or, “You’re letting the side down, Henry Parfitt, time to pull your socks up and put your head down and find the money to send me back to school where I belong.” But I don’t because I’m frozen to the sofa like a statue, not daring to move.

T
he next morning my dad is still sitting where I left him. The beardy stubble on his face has grown a little longer, his skin is a little greyer and his eyes look darker and more tired and far away. He’s staring at breakfast telly like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen in his whole life. I peep in at him and try to say hello but the words get stuck in my throat, I think they’re too scared to come out in case he bites their heads off. I go and have a shower instead. The shower in the bathroom doesn’t work properly. It keeps going from freezing cold to boiling hot and I have to dance in and out of it and try to wash myself quickly when it lands on warm. This bathroom is rubbish. It’s got black
mould growing in the bits between the tiles and it’s spreading like some deathly disease all over the walls. I shrink away from it, not wanting to catch anything bad. My bathroom in our London house was made from soft, cool marble and the decorator put things like lighthouses and starfish all about the place to give it a seaside feel. At least I have my old sand-coloured towels here to dry myself with. At least they’re clean and uncontaminated.

I dry myself and wrap up in my bathrobe, which smells all friendly of school, then make us both some coffee and toast with sliced tomato. I’m getting used to the taste of coffee and decide that I actually even quite like its rich, roasty flavour, just like that advert says. My dad’s used to our old housekeeper, Maureen, making his breakfast for him, so if I wasn’t here to do it I truly think he’d starve. There’s hardly anything left in the cupboards and I’m worried about what we’ll have for supper. But I’m not going to ask him what’s going to happen. I don’t care if we die from starvation.

“Your uniform’s in the plastic bag on my bed,” my dad barks, making me jump, because I thought he’d actually forgotten how to speak. “You start school at 8.45. Turn left as you come out of the flats and keep going straight until
you get there. It’s simple. Then go to the office and they’ll tell you were to go and what to do and how the whole free school lunch thing works. It’s all sorted, OK?”

“School?” I whisper.

“Of course, school,” he barks. “What did you think, Liberty, that you were going to laze around the place all day long watching daytime telly? Of course you’ve got to go to school, that’s what children do, isn’t it? And with your poor academic record, Liberty, you haven’t got a moment to spare. Go and get stuck in! And I want you to make a good impression, do you hear? Don’t let me down.”

I wish I could ask if I can wait until Monday morning, because starting school on a Friday seems pointless to me. I wish I could ask if I can have some time getting used the idea of a new school and a new life, but I can’t, so I swallow my words down with a bitter sip of coffee.

My dad’s bedroom is a mess. There are a few huge old trunks that I don’t recognise stacked in the corner, loads of plastic bin bags full of clothes and stuff, a suitcase and some dusty boxes that look like they’ve come from our London house attic. There’s a pile of Sebastian’s medals and trophies on the floor and masses of important-looking
paperwork toppling off Dad’s bedside table. His bed’s not made up and I can see stains on the mattress left behind from people who’ve lived here before. There’s a fresh pile of starched cotton sheets, cleaned and ironed by Maureen, our old housekeeper, waiting to go on. But they look all wrong here in this stupid old flat, they look all sad and shy and out of place.

I rummage through the piles of stuff until I come across a carrier bag of clothes that look like they might be my school uniform. Next to them I spy a battered old violin case that’s completely covered in dust. I’ve never seen it before and I can’t quite believe my eyes. I rub them to make sure I’ve not gone completely mad and started seeing things that aren’t real. But when I look again it’s still there, lying on the bed like the best treasure I have ever seen in my whole life. I’m dying to open it and pull the violin out and play. My skin is glittering all over with excitement and I can already feel the music washing right over me and carrying me away to paradise. But I can’t open it, can I? My dad would go mad, especially if I started playing it first thing in the morning. He doesn’t even know I can play. I’d make him splutter his coffee all over himself in shock. But what is a violin doing on his bed anyway? My dad hates
music, everybody knows that. So how did it get here? Who does it even belong to?

Relief starts flooding through me. Maybe he’s changed his mind? Maybe with the credit crunch and everything he’s decided to stop fighting me about music? A frog jumps into my head with an idea in its mouth. It’s my birthday next week; maybe he got the violin for me as a surprise? Maybe he got it to make up for me having to leave my school and everything else in my life behind? Maybe he isn’t so mean after all? I actually can’t believe it; my dad’s finally got me a violin! I know everything will be OK when I’m allowed to play. It won’t matter where we live or what stupid school I have to go to.

I decide not to say anything because I don’t want to spoil his surprise. Instead, I draw a tiny heart in the dust, and then rub it out quickly so my dad won’t see.

My new uniform is very different from my old one. It’s more relaxed. I have a pair of black trousers, a red polo shirt, and a black jumper with red stitching on it that reads “Cherry Grove Community School”. And there’s a blazer with a badge that has an embroidered picture of a red cherry tree and the Latin words:
Prosperitus est non quis vos perficio, est quisnam vos es
written underneath. I search in
my brain to remember some Latin words from my old school and work out that my new school motto is saying something about success, so my dad will be pleased with that.

T
he stairway out of our flats is very busy at 8.25 in the morning. There are people in smart suits with briefcases and mums with buggies and babies and kids wearing the same clothes as me, all pushing and shoving their way down the stairs. I turn left like Dad said and follow the trail of black and red uniforms that spills out on to the street. I’m scared. I’ve heard all about state schools from other people at my old school and they sound noisy and rough and big. Alice’s cousin says there are loads of fights and people get hurt. Maybe I should have argued harder with my dad and Mr Jenkins and forced them to let me stay. What I don’t understand is why my dad is
always so mean to me and not to Sebastian? Sebastian gets everything he wants. I’ve been as good as gold my whole life and tried so hard not to make a nuisance of myself but still my dad holds me as far away as possible from him, like I’ve got sick all down my front and am covered in a highly contagious rash. But none of that matters now. I can forgive him for it all because he got me a surprise violin for my birthday. A warm little rush of excitement races through my body and makes me want to skip.

Down on the street an old man is struggling to get into his old people buggy car thing. He’s puffing and panting and struggling to get his old legs moving. When he sees me he calls out.

“You seen Cali this morning?” he asks.

“Sorry,” I say, “I’m new here, I don’t know who Cali is. Can I help?”

“I just need a hand,” he says. “If I can just rest on your arm a minute then I can pull this stupid old leg up and get on. It’s lottery day, you see, I’ve got to get my ticket. It’s a £13 million rollover.”

“Hi,” says a girl with a million tiny plaits in her hair tied with multicoloured braid. “You need a hand, Ivor?”

“There you are,” says Ivor, looking relieved at Cali’s arrival. “I thought you’d abandoned me for the day.”

“You know I’d never do that, Ivor,” she laughs, helping him into his buggy, like she’s done it a hundred times before.

“Haven’t seen you around before,” says Cali, when Ivor is safely in his buggy and heading off towards the shops and we’re making our way to school.

“We’ve just moved here,” I say. “I’m Liberty Parfitt, what’s your name?”

“I’m Cali,” she says. “You know, you wanna tone that accent of yours down, it’ll get you into trouble at The Grave. The other kids will eat you alive! But stick with me, Libs, and you’ll be safe. What year you in?”

“Seven.”

“Cool,” she smiles, “same as me. Where did you find that accent, Libs? It’s terrible! You sound like you’re related to the Queen or something.”

“Not sure,” I say, trying hard to listen to my own voice. “I’ve always had it, I suppose.”

Then Cali cracks up laughing and staggers around in fits of giggles. “Well, if you take my advice, girl, you’ll ditch it pretty soon. Fitting in is what it’s all about at The
Grave, and accents like yours just don’t. OK?”

“OK. Why do you call it ‘The Grave’?” I ask.

“You’ll see,” she says, “soon enough. You sure do have a lot to learn, Libs, but first off you gotta start dropping your T’s and you gotta shake your voice up a bit. Speak easy, like me. Like cas-u-al.”

“I’ll try,” I say, “but it’s just natural to me, I don’t know how I would even begin to change it.”

“That’s where I come in,” she says. “Just listen real careful to me and you’ll pick it up in no time. Pretend you’re acting or something, you know? Oh, and The Grave? It’s Cherry Grove, Cherry Grave, get it? It’s like a graveyard inside those walls. Nothing good ever happens; it’s just rubbish, Libs. All the teachers and most of the kids are like the living dead, sucking graveyard air,” Cali makes a spooky face, “and no one even cares about the education. It’s more about surviving than learning. It’s a dead-end place from beginning to end, preparing you for rubbish jobs when you leave. Except for me that is, Liberty Parfitt. Me? I’ve got
big
plans.
I’m
going somewhere. You’ll see. So, why did you move here then?”

“Credit crunch,” I say. “My dad’s business went bust
so I had to leave my school. We’re staying in a friend’s flat until we get back on our feet.”

“Posh school, I bet?” she asks. “I was born to go to one of them, I promise you! I’m bright enough. It’s just the stork got lost on the way and I got delivered to the wrong family.”

“It was just school to me,” I say. “I’d been there since I was seven years old. But I’m not there any more, Cali, I’m here and I need to get on and get used to it, just like everything else in my life.”

When we reach The Grave thousands of kids swarm like black and red bees through the gates. Unfamiliar sounds buzz around me and I can’t quite tell if I’m more scared or more curious. In all of Alice’s wildest dreams and in all of mine, we couldn’t have imagined that I’d find myself in a place like this. But here I am amidst a thousand black and red bees; with my new friend Cali, who has a million tiny plaits in her hair tied with multicoloured braid.

Cali comes to the school office with me and somehow manages to persuade the lady there to let me be in the same class as her. She promises be my “class buddy” and show me around. The corridors here are long and grey and
dark and smell of old cabbage and disinfectant. There are no flowers decorating the place, like in my old school and no gold carpets on the floors. Instead, everywhere is decorated with black and red bumblebee children zooming along the corridors and screeching up and down the stairs.

“Slow down, ladies and gentlemen,” shouts a teacher, “and keep your voices down.”

But no one listens. Everyone just carries on running and screaming. No one holds doors open for other people or offers to carry the teachers’ heavy bags. I feel small in this big place and am worried that I won’t fit in. I wish I hadn’t tied my hair back so neatly, I look stupid. I pull off my hair tie and shake my hair loose.

“Cool hair,” says Cali, looking at my bright red curls.

“Yours too,” I smile.

At my old school I knew every single child and teacher by name and everyone there knew me. Here I know nobody, except Cali and I’m glad to have her next to me, she somehow makes me feel brave, like I could even face my dad with her around.

My first lesson is drama. Our teacher is at least 190 years old and she makes us read scenes from Shakespeare’s
A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
I quite like Shakespeare, but all the rest of the kids are groaning with boredom. Shakespeare’s only fun if you know how to read it properly, otherwise it’s just a string of difficult words that are hard to understand. My old drama teacher taught us to read it in time with a heartbeat, that way the whole thing suddenly comes alive.

A boy with spiky hair, who is called Dylan, is interrupting our reading by having a fight with our teacher, Mrs MacDougall. He’s going on about the fact that she’s infringing his human rights by asking him to turn his mobile phone off during lesson time and Mrs MacDougall is trying to give him a calm and reasoned argument to dispute this. I know she’s not really feeling calm inside because a little stream of sweat is running down her face and on to her blouse collar, making a stain. I am shocked. I have never seen a pupil argue with a teacher before.

A girl with white-blonde hair holds up a red card and runs out of the room.

“She’s allowed to do it,” says Cali, seeing my surprise. “She has an anger problem, which means she sometimes just bursts into one big rage that disrupts the whole class
and frightens the teachers. So it’s better for everyone if she gets herself to the ‘green room’ as quickly as possible to calm herself down.”

Clusters of girls are whispering and giggling and not paying attention to any of what’s going on. Some boys at the back of the class are shooting bits of squished up paper through their biros to see who can be first to hit the bull’seye, which happens to be Mrs MacDougall’s head. There’s so much going on in our classroom that my eyes don’t know where to look next and I’m finding it hard to keep my attention on Shakespeare. Cali is sighing and gently bashing her head on the table in despair.

“See what I mean?” she says. “It’s terrible here, we never get anything done. It’s so boring. Why can’t they just get on with it and they might even discover that they actually like Shakespeare! I bet nothing like this ever happened at your old school. You wait, we’ll just about be getting into it and we might even learn something and then the bell will go and we’ll have to pack all our stuff up and go on to our next lesson.”

Cali is right because before we know it the bell’s ringing and we’re off to a P.E. lesson. We all get changed into black and red-striped P.E. kits and buzz around the sports hall
trying to play basketball. But basically the whole lesson turns into one big fight and the teacher has to separate the culprits and abandon the game.

“You’re right, Cali,” I say, when we’re in the changing room, “nothing like this ever
did
happen at my old school. But I don’t know how you can call this place a graveyard. Madhouse, maybe, but graveyard, never!”