The Girl Who Wasn't There (6 page)

“You know that thing Dad does? When he's stressing?”

What I've just said makes her look up straightaway.

“What – the manic face-washing thing?” she asks.

“Yeah. He was doing it just now, in the car. He didn't know I was watching.”

“Wonder what that's all about?” says Clem, leaning back in her chair and tucking her dark hair behind her ears.

“Can't be his job – he loves it,” I reply. It's only Wednesday and he's already saying it's the best job he's ever had, with the staff and the students being so friendly.

“And it's not
this
dump,” says Clem, wafting a hand around to indicate the cottage, “since he finds the place ‘charming' for some unknown reason.”

“We were talking about meeting Donna just before he left…” I point out, wandering if it's relevant.

Clem now rattles the top of her pencil between her teeth, like it'll help her think better.

“He knows I wouldn't be rude to her, right?” she finally says.

Wow. Is that almost an admission of guilt from my sister? I wasn't sure she was even aware how rude she is on a daily basis to me and Dad…

“He knows,” I reassure her. “We wouldn't be joking around with him if we felt weird about Donna, would we?”

I suddenly realize how nice it feels to say “we”. There hasn't been a lot of “we” about me and Clem for years, and I miss it. Our only “we” times happen when we join together to tease Dad about his love life.

“Yeah, you're right,” Clem says with a nod. (Now
that's
a phrase I don't hear from her very often, or
ever
.)

“Maybe he's just a bit tired,” I suggest, pulling out a seat at the table and joining her, since it seems she's not going to growl at me to get out of her space.

“Or maybe things are rocky with him and Donna,” says Clem.

“No!” I yelp. “Don't say that!”

Clem bursts out laughing at my shock and outrage. “Why do you sound so upset, Maisie? We don't even know the woman.”

I blink for a second and try to figure out why I'm suddenly so disappointed at the idea of Dad and the mysterious Donna splitting up.

I guess part of it is that I've been excited for ages about the idea of meeting this person who's made Dad so happy (I've seen those smiles when her texts ping through).

And part of it is because Mum would be very, very proud of me and Clem managing to
Please stay open-minded if Dad meets someone new…
(Written halfway through the notebook, with a smiley face drawn beside it.)

“I just want Dad to be OK,” I say, feeling the telltale prickle of tears threaten. There've been plenty of times that my heart's lurched at the thought of me and Clem leaving home for uni or whatever, and leaving him on his own. I can't stand it, and that's why I'd love our lovely dad to be loved by more people than just his kids.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Clem says gruffly, but she's passing me a tissue that she's found in her bag. “So … you haven't done your freaked-out zombie face for a day or so. School getting less awful?”

OK, my big sis is being halfway nice to me, but it doesn't seem like she's in the mood to handle a kid sister in tears, so I guess that's why she's changing the subject.

“Yeah, a bit,” I say, blowing my nose and cheering up at the thought of Kat. “I think I might have a friend.”

“Yeah? A blind, deaf friend with no taste?” she jokes, but I can tell she's a little bit pleased for me. “What's her name?”

“Kat – with a ‘K'.”

“Uh-huh. And what's Kat-with-a-K like, then?”

“Well, she's not in my form class so we haven't had a chance to hang out
that
much yet,” I begin, trying to remember if Kat said she was in 8T or 8G. “But she's really good fun, and I don't get the feeling she has a best friend at the moment. She's kind of different too – she's really pretty but has all this wavy,
big
hair that she ties back with a scarf like a headband, with a loose big bow here – sort of cute and cool, not like a little kid's bow, I mean. And today we spent lunchtime hanging out together at Art Club and—”

“Whoa!” says Clem, holding her hand up to stop me in my tracks. “Information overload!”

“Sorry,” I say, realizing I've been gushing.

“It's OK,” Clem replies, leaning back enough now to get her bare feet up on the table. “I guess it's kind of funny that I know more about your new friend in the space of ten seconds than Dad's girlfriend in all this time!”

I grin at her, and Clem grins back. Which feels good.

“So – without giving me a word-by-word account – what have you and Kat-with-a-K been chatting about?”

Her face gives nothing away, but I wonder if she's really asking me whether or not I've told Kat about what happened at my last school. Of course, I haven't, because a) there hasn't been time yet, and b) I don't know her well enough to mention something that might make her
well
wary of me…

“I dunno. Just stuff,” I say, wondering if I should come out and tell Clem what we
have
been talking about.

“Hey, don't go coy on me! I've been thirteen too. Is Kat-with-a-K filling you in with all the gossip about everyone at school?”

Clem is so relaxed, so friendly, that I relax and feel friendly towards her too.

“Not really,” I say. “It's just … well, there's supposed to be this ghost of a Victorian girl that haunts the school and me and Kat are thinking that we'll try and find out all about—”

“Nope! You know this sort of thing creeps me out,” Clem interrupts sharply, her feet disappearing from the table, her hand back up in front of me in a very definite “stop”. “Don't want to hear this, thanks!”

“But—” I try to continue, watching her fiddling with her headphones, ready to block me out.

“Maisie, it's bad enough that I have to live in this grotty, creepy dump, beside that spooky old school,” she says firmly. “I don't want to hear any ghost stories. OK?”

I don't even get to say OK – or explain about the house not being creepy since Mr Butterfield didn't even die here – because the Arctic Monkeys are blaring and my sister's gaze is firmly back on her homework.

As I stare at her swinging bob, shutting her face off from me like a pair of brown velvet curtains, I think two things…

Our friendly, sisterly truce lasted about ten whole minutes.

And the ghost story that Clem doesn't want to hear? I'm not so sure it
is
just a story…

 

 

A celeb magazine is open on the table, with an argument raging above it.

“That is
hideous
,” says Natasha, sticking her fingers down her throat and pretending to gag.

“You're joking, right?! It is
so
cool!” says Patience, shocked that Natasha doesn't share her taste in neon animal-print jumpsuits.

“Maisie – your turn for ‘Choosies'!” says Rosie.

It's Thursday and it's Rosie and Bella's turn to be my minders today. Think they've been on a mission to find out more about me, but it's felt like an interrogation. Between classes, as they took me along corridors, up and down stairwells, it was questions, questions, endless questions about my old school, my old “friends”. I mentioned Lilah and Jasneet, but didn't go into any details.

I swear I saw them sneaking knowing glances at each other a couple of times, and that doesn't make me feel too great. My old school might be on the other side of town, but what if someone knows someone who went there and Rosie and Bella are fishing for info, since they've heard what happened?

(Please, no!)

“What?” I say, not really paying attention to Rosie, not exactly sure what she's asking me now.

“Choosies,” she repeats. “We all take turns choosing what we'd have off of these pages.”

OK, I get it. I'm meant to look at all the stuff on this fashion spread and pick what I like best.

I try.

I look.

Natasha is right: the neon animal-print jumpsuit is horrible, but so is everything else.

Glancing up at the bundle of expectant faces staring at me, I worry about what to say. Is “none of them” an answer I can go with? Or should I just pick a hideous bag or top or necklace at random and hope it'll do?

The truth is, I can't concentrate on this dumb stuff – not when I have ghosts floating around in my head.

And then I see her, waving at me from the far side of the dining hall.

I'm saved. (Thanks, Kat.)

“Sorry – got to go,” I say, grabbing my bag and excusing myself, trying
not
to feel the burning cold of eyes boring into the back of my head…

 

“
You
ask,” I whisper to Kat.

“No,
you
ask,” she whispers back.

“Please,
you
do it! You know the librarian,” I say, my tummy twisting itself in a knot of shyness.

“Well, how will you get to know her if you don't talk to her?” asks Kat, with a cheeky lipglossed grin. “She doesn't bite!”

I hesitate, working up the courage to go on over and ask the librarian for the books we want.

Breathe, Maisie
, I remind myself as I walk over to the desk with hesitant, birdlike steps.

“Hi,” I say to the lady sorting books into what seem like random piles.

“Hello. Do I know you? Are you new?” she asks, lowering her head to peer at me over her glasses.

“Yes, I just started in Year 8 on Monday. I'm Maisie Mills,” I tell her.

“Pleased to meet you, Maisie! I'm Mrs Gupta. Now, if you can just fill in
this
, we'll get you sorted out with a library card in no time.”

“Oh … right…” I mutter, thrown for a moment as Mrs Gupta passes me a ballpoint pen and a form. I glance at Kat, who has perched herself on a table by the window, one leg curled up underneath her.

“Go on – ask!” she mouths at me.

Easy for
Kat
to say, sitting there all comfy, watching me squirm.

But then again, my new friend does make me feel a little braver, somehow.

So … here we go.

I should just
do
it,
say
it, before time runs out, the bell trills and we have to get going to afternoon lessons.

“Um, I was wondering,” I begin, as I scribble on my form, “do you have any books or leaflets about the history of Nightingale School?”

“Is it for a project?” asks Mrs Gupta. She's frowning a little. Probably because she knows what everyone in every year group is studying, and every project they've been assigned.

Or maybe it's because she can read my mind and knows that I'm scavenging around for anything about Victorian pupils meeting untimely deaths.

Thing is, Kat says we shouldn't ask straight out, and she's right. It doesn't take an A* genius to work out that schools don't like anyone dwelling on negative stuff connected with them, like bad exam results, mice in the kitchens, students who get expelled, or girls who die on the premises, in
any
century. And if I needed proof of that, I just have to remember Mrs Watson clamping right down on the ghost conversation in the dinner hall on Tuesday.

“I'm just interested,” I say to Mrs Gupta, in a way I hope sounds convincing. “The school I've moved from was very modern and kind of boring. Nightingale seems so old and … and fascinating.”

“Well, it's nice to find someone who's curious to learn about their school!” Mrs Gupta gushes, slipping out from behind her desk and waving me to follow her. “Most of the girls here are only in the library to go on Facebook –
even though they know they're not allowed to!
”

A few students look up shame-faced at Mrs Gupta's loud and pointed words; a few slink down behind their computer consoles.

I just go pink, knowing I've told a slightly white lie about my interest in the school's history. I'm pink, too, hearing Mrs Gupta praise me for my curiosity. One of Mum's notes is,
Always be curious – never be bored or boring.

Would she approve of me ghost-hunting? I don't know, and don't think it's the sort of thing I can ask Dad about.

I mean, it's not like, “What was her favourite colour?” or “Did she have any pets when she was little?” If I ask him, “Was Mum into the supernatural?” then he might think I'm going through a weird phase of missing her and am about to ask if we can do a séance or something.

“Here we are,” says Mrs Gupta as she breezes past Kat, who is nibbling at her nails, but grinning at me too.

I half expect Mrs Gupta to do that teacher thing and tell Kat to get down off the table, but table-perching obviously comes low on the library's crime list after illegal Facebooking.

Mrs Gupta comes to a stop and reaches up to grab a slim leather-bound book from the top shelf. She passes it to me.

“Thank you,” I say, remembering my manners, which I think is important when you're covering up for something you really shouldn't be doing.

“You're very welcome,” says Mrs Gupta, swanning back to her desk with an occasional glower at guilty-looking computer users.

“
She's
a bit fearsome!” I whisper to Kat.

“Mrs Gupta?” says Kat, arching her eyebrows at me as she slips off the table and on to a chair. “Hey, she is a total softie compared to Mr Holden. He used to go nuts at anyone who'd forgotten to do their maths homework. I mean, properly furious, like his
head
was going to explode!”

Kat pulls this mad face, looking like an insane, gurning, pop-eyed frog – and I have to slap a hand over my mouth to stop a snort of laughter escaping.

“Seriously!” she whispers, relaxing her face back into her usual infectious smile. “But the scarier he tried to be, the funnier we all thought it was. We called him The Grouch behind his back!”

So like me, Kat
did
have fun with her classmates once. What happened? When did it change? What made it change?

“Don't fancy landing in
his
class anytime soon,” I mutter, grimacing.

“Oh, don't worry, he left ages ago,” says Kat with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Anyway, come on, let's see what's in this book.”

Fine, that's my cue to open
Nightingale School: A History
.

Me and Kat scan every musty, dusty page, taking about the same length of time to examine each photo, to skim all the words.

After a good long while, we turn to each other, thinking – I'm pretty sure – the same thing.

“Not exactly what we were looking for,” I say, slightly overloaded with all the dry-as-dust facts and figures about various Victorian founders with handlebar moustaches.

“Kind of low on exciting stories of dead students,” Kat jokes, ladling more gloss on to her already sheeny-shiny lips.

“So what should we try next?” I ask, looking down in disappointment at the stiff photos of the stern, long-ago gentlemen.

“Drawing glasses, cross eyes and blacked-out teeth on these guys?” suggests Kat – which makes me snort out loud this time.

“Hey, Maisie, what's so funny?” someone suddenly asks.

I glance up and see Patience staring down at me. She's got this heart-shaped, sweet face, skin so dark and smooth that you practically want to reach out and stroke it. But of course, that would be weird for two reasons …

 

1. she's looking at me like I'm bananas, and
   
2. it would be just weird, full stop.
   

 

OK, now that
last
thought has got me sniggering again. Kat drops her gaze to the table so Patience doesn't spot that she's doing the same.

Uh-oh: Patience – thinking I'm laughing at her – gives an irritated, embarrassed headshake and storms off.

“Ooo-OOO-oo! What's her problem?” giggles Kat, just as bad as me.

Help.

I know Patience will probably go running off to the others in our form class now, telling them that I've been giggling like a kid over some book with Kat; that I was weird or cheeky or whatever to her.

But it's like yesterday: I've spent so long on a laughter-free holiday that now it's started, I just can't stop.

“Hey,” says Kat, her laughs fading down to giggles fading down to a happy smile. “This is fun, right?”

I have a friend.

A friend who likes me.

A friend who cracks me up.

A friend I can have an adventure with.

What could possibly spoil that?

A vague memory of best friends who turned into enemies flutters into my mind, but I swat it away, like a summer bug that wants to bite.

“Yes, yes it is!” I agree, wondering if we're talking about the ghost hunt or our shiny new friendship…