To Be Honest(15)

* * *

“Nearly home,” Mr Morlis says, as we cruise off the slip road.

Kids start gathering bags from overhead lockers and waking up from a kip, even though it’s only seven o’clock. Honestly, you’d think someone had made them run round London for, like, six hours, not just do a spot of light window shopping and watch a play.

Then again some of us have had the added stress of body swaps.

Miss Mint — Lisi — looks knackered. And then I remember: Josh’s staying over. As we clamber off the coach, I grab his arm, forgetting I’m not supposed to, but luckily no one sees. Kids, I mean.

The school car park’s crowded; steamy windows, little siblings slipping through traffic.

“Miss?”

“Are you staying at Lisi’s?”

Josh looks round like he’s lost her, but she’s just behind, standing coolly, which is something I never would.

“Think so. Lise?”

I jump in. “Because ... your mother called, Lisi.” I see a flicker of understanding. “She left a message.” And I press a piece of paper, swiped from her diary, with a scrawl which just says my address and how to get home and where Josh sleeps on the other, into those nail-bitten fingers.

She says thanks and I read mixed up panic and relief but then Josh’s nabbed her, jabbed her, is moving her on and she’s gone; swallowed up by the boy and the girls and the slick, dark wetness and the homing calls of parents.

Someone taps me on the shoulder. Mr Morlis, hands deep in his parka, asking me for a drink.

“... but I don’t want to keep you from Taff.”

Oh, Jesus. I don’t know what to do.

The logical thing would be go with him to the sweaty pub down the road from school. Teachers go there; ‘course they never mention it, say ‘library’ instead, as in, “Miss Anderson, we meeting in the library later?” when they pop their heads round doors, all tired looking on, say, a Thursday.

But what about Taff?

I remember the keys. My speed thoughts are immense: I’m a legend. I say:

“My car’s broken down, actually. So could I possibly beg a lift?”

He looks happy in a Mr Morlis way and we trudge over to his knackered old Ford. In the summer, Mr Morlis cycles — clips and everything — and I think he only drives if it’s really horrible so I’m lucky really he did today.

We don’t talk much in the car, ‘cos my tummy’s concrete at the thought of seeing Taff. But Mr Morlis hums and it’s nice. He hums like Dad used to on car journeys and me and Emily and I would stick our fingers in our ears and whinge about Radio 1.

When he gave in and stopped, I was always slightly sad.

“Taff cooking tonight?”

“God knows,” I say ‘cos I don’t. I think of the phone in the bag — should I use it? Haven’t even looked at it to be honest, and how cool’s the thought of having Miss Mint’s phone normally? But I get it out and there’s two missed calls and a text which means voicemail but I don’t know the number so I’ll have to leave it.

“Where do you live again?”

My throat goes dry but then I remember it’s Josh’s street, so I can even work out the number and I do.

We say goodbye and it’s like Dad’s left again and then I really want to cry.

What’s Miss Mint doing with Mum?

What’s she saying to Josh?

What’s Taff like?

Who am I?





Chapter 8: First night


This is nice though. The house, I mean.

45, Clementine Road is a medium-sized, semi-detached, fully-desirable posh-ish place, with a blue door though you can’t tell what blue in this light, more gold-ey blue, and sparkly clean white gravel in the drive. It doesn’t fit that well with the street, not like the Meadows’, which is average, safe. Mainly that’s ‘cos of the sports car in the drive whereas all the others are family tractors but that makes it cooler: the swirly writing on the back of Taff’s Lamborghini makes me think of Heat and celebs.

When Mr Morlis is gone it’s totally quiet. There’s a light on in the front and I know I should use keys but it’s not my house, so I knock.

Three thuds and he’s there. The blazer’s off but the jeans are on and the posh shoes are in a rack by the door, neatly.

“Hu-llow.”

He says it like Big Ben. I can’t speak. Just take my coat off and stand there, looking.

The house is silky, golden. It’s mostly golden at the end, in the kitchen, but there’s bright art all over the walls too so it’s like being in an Easter egg. There’s music playing. Not the stuff I like or say I like but dreamy, trippy notes that circle round my head and suck me into the hall.