Know My Place Read online

  And then there’s Kenny. I still can’t work him out. I thought he was awkward and shy at first, but now he seems at ease, telling his mum about his school day, joking with his dad about the “annoying popular kids” and eating his pizza fast, as if he’s starving.

  “Amy,” Gemma says, interrupting my thoughts. “Are you OK? You seem very quiet. Is this a bit much for you?”

  I shake my head. “I’m fine,” I reply.

  “But you’ve hardly eaten.” Gemma points at my pizza box. “Don’t you like it?”

  “I love it,” I say. Because I do. But I can’t tell her about the heaviness in my stomach. How it makes my appetite so small. She’ll never get it.

  “You should try and eat a bit more,” Gemma says softly. “It might make you feel better.”

  “I feel fine.”

  “Leave Amy be, Gemma,” Graham says, half laughing. “Honestly, don’t make a fuss.”

  “She just looks a bit pale,” Gemma replies. “I’m sorry, Amy. Am I being a bit full‑on? I have this tendency to want to feed people up.” She giggles nervously.

  I do not giggle back.

  I’ve always been thin. Everyone that’s looked after me has tried to fill me up like I’m some kind of stuffed toy. Even Nan tried with her cakes and homemade biscuits. Nobody understands that you can’t fill up someone who’s already full. My body isn’t full of food but stuffed up with worry and fear.

  “It might take a while, Amy, but I want you to feel relaxed around us,” Gemma says. “We’re here for the long run. We want to help you.”

  My body stiffens. I push away the pizza box. “You can’t say that,” I tell her.

  Gemma nods. Her smile is like a painted mask. “Yes. Yes, I can.”

  “No,” I say, and stand up, knocking the kitchen stool sideways. “You can’t say that. Everyone has said it to me. Everyone before. They all want to help. They all want to be there for me, and they never are.”

  Graham leans towards me. “What do you want right now, Amy?” he asks.

  “I just want to be left alone.”

  “OK, that’s fine,” Graham replies. “We understand. We really do.”

  I’m back in the bedroom, the room that is meant to be mine. I lie down on my bed and try not to cry. I will not weaken. Not here. Not again.

  The room seems smaller now and I’m struggling to breathe. I have to close my eyes and focus. I do what I always do when I feel like this. I play my pretend game again.

  Except this time, I’m back in the best place of all.

  I’m back with my nan.

  I pretend she’s downstairs baking. If I focus hard enough, I can smell fresh bread. I can hear Nan singing. It’s an old song, something that was number one a hundred years ago, and Nan’s voice is loud and out of tune, but I don’t care. To me it sounds wonderful.

  I pretend I’m back with my nan and everything is OK again.

  I pretend I’m safe.

  I pick up my journal and write. I try to write in it as often as I can. It’s my release. When I write in it, I imagine I’m writing to Nan and I tell her about the things I’m finding hard. It makes me feel connected to her. I can almost imagine Nan sitting next to me.

  It’s a nice house, Nan. But it’s not like ours. It’s so new and modern, and I’m scared that if I touch something, I might break it. What would they think then, eh? They would be bound to get cross with me.

  I don’t belong here with my old clothes and my hair that needs cutting. I must look such a mess to them. I’m trying to be polite, because I know that’s what you would want me to do – but I’m scared to relax. If I start to do that, it could go all wrong.

  It’s best I don’t expect too much. At least that way no one will be disappointed.

  All I want is to find a home where I belong again. Like I did with you.

  FIVE

  BEFORE

  Grange Secondary School was so much bigger than my old primary school. My class was busy and loud. I sat next to a girl called Rebecca. She had long blonde hair and a pretty face. Rebecca was nice to me, but she already had three friends here from her old school. She didn’t understand why I was so shy and didn’t feel like talking much. There were girls from my primary school here, but I wasn’t very friendly with them. They were much more confident than me and fitted in easily. As usual, I found it easier to just blend into the background.

  During my first breaktime at the school I searched for Stephanie, thinking it might help. I was hoping she might be nice to me like Mary had promised. Stephanie was sitting on the benches by the lunch hall. As soon as she saw me, her face hardened.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Stephanie said as her friends giggled behind her. “You’re in Year Seven. You should be with your lot.”

  “But Mary said you would look out for me,” I said.

  Stephanie flapped a hand at me. “My mum didn’t mean that. She says things she doesn’t mean all the time.” Her eyes glinted. “I told you I didn’t want you showing me up.”

  I felt my insides opening up, like there was a huge hole inside me letting all the icy air in.

  “I don’t want you around me all the time, do you get it?” Stephanie hissed. “I’ve been pretending before. I just did it to please my mum, but now I’m sick of you. You’re always in the way, trying to suck up to my mum, just because you haven’t got one. And now you’re here, at my school, getting under my feet.”

  “I …” I started to say, but I didn’t have the words. Stephanie laughed instead.

  “You have no one, Amy,” she said. “No one wants you.”

  That was the day when everything changed.

  NOW

  My first week at the Dawsons’ passes by. It’s not so bad, but it’s also not great. I manage to get into a kind of routine. Eating breakfast, going back to my room. Coming out for lunch and dinner, and sometimes sitting in the garden if I can face it.

  Gemma and Graham don’t push me. They tell me they are here for me if I need them. They ask me if there is anywhere I want to go, but I tell them there isn’t.

  I don’t see much of Kenny, as he’s at school. When he is home, he mostly goes to his room too. Sometimes I hear him talking loudly on his computer microphone, probably to some other poor geek somewhere.

  Gemma agrees that I don’t have to start school until Monday, which I’m relieved about. One of the things that stressed me out about moving here was the idea of beginning a new school. I don’t think people realise how hard it is to start over. When you’re eight or nine, being the new kid is cute and even pretty fun – everyone wants to be your friend. I know it won’t be that way at secondary school. The other kids will be nosy. They will wonder what is wrong with me and why I had to change schools so late.

  I’m not sure I’m ready to do all this.

  On Friday, Gemma comes into my room and walks straight over to my bed. I’m lying on it trying to read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe for the millionth time. But none of the words are sticking, and I’m reading the same line over and over again.

  “Is that book good?” Gemma asks brightly. “I read it years ago but can hardly remember it now. I can just picture the lion – Aslan, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. It’s all right.” I put the book down carefully beside me.

  “It looks old,” Gemma says. “Have you had it a long time?”

  “Yeah …”

  She smiles. Her teeth are so perfectly straight and white.

  “We have to go out today, Amy,” Gemma says carefully, her eyes studying my face. “We need to pick up your school uniform from the shop in town. I want to make sure it all fits.”

  My stomach feels hollow. I shift on the bed. “Do we have to go today?” I ask.

  “Well, yes. It’s already a bit later than I’d planned. You start on Monday. I just hope everything is there …”

  “If not, maybe we can delay the start?” I say.

  Gemma’s eyes meet mine. She frowns slightly. “Well, maybe. We�
��d need to discuss that with the school.” She pauses. “So, are you OK coming with me now?”

  I consider it. I am bored, sitting here. The room is hot today and I can’t focus on the book. I’d like to get out and see the town. Also, I want to see my uniform. What if some of it is missing? Or it doesn’t fit? I would have the perfect excuse not to start the new school and none of it would be my fault.

  “OK,” I say.

  *

  Gemma drives us into town. The BMW is brand new and smells of leather and polish. She puts on the air conditioning as we pull away and cool air blasts me from all directions. Even so, my legs still feel sticky against the seat.

  I stare out of the window as we drive, passing along the wide, tidy streets into the main town. This is a nice area. All the houses are large and detached with sweeping drives and big, pretty front gardens. I think of Nan’s house, where I lived when I was little – it was a tiny end of terrace in the middle of a busy estate. I wonder what it’s like now. If there are other people living there. Or if it’s empty.

  I hate to think of Nan’s house like that. Unloved and alone.

  But I can totally relate.

  The uniform shop is very small. The place is packed with bright uniforms of all colours hanging from racks.

  The man behind the counter greets us. He is pretty old with a kind face. Gemma gives him my name and he goes out the back to collect her order. I stand behind Gemma, crossing my fingers, hoping that something will be wrong.

  Sadly, nothing is.

  The uniform is all there. Black skirt, white shirt and red and black tie. Gemma asks me to try it all on in the changing room, which I do in silence. I still hope that the clothes won’t fit me, but as I stare back in the mirror it is clear that they do. I look like a stranger. A stranger in someone else’s uniform. Someone who doesn’t belong.

  Gemma sweeps back the curtain.

  “Oh, you look amazing,” she says. “You’ll fit right in.”

  It is all I can do not to cry.

  Gemma takes me to a cafe afterwards. It’s in another small shop in the same lane, just opposite the uniform shop. I sit and wait at the table while she orders drinks and cake for both of us. I told Gemma I’m not really hungry, but I’m not sure she believes me. The bag full of uniform is resting between my legs. It feels heavy and awkward.

  All I want to do is put my head on the table and close my eyes, but I know that will make me look even weirder. So I stare out of the window instead, watching as people walk past. It’s getting busier now it’s nearer lunchtime. I see people who look like they might be on their break from work, dressed in suits and walking in a rush. I see a group of older teenagers walking in a huddle and laughing loudly. Then I see an older lady clutching a young girl’s hand. My mouth goes dry. I look away again.

  “I ordered some of the homemade cake. It looks delicious,” Gemma says, sitting down opposite me. “I got you a milkshake. I thought you deserved it. The lady will bring it over in a second.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, and lick my lips.

  Gemma leans towards me. “You’re ever so quiet today, Amy. Is everything OK?”

  I nod. “Of course.”

  She purses her lips a little. “Well, we’ve noticed you’ve been very quiet since you arrived.” Gemma leans in closer and lowers her voice. “I know it must be so hard, Amy. This is new for us too. I guess we’re all just finding our way, aren’t we?” She pauses and spreads her hands out on the table. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, I understand that you might be feeling out of sorts, but I’m here if you ever want to talk.”

  Out of sorts? That’s a new expression. I wonder when I was last “in sorts”. I smile back at her anyway. “Thank you.”

  The waitress brings over a tray and I see the huge chocolate milkshake placed on top. I know that my social care notes say that I like chocolate milkshakes the best. I remember sitting with a social worker when I was about eight years old and listing my favourite things. Luckily this one hasn’t changed.

  The waitress places the milkshake in front of me with a bright smile. I take a long sip. It is ice cold and just the right level of chocolatey.

  I look over at Gemma. “This is amazing,” I say.

  She laughs. “You have a chocolate moustache now.”

  I swipe at my face. But I don’t care. This is the best thing I’ve tasted for months.

  The waitress has returned, holding out another tray with two plates on top.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  The waitress smiles again and carefully places both plates in front of us. “Carrot cake. It’s our most popular choice.”

  Gemma giggles and says, “I know it’s naughty, but I couldn’t resist.”

  I shake my head. “No. I can’t eat that.”

  Gemma’s eyes widen. “You don’t like it? Amy, I’m sorry, I should’ve checked first. Is there anything else you want instead?”

  I push the plate away. Sickness is swelling inside me. “You don’t understand,” I say. “I can’t eat it. I don’t want to see it. Please take it away.”

  It’s impossible to stop the tears this time.

  Gemma waits. The cake has been removed and she sits opposite me sipping her tea. Her face is concerned, but she doesn’t speak. I like that. I don’t want to be pushed into talking yet.

  I wipe my eyes. I feel silly and embarrassed. I don’t want the other customers to keep looking at me. I feel bad that I made such a fuss. They probably think that I’m a bad kid acting up, and my cheeks go hot at the thought.

  “It’s just the cake …” I say finally. “Carrot cake. It makes me remember …”

  “It’s OK, Amy,” Gemma says. “You don’t have to tell me unless you want to.”

  The memory is from years ago at my nan’s, but I can still taste the carrot cake on my lips now. It’s sweet with a hint of spice. So moist and fresh. I was chewing on the cake, enjoying every bite until I heard the crash in the kitchen. The crumbs were in my throat, trapped inside like dry dust when I found Nan on the floor. The cake was choking me.

  “My nan,” I say finally, my words sounding heavy. “She made carrot cake all the time. When I lived with her …”

  The last words hang between us. Gemma nods slowly.

  “You must miss her very much,” she says.

  “I do.”

  “You were very young when she died, weren’t you?”

  “I was six,” I say.

  Gemma lowers her eyes. “I can’t even begin to imagine …” Her fingers touch the table in between us, but don’t reach me. “Amy, if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here for you, OK?” Gemma pauses. “But I understand that might not be right now. I understand that it could be too hard. I’m here when you’re ready.”

  I nod. “Thank you.”

  I can’t tell her that it hurts so much and that just thinking of what happened to Nan makes me ache from the inside out. But I like the way Gemma isn’t pushing me to talk or expecting too much of me. It makes me relax a bit.

  “I promise I won’t buy carrot cake again,” she says. “Unless you want it, of course.”

  “Thank you,” I say again. I manage a small smile.

  The plates have gone now, and my milkshake sits unfinished. I should feel better. I sit back and take a small breath, trying to clear my thoughts.

  In front of me there is a tiny crumb of cake on the table. I flick it off onto the floor.

  I know I need to get better at dealing with this stuff.

  I look back up at Gemma, at her warm, kind face. Could she be the one to help me do it?

  SIX

  BEFORE

  I was sitting in front of the TV with Stephanie’s cat, Molly, curled up on my lap. Outside it was raining, so it felt snug and warm inside the cosy living room. The programme was an American drama. I wasn’t interested in it, but it was taking my mind off the thoughts inside my head.

  Stephanie walked in and picked up the remote control. Without saying a
word, she flicked the channel over.

  “I was watching that,” I said.

  Stephanie said nothing – she simply sat on the chair opposite and stared at the screen.

  I reached for the remote control, my insides churning, but Stephanie snatched it away from me.

  “It’s my TV, not yours,” she said coldly. “I want to watch it now.”

  “Why are you being like this?” I asked.

  “Like what?” Stephanie said, her gaze darting across to me. “This is my house. I can do what I want.”

  I wanted to say that it was my house too, but I looked at Stephanie’s hard expression and felt the familiar tug of loneliness. There was no point.

  Mary walked into the room clutching a cup of tea. She rubbed at her face. Her eyes were lined with dark shadows.

  “Are you OK?” Mary asked. “Still getting along?”

  “Oh, yes. We’re getting on fine,” Stephanie said sweetly. “Just watching our favourite programme together, aren’t we, Amy?”

  I didn’t say a word.

  NOW

  When Gemma and I get back from the cafe, I sit in the living room watching some quiz show on TV with Graham. He seems to like it and gets really excited when he answers the question correctly. I can’t help smiling when Graham punches the arm of the chair each time.

  “Sorry,” he says when he sees me watching. “I’ve not had such a winning streak on here for ages. I’m beginning to feel clever.”

  The thing is, Graham is clever. Really clever. It fascinates me to see how much he knows about so many subjects. I’m guessing he must be a really good teacher. And a good dad.

  I never knew my dad, so I have no idea whether he is clever or not. He could be the prime minister for all I know. Mum ran off when I was a baby, and Nan was never able to find her. I think she got mixed up in a bad gang. Nan always said Mum “went off the rails” and I know Nan always worried about her. But no one knew about my dad – who he was, or even what he was like. He’ll always be a mystery to me.

  My thoughts are interrupted by Gemma bursting into the room.