‘Holy cow!’ I say as we approach a working model of the water cycle. It looks professionally made, stainless steel cogs turning and moving a cloud across a Perspex background. There is no way a kid has made that. ‘Whose model is that?’ I ask, leaning forward, peering over the mechanics that are moving the river around. There are even sound effects: birds calling, a stream gurgling.
‘Oh, that’s Rachel Rodriguez’s.’ Hailey bites the skin around her thumb and gestures towards the pretty Spanish girl across the other side of the room. The other girls are hanging off her like expensive handbags.
‘Well, the teachers won’t be fooled. It’s clear that the kid had no input whatsoever.’
The teachers won’t be fooled, right? A knot forms in my stomach. I know I’m being competitive – I can see it in the amused smile Hailey is looking up at me with – but my daughter has spent hours on this project, and right now she needs a win. Just. One. Win.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Jennifer
My hand is shaking as I fasten my seat belt. I look down at the phone and reread the school text message that I had ignored, alerting me to Hailey’s science fair. It rattles around my head, clattering around my thoughts like stones in a sieve. How could I have missed this?
I give the address of the school to the driver. The thought of Hailey not having a parent there makes my heart ache. I have always made sure that there has been someone at all of my children’s special days. If Ed or I couldn’t make it, it would be Mum or Dad. But I know Ed wouldn’t have thought of that. It’s not his fault; I always organised that side of things and he’s got so much on his plate. As the car banks around a cyclist, I give myself an internal shake. I’ll get a diary, a hand-held one like I always used to. I think of the diary that I always had in my handbag, shopping list at the ready, doctor’s appointments, hairdressers, play dates, all written down . . . it used to be so easy. As we pull up outside the school and I open my bag, I notice that not only is there no diary, there is no packet of tissues, no mini first-aid kit, no hand sanitiser and travel pack of baby wipes, no power bank in case of emergencies . . . there is just my purse and some Juicy Fruit chewing gum.
Outside the school there are pushchairs parked in cluttered lines; the deputy head is standing by the door like a bouncer. I garble something about science, and he ushers me through to the hall. I scan the crowd but can’t see Hailey, so I follow the cage of displays housing frothing experiments and folded up pieces of cardboard scripted with the names of the children, followed with the letters ‘PhD’. All the children are wearing white lab coats and safety goggles hang around their necks.
I spot Hailey’s name and feel a lump of pride warm in my chest. It must have taken her ages to make it. My finger traces the grooves running down from the vent, the paintbrush marks where the crater circles the edges of a plastic bottle filled with – if memory serves – bicarbonate of soda.
‘This is so cool! Look at all the detail!’ Kerry fingers a small tree trunk with gravel circling its base. ‘Look inside the boulder!’
I reach into the lump of papier mâché made to resemble a rock next to the volcano. Nestled inside is a small bottle of something orange; I recognise the bottle, it was part of the perfume tester kit that Ed bought me from Oscar last Mother’s Day. I watch Kerry unscrew the lid and peer into the volcano.
‘Oh, I’ve seen this on telly! You pour the vinegar and paint into the bicarb and then it all erupts!’
‘I think we should wait until Hailey is here.’
I try to scan the room again but all I can see is the centre of the volcano.
I blink.
Again I try to focus on the crowds, but my vision is drawn to the centre of the volcano, which has begun to bubble. The sound of a gasp from the teacher next to me slaps me. Kerry has gone and I am holding the bottle. The volcano is erupting: running down the clay rivulets is orange foam; the slow trickle is gaining momentum and begins rolling off the edge of the board and onto the floor.
I feel sick.
The teacher next to me disappears for a brief moment, reappearing with a huge roll of blue paper towel. I crouch down and begin wiping the floor. My heart is thumping in my chest, in my ears, in my throat.
I hear my name but it’s as though it’s dampened, like the treble, the sharpness, has been wrapped up in a damp towel and hidden in the corner of a room, to be dealt with again at a later date.
The room snaps back into focus, the towel unwrapped and shaken, throwing the clarity, sharpening the edges of my name, around the room. Then I see her. I see my daughter, the daughter who would only sleep in my arms when she was a baby, who had my name on her lips if she fell, my name ready to call when she wanted to show me something she was proud of, looking at me; my daughter looking at me as though I’m a stranger.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Ed
We’ve almost done the full circuit when we see it. Just as before, blue paper towels are being flapped about; teaching staff are laughing good-naturedly at the trials that come with a job working with children. You know that feeling when, I don’t know, like when you’ve knocked a glass off the table and there is that split second where you know there is no way of stopping it from smashing, but you still try to grab it? That’s how I feel right now. Only it’s not a glass that is going to be destroyed . . . it’s my daughter.
‘Never work with animals or children, isn’t that what they say?’ Mr Newton is laughing. Hailey’s hand slips into mine; any embarrassment about doing this in front of her peers has gone and the need, I suppose, to have my reassurance takes precedence as we hurry towards her desk. The crowd of hunched staff begin to stand and step back, Mrs Park looking anxiously around, her eyes resting on Hailey with a sad smile. The crowd and paper towels disperse, leaving a figure on all fours desperately trying to rectify a mistake, trying to tidy the mess of poster paint and bicarbonate of soda. Jen is whispering urgently to the space next to her, her hands scrubbing the floor, the panic in her face making her look even more crazy than usual.
‘Jen,’ I say. It’s not a question, not a greeting, just a statement. My voice seems to bring her to the here and now; her eyes refocus and land on Hailey’s pale face.
‘Hailey!’ She stands, twisting the blue paper in her hands into knots. ‘This is wonderful! Aren’t you clever? I’m sorry . . .’ She turns back to where the orange food coloured froth is trickling down the side of the volcano. ‘I think I put too much vinegar in.’
Hailey steps forward and looks up at her mother. ‘It’s OK, Mummy.’ She wraps her hands around Jen’s waist and hugs her, her face turned into Jen’s tummy. Thankfully, she misses the giggles from the Spanish girl and her group of accessories on the other side of the room. The girls are wearing lip-gloss even though they’re only eight. Hailey doesn’t hear the words whispered in ears or see the spiteful fingers pointing over to where orange sludge is already dripping onto the laminate flooring.
Hailey’s face looks up to me for guidance, but I don’t know what to do. I’m her father, and I can’t fix this for her; I can’t stop the people in the room from looking in our direction; I can’t stop any of it.