Sure enough, Becky’s seat is empty when I board the bus, and once again, Joanne beats me to it.
I ignore her triumphant expression and slide into an empty row, almost jumping out of my skin when George sits down beside me.
I glance at him. A moment passes.
‘Hello there,’ I say.
‘Hello there,’ he replies, stretching his long legs out under the seat in front of him and folding his arms across his chest.
He doesn’t put on his music, but that’s all we say to each other.
Theo is leaning against the gatepost when we round the bend by his house. He’s not smoking today, but as before, he locks me in a staring contest while the bus is pulling to a stop. And, as before, I win. He smirks and casts his eyes to the ground as the bus doors whoosh open.
‘All right, Posh Lad?’ Pete calls from the back.
‘Fuck off,’ Theo answers.
‘Enough of that,’ the bus driver growls.
Full of dread, I glance over the top of my seat at Pete, but his expression is impish, not menacing. A quick glance at Theo reveals there’s no anger to be found on his face either.
So that’s it, then? One punch-up and the war’s over?
Theo nods at George and swings into the seat across the aisle from us. His hair is so dark that it looks black. I bet it’s soft. I have a sudden image of myself making wrist warmers out of it and the thought is so ridiculous that I burst out laughing.
George and Theo glance at each other.
‘Do you know why she’s laughing?’ Theo asks him.
‘No. Do you?’ George replies.
I think I’m giddy with relief that the bullying seems to be behind us.
‘I will never, ever tell you,’ I say at last, realising that I’d sound like a right nutter if I did.
‘That sounds like a challenge if ever I heard one,’ Theo replies with amusement.
* * *
That day, George and Theo hang out together at lunchtime. The three of us sit by each other on the way home and the next day it’s the same. On Wednesday, I break away from some of my other classmates to join the two of them on the field at break. Our conversations barely skim the surface – there’s certainly nothing profound about them – but our random banter about TV shows, bands and movies is entertaining.
By the end of the following week, I would call us friends. Becky is still off school and her illness has been confirmed as viral meningitis. It’s not as dangerous as the bacterial kind, but she seems to have got a bad bout of it. The infection was contagious initially, but I visited her after school a couple of days ago, although she was too tired to talk for long.
I feel so sorry for her, but while I miss her, this time without her hasn’t been as awful as it would’ve been if it weren’t for Theo and George. And when, on Friday afternoon, Theo morosely grumbles that he doesn’t want to go home, I don’t hesitate to invite him back to ours.
‘Your parents won’t mind?’ he asks hopefully.
‘Not at all,’ I assure him.
* * *
‘Well, hello there!’ Dad says buoyantly when we walk in. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a mug of tea. One arm is hooked around baby Nia, who’s perched on his knee, sucking on her slippery fingers.
The kitchen is warm, thanks to the always-hot Aga, and it smells delicious, but it looks as though a bomb has hit it. Mum has evidently been baking for the café, and the thick wooden countertops are cluttered with dirty bowls, the pale-blue cupboards are splattered with cake mixture, and the well-worn red-tiled floor is coated with a dusting of flour and who knows what else.
‘Now then, son, that’s looking better.’ Dad nods at Theo’s lip.
‘Yeah. Thanks,’ Theo replies awkwardly.
Joanne and Preston home in on the plate of freshly baked flapjacks and Dad barks at them: ‘Oi! Hands!’
Mum comes into the kitchen, carrying Ashlee.
‘Hello!’ she says with a big smile at Theo, putting Ashlee down.
‘Mum, this is Theo.’ I make the introduction.
‘Lovely to meet you,’ Mum says, although I’m sure, like Dad, she remembers him. ‘Do you want to use the cloakroom?’ She directs him into the hall while the rest of us take turns washing our hands at the kitchen sink.
When Theo returns, I try to see things from his perspective: the mess, the chaos, all these people. He must feel as though he’s wandered into a madhouse.
Ashlee is regarding him warily, so I tickle her ribs and make her squirm and giggle.
‘I was about to see how much she’s grown,’ Mum tells me, opening the larder door wide.
Names and heights are charted all the way up the wall on the left-hand side. You have to look closely to be able to decipher the messy scrawl, but we’re all there – even me.
‘Come on,’ Mum urges Ashlee, standing her just inside the door. ‘Ooh, you’ve grown a whole inch!’
Ashlee beams up at her as she marks the wall with a Sharpie.
‘You next, Lee-Lee, you haven’t been measured in a while.’
‘Do we have to do this now?’ I gripe, shooting a look at Theo. He’s leaning against the counter and munching on a flapjack, seeming perfectly content.
‘Chop chop,’ Mum replies, her attention momentarily pulled away by Preston and Joanne trying to make a speedy exit. ‘Where are you two going?’ she shouts after them.
Joanne ignores her, but Preston calls back: ‘I have to pack.’
‘Fine, I’ll get you later,’ Mum replies, but I don’t miss the pain that briefly contorts her face.
Preston is leaving us tomorrow. He has two younger siblings and one older sister who have all been in separate foster homes. He’ll be the second to be reunited with his mother. The woman was grossly neglectful – addicted to drink and drugs and willing to do anything to get her hands on them, from the stories I’ve heard Preston telling Jamie and Joanne – but she’s out of rehab now and allegedly doing well. All Preston has wanted since he came here eight months ago was to return to her. Despite everything, he loves her and he can’t wait to go home.
My parents have witnessed too many failed reunions to not be sceptical about this one. They’re very fond of Preston, even with all his moaning and laziness, and they’d have him back in a heartbeat if it didn’t work out.
But at the same time, as long as he’s happy, I know they’d be at peace if they never saw him again.
Whatever the eventual outcome, tomorrow will be hard for everyone.
Mum is still waiting for me, so I drag my heels over to the larder cupboard and stand there dutifully as she marks my height.
‘There you go,’ she says when she’s finished, and I turn around to inspect the wall.
‘Ooh, a whole millimetre,’ I say sarcastically.
Mum rolls her eyes. ‘Up you get, George, you’re next.’
George stares at her with alarm.
‘Hurry along, George,’ Theo urges in an amused murmur, giving him a shove.
George glares over his shoulder at him, but does as my mum asks, scraping his wooden chair legs over the tiled floor with a screech and unfolding his long body.
‘I’m not going to be able to see over the top of your head,’ Mum says.