So my parents decided to focus mainly on these kids, resolving to provide long-term stable foster care that wouldn’t crumble at the first hurdle.
I admire them for that decision, respect them for it, but there have also been times when I have really resented them.
The teenagers who come here need my parents more than I do. That’s a fact. But sometimes I need them too and they’re not always emotionally available to me. It’s hard sharing them.
* * *
‘Has the bus broken down?’ Becky asks with confusion as we come to a stop outside a familiar gatehouse, nestled amongst large laurel bushes and tucked behind a high wrought-iron fence. I lean past her and glimpse tall cream stone gateposts.
If you head through those gates and follow the winding road for about half a mile, past rolling green fields punctuated with mature oak trees and roaming deer, you’ll come to one of the nicest country houses in the area. I know because I visited it once with my parents.
The bus doors whoosh open, but before we can find out what’s up, a boy appears, wearing our school uniform.
His jaw-length hair is almost black, his eyebrows are dark slashes on his pale angular face and his eyes are the deep blue of oceans.
‘What the hell?’ Becky says under her breath as he flashes his bus pass at the driver and makes his way down the aisle.
She’s not the only one wondering what wealthy, stuck-up, boarding-school boy Theo Whittington is doing on our state school bus.
Theo ignores the whispers and drops his slim frame into the vacant seat directly in front of me. Why he chooses to sit there is a mystery – there are serious don’t-fuck-with-me vibes coming off George in the seat next to him.
The bus trundles off again, but the chatter increases in volume.
‘Oi!’ comes a shout from down the back. ‘Oi, you!’
‘Here we go,’ Becky says with a sigh.
‘Fancy boy!’ the shout comes again.
In the crack between the seats, I see George throw a quizzical look at Theo, but the other boy is facing straight ahead.
‘What’re you doing on our bus?’ comes the shout again.
‘Leave it out, Pete,’ I hear Jamie say wearily.
‘What’s up with you?’ Pete asks. ‘I only want to know what Posh Lad is doing on our bus.’
‘Nowt to do with you, is it, fella?’ Jamie replies.
That shuts Pete up.
For now.
* * *
Theo is the first one off the bus, on his feet and moving towards the front of the vehicle before it even comes to rest in the bay. The driver grumbles, but Theo doesn’t say a word of apology as he waits for the doors to open. I watch him through the window as he heads for the school building. I’m so distracted that I bump into the back of George as he’s sliding out of his seat.
‘Sorry!’ I gasp as he stiffens and freezes.
‘After you,’ he says pointedly, sarcastically.
‘No, go on.’
My tone is neutral, but there is no way I am moving until he does. Perhaps he senses my determination because he unfolds his long body without another word and straightens up. His blazer is too short for his arms as well – my parents really need to sort that out.
George lopes off the bus with his head bowed and his shoulders bunched together. A few paces later, he hesitates, looking ahead at the wide squat building stretched out in front of us, starkly grey against the vibrant green grass of the hill behind it.
‘I can take you to the office,’ I offer as I come to a stop at his side.
‘Just point me in the right direction,’ he mutters, not meeting my eyes.
‘I’ll take you,’ I insist, hoping for a fresh start. ‘It’s this way.’ I walk towards Reception, expecting him to follow. ‘Will you let Mr Balls know what I’m doing?’ I call over my shoulder to Becky.
‘Will do,’ she replies.
I glance at George in time to catch his smirk.
‘Whatever you’re thinking, he’s heard it all before.’
‘Poor guy.’
‘See if you still feel that way when he’s droning on in History.’
We walk the rest of the way in silence, but I feel better after our light-hearted exchange just now.
Theo is at Reception when we arrive. I’m about to leave George to it, but Miss Chopra, the school administrator, spies me. ‘Ah, Leah!’ she says brightly. ‘Could you take Theo with you to Mr Balls?’
‘Sure,’ I reply with a nod, hoping for similar camaraderie from Theo at hearing our form tutor’s name. Instead I receive only cold detachment.
‘Oh, and is this George?’ Miss Chopra asks, noticing who I’m with.
My parents will have called ahead.
‘Yes,’ George and I reply at the same time.
George grimaces, not appreciating me answering for him, I suspect.
‘Could you wait a minute and take him too?’ Miss Chopra asks me.
‘Sure,’ I repeat, albeit weaker this time around.
Theo looks thoroughly pissed off as he slings his bag over his shoulder. Not a rucksack, like the rest of us have, but a brown leather satchel. Are those his initials stamped onto it? TW. I think of Pete and realise it’s only a matter of time before this perfect boy gets the shit kicked out of him.
And he is perfect. Smart black blazer that looks as though it’s been tailored to fit, black trousers with hems that rest lightly on polished, expensive-looking shoes, a pristine starched white shirt and a red-and-grey striped tie, hung at exactly the right length. I’ve seen my dad knot enough ties to know that this takes practice. George’s effort is a case in point.
I meet Theo’s eyes and realise I’ve been staring.
‘Hi, I’m Leah.’ I force the words from my mouth.
He exhales heavily and averts his gaze, not even dignifying my introduction with an acknowledgement.
Still as much of a tosser as I remember him to be, then.
* * *
I’ve caught glimpses of the Whittington family a few times over the years. Theo has an older brother called Acton who looks as though he has a rod shoved up his butt, and his mum, Sylvie, is even more comically haughty. But Theo’s dad Edwin is the worst of them, having once snubbed my parents at a local charity ball, an offence I only heard snippets about later.
None of this could deter Mum and Dad from visiting the Whittington residence three years ago when it was featured on the Open Gardens calendar. It was the first time the gardens had been opened to the public since we’d moved to North Yorkshire and my parents were keen to turn the day into a fun family outing.
There were five of us in total as well as my parents: Shauna, who was seventeen; Tara and Brandon, both fourteen; fifteen-year-old Jamie; and me, age twelve. We travelled there in our battered old army green Land Rover which had had seat belts fitted to the rear bench seats. I remember the journey clearly because Brandon had refused to shower since his arrival two days earlier and he stank of putrid old sweat, greasy hair and sharp, fresh body odour.
I felt nauseous, even with the windows open, jiggling around next to him on the slippery wooden bench. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one struggling to breathe, but unspoken etiquette made us all hold our tongues.