Invisible Girl Part 2

"Sorry, love," she says, "she's at her dad's tonight. You'll see her at school tomorrow."

"Oh," I say, hopping from one leg to another. "Sorry, I forgot."

I stand there like a dummy with my mouth hanging wide open. "Can I quickly use your bathroom, then? I'm desperate."

Grace's mum smiles and opens the door wide to let me in. I dump my bags in the hallway, race up the stairs and wee until there's not even one drop left inside me. I fold the flowery toilet paper round and round my hand and stroke its softness on my cheek. On my way back I peep into Grace's room and I wish I could slide into her bed and hide. I wish her mum could bring me some dinner up on a tray and puff the pillows so they're comfy. I wish she could climb in and watch a programme on Grace's pink telly with me.

"Bye, then," says Grace's mum, when I've picked up my bags.

I stare at her, a million words racing round my mind, thundering like horses.

"Can I have a biscuit, please?" I say.

Grace's mum laughs, then she gets the biscuit tin from the kitchen and lets me choose. "Take a couple," she says, "but don't go spoiling your tea."

I take two. My hand lingers in the tin. I should pull it out, I know, but it won't budge. My tummy's grinding like a peppermill.

"Oh, go on," she smiles, "take a handful, but don't tell your dad!"

She looks at me with these soft friendly eyes. She touches her hand on mine and I wish I could grab it and cling on like the roses round the door. I wish I could say something. I wish I could tell her.

"You OK, Gabriella?" she says. "You look, um..."

"I'm fine," I say, grabbing more biscuits. "Just starving after Games, that's all." I skip down the path very fast, away from her eyes and her questions. "Thanks for the biscuits, thank you, bye!"

I walk around the park for ages, nibbling the biscuits, traipsing round and round. I watch the little kids on the swings, the boys on the skate ramps, the old people playing a really boring-looking game with lots of black s.h.i.+ny b.a.l.l.s. I check that Dad's letter is still in my bag about seven hundred times. I think about Dad. I think about Mum. I think about Beckett and the stripy jumper he was wearing when he walked away in those faded jeans with the pink of his knee poking through the frayed rips.

"You all right, love?" a lady asks when I walk past the little cafe. "You've been marching about for ages. I keep on seeing you. Those bags look heavy."

"Errrrrm," I stutter, "yeah, I'm OK. I just feel like walking."

"Can't stop for a quick cupcake then?" she smiles. "I'm just about to shut up shop and I have one left, begging to be eaten."

"Errrrrm."

"Oh, go on," she says. "You can have it for free. If you don't tell, I won't tell, so long as you don't go spoiling your dinner. Don't want your mum chasing after me, do I?"

She hands me the cupcake. It's covered in pink icing with tiny red hearts.

"Thanks."

I take the cupcake and carry on walking. I lick the icing. I nibble the hearts. I sit on a bench and let the warm sun kiss me.

Maybe Mum's changed and things'll be different. Maybe if I do go there everything'll be OK. I probably won't even recognise Beckett and he definitely won't recognise me.

My tummy twists, that knotty nest of fear unravelling and turning to snakes. But what if she hasn't changed? What if she blames me for everything that happened? What if she goes mad at me again? No one can make me go. There isn't even anyone to make me. I could disappear forever and no one would ever know.

I pull the letter out again and stare at it. I trace my finger over the shapes and my heart thunders. Gabriella.

Gabriella Midwinter. Beckett Midwinter. Dave & Sally Midwinter. Midwinter. Midwinter. Midwinter. Families are so silly.

I wiggle my finger under the flap and loosen the seal. I slide it all the way along until the envelope opens like a big white mouth and then I take a deep breath and pull the letter out. I try to hold it still enough to read, but my arms are juddering, and the paper is fluttering like a moth in my hands.

"Still here?" says the cafe lady, walking past.

I nod and stuff the letter in my pocket. "Thanks for the cake, it was lovely."

"You sure you're OK, sweetheart?" she asks, coming closer. "Nothing wrong is there?"

I shake my head.

"I'm meeting my dad here," I lie. "We're having a picnic before Parents' Evening. We're celebrating because my artwork is on display."

"Awww, that's lovely," she smiles. "Have a nice time. And good luck with Parents' Evening!"

I wish I was having a picnic with Dad. Instead, I find some nature stuff on the ground and make my own little tea party. I use b.u.t.tercups for cups, a flat piece of wood for a table and a smooth round stone for a teapot. I bend little twigs to make a family, sit them all around and make tiny cakes and buns out of berries, and miniature green sandwiches from leaves.

There. Everyone's smiling. Everyone's happy and having fun. A pain swells up in my chest. I swallow it down and pick up my bags. I leave my twig family behind and hope a little girl finds them and has a play before the wind blows and scatters them across the gra.s.s.

I leave the park and walk up and down the streets, wondering what it would've been like if Dad actually was going to Parents' Evening to see my artwork and take photos of it on his phone.

Then I remember having a picnic with Grace and her mum. We hired a canoe, paddled up the ca.n.a.l and then stopped when we were far away from everyone. It was all green shade and magical rays of sunlight bursting through. I couldn't believe it was real; it was like the paintings. We had egg sandwiches and crisps and chocolate cake and real orange juice with bits in, not squash. Grace's mum bought us white chocolate Magnum ice creams and we sat on the edge of the ca.n.a.l for hours, watching the boats float by and the moorhens nesting. We took off our sandals and dangled our feet in the freezing water and laughed.

Dad's letter is bas.h.i.+ng about in my pocket, demanding attention. I walk and walk until the straps on the backpack start digging in again and my legs are achy and tired. And when I can't walk any more I find a bench, hunt in my school bag for my bottle and glug some water down. I find a warm, brave place in my heart, swallow down the big hard lump in my throat and pull the letter out. I stare at it, tracing my finger over the blue biro shapes looping across the page.

Dear Gabriella, I know I should have told you, but I didn't know how. Amy and me are making a fresh start together and it's time for you to go and live with your mum. Amy thinks it'll be good for you to see her and Beckett. Here's some money for the train and for food while you're travelling. You're a big girl now. I know you'll be OK.

Mum's address is: 4, Macklow Street, Manchester. You'll be a nice little surprise!

Dad I swallow hard. I pick the little scab on my arm. I trace my finger over the words again and again and again. I sit there for a lifetime, my heart thudding in my chest, waiting for the sun to go down, watching the wind lift litter from the path.

"Can I have a ticket to Manchester?" I say, to the man at the railway station.

He peers at me through the gla.s.s. "Single or return?"

"Single."

He taps away at the computer screen. He squints his eyes to read. "Sorry, Miss," he says, "last train's already gone. You'll have to wait till morning."

I stare at him. "There must be something?"

He shakes his head and peers through the gla.s.s again. "Bit young to be travelling alone this time of night, aren't you?"

"Everyone says that. I'm just small for my age." And I'm not sure why, but suddenly I'm lying again.

The man nods and turns back to his computer. I wander away and press the green b.u.t.ton on my phone and listen to Dad's voice seventeen times. I walk and walk and walk, until the town is hushed, until the sky grows dark, until there's no one else around except me walking and walking under a bright, bright moon.

Without noticing where I'm going I find myself standing in the shadows near Grace's house, like a thick elastic band has pulled me back here. I should knock on the door and tell her mum what's going on. But I'm scared she'll phone the police and get my dad in trouble for leaving me alone.

I slip down the alleyway between the houses, stumbling in the dark, counting the back gates until I find Grace's, number 58. I lean my arm over and slide the bolt open as quietly as I can. I can't swallow. I can't breathe. I think I might be sick.

I tiptoe through the garden towards the shed, feeling like a thief, avoiding the pond, careful not to clatter the swing. Grace's garden is washed with silvery moonlight and a soft golden glow spills from the house like honey, spreading across the lawn. It's quiet and still, except for the silhouetted leaves fluttering in the breeze and my heart hammering fast in my throat.

"Here, Kitty, Kitty," Grace's mum calls from the kitchen door, bas.h.i.+ng a tin can with a spoon.

I freeze. I press myself against the shed door. Kitty leaps off the shed roof, on to the fence, and down to the ground with a pitter-patter thud.

"Come on, Kitty Kat," her mum calls again.

Kitty winds her soft furry body around my ankles. She nuzzles up close and purrs.

"Kitty Kat, come on."

I try pus.h.i.+ng her gently away, towards the house, but she won't go, she just keeps on twirling around me.

"Suit yourself," says Grace's mum at last. "Out on the town are you, Kitty? Chasing mice?"

She puts the cat bowl down and then she stands and tips her head right back to gaze up at the stars. I have to stop myself from flying into her arms and telling her everything, from clinging on to her forever. I wish she'd stand there all night, with the halo glow of the kitchen light around her. I wish she'd walk into the darkness and find me and take charge.

Grace's mum shuts the door and turns the key. She snaps off the light, plunging the garden into dark silvery shadows of moons.h.i.+ne. I stoop down and pick Kitty up. I nuzzle my face in her fur.

"Go get your dinner, Kitty," I whisper, putting her back on the ground. "Go on, you'll be hungry." But she won't go and I just stand there, waiting.

When the clouds first roll in, soft glittery rain tumbles from the sky, but then the drops get bigger and wetter. I shelter under a tree and wait with my fringe dripping on to my cheeks, until all the upstairs lights go off. And when the house is totally quiet, I creak the shed door open and creep inside.

Kitty leaps on to the workbench sending tins of paint and bottles of stuff flying. I freeze. I hold my breath. I tremble. I wait for Grace's mum to come shouting into the garden in a panic to see what all the noise is about. I wish she would. I cross my fingers and toes and hope she won't.

The shed window is so grubby and full of cobwebs the moonlight can't get in. I drag my bags into the dry and shut the door. I run my hands over cold things, a lawnmower, garden tools, a metal bucket. I bash my knee pulling a sun lounger from the pile and I struggle to put it up.

I think about Blue Bunny and wonder if he's in my bag. I've never been to sleep without him before. I swallow hard, settle myself down and dig around in the backpack looking for his soft silky ears. I feel a hairbrush, a toothbrush, some scissors and sc.r.a.ps, a book and some clothes.

I dig deeper and deeper, then freeze when the low rumbling thunder rolls over me and bright white lightning cracks open the sky. I hold myself tightly as the storm rain lashes the window and drips through a crack.

And I squeeze my eyelids together.

To stop my tears from leaking out.

I wake to the sound of the bin lorry munching and crunching on rubbish and for a moment I forget where I am. I stretch and yawn and blink. And then I see the lawnmower and the paint tins and feel Kitty's fur under my hands, and everything comes flooding back.

Amy. Dad. The letter. Mum.

A tiny spider dangles from a thread and Kitty bats it with her paw.

My throat squeezes tight.

What am I supposed to do now?

Do I just get on a train and find my mum and say, "Hi, I hate you because you scared me to death when I was small, but I'm coming to live with you anyway because my dad, who I stayed with because I was so worried about leaving him alone, has just walked out on me!"

And what does Dad think will happen next?

That she'll pull me into her arms and hug me and whisper,"Sorry darling," into my ear? Did he think she'd just sign me up for a new school and dance lessons with sparkly leotards and all that stuff and we'd live happily ever after like Grace?

That's the problem with Dad. He never thinks anything through. If he had, he wouldn't have let any of this happen. He'd have thought about me instead of Amy.

I take a sip of water from my bottle.

But what if Mum has changed? She might be really kind now. And what if... what if I find Beckett? What then? Will he know what to do?

I rub clear a little patch on the grubby gla.s.s window and watch a little robin pecking at the ground, trying to catch a juicy worm. I'm not hungry. My tummy has turned into this ma.s.sive empty cave with seawater churning and slos.h.i.+ng inside. I wish I could see what's happening in Grace's house. I check my phone. I press the green b.u.t.ton and hear it go straight through to Dad's answer phone. "Hi, Dave here, I'm off on me hols, so don't leave a message as I won't be getting back to you anytime soon." I don't try Amy's because my battery is running so low.

I wonder where they are now. Lying on some beach, or in a big soft hotel bed, or by a pool drinking c.o.c.ktails? Amy's probably still shopping like mad, Dad's fingers shaking as he hands over the credit card because he knows he won't be able to pay the bill.

I wish I didn't care about him so much. I wish I could just rub him out of my life like he has me. I hate thinking about it all. It makes this big hard lump in my throat. Everything's spinning around like a fairground ride. It's creepy that no one knows where I am, that no one's missing me or worried that I've not come home.

I pull out my rough book and a pencil and sketch a picture of the robin and the worm. It's quite hard because the robin keeps bobbing about and the worm keeps wriggling. So I turn it into a surrealist picture by making the worm turn round and eat the bird.

Grace's mum opens the back door and smells of strong coffee and toast drift outside into the suns.h.i.+ne. If only I could sneak in and hide until she's gone to work. I'd run a big deep bath with bubbles and lie about and watch telly all day long.

"Kitty, Kitty, Kitty," she calls. "Where are you?"

I shove Kitty off my lap and force her outside. I hear the robin flap away.

"What were you doing all night, Kitty?" she says. "You didn't eat your tea! Catching birds were you?"

I hold my breath. I can't be found. She mustn't know.

Please find me!

I decide to hide for a little while longer and then go to school as normal. I need to see Grace before I go to Manchester, just one last time.

I rub the sleep from my eyes, brush my hair and do my fractions homework. I re-read Dad's letter nine times even though I know it off by heart. I count my money, straighten everything up in the shed so it's just like I found it, pick up my things and creep outside. I keep my eyes on the house; scared Grace's mum will see me, hoping she's already gone to work.

It's weird being at school. I stuff my backpack at the back of the art cupboard so no one will see it, and shrug my shoulders when Mrs Evans mentions that Dad didn't make it to Parents' Evening. I feel different somehow, like I don't really belong here any more. Nothing at school seems important when you're worried about getting to Manchester and about what's going to happen when you get there. I'm not bothered about my homework. I don't even care about seeing my artwork on the wall.

"Doesn't it look great?" says Mrs Evans, standing next to me. "You should feel so proud of yourself, Gabriella."

I stare at my painting and shrug. Yesterday I was so excited about Grace's mum seeing it when she was here talking to the teachers. But today it's not important any more.

"Are you OK?" Mrs Evans says, glancing at me. "Look, tell your dad he can pop in any time he likes to see your work. It'd put some of the GCSE students' work to shame."

The word shame slides under my skin like a cold, wet fish, cringing inside me. I must have done something wrong. I must be a bad person for everyone in my life to leave me.

"You OK?" says Grace, staring at me while we're waiting for English to start. "You look like you've been dragged through a hedge backwards."

I'd like to tell her everything. A million words are fighting to get out of my mouth, but I don't really know where to start. We've been best friends for ages, Grace and me. She knows what cereal I like, what telly programmes I watch and that I'm really obsessed with art. She knows I think Will Thomas in Year 9 is cute and that I like white chocolate Magnums. But she doesn't know that my tummy scrunches up smaller than a walnut when people shout or that the shadow of my mum and the dark bruises she gave are always lurking behind me. She doesn't know that until Amy came along I'd been cooking tea for Dad and me every day for years.

"I'm OK," I say. "Just tired."