Читать книгу Bloom - Nicola Skinner - Страница 8

AND THEN, ON the first day of Year Six last September, something else broke too. Something I was quite fond of. My life.

It was the patio’s fault.

I’d let myself in from school. Mum was still working, the lucky thing, at The Best Job In The World, and wouldn’t get back for another two and a half hours. I planned to unwind by cleaning the kitchen, polishing my school shoes and doing my homework, because that was how I rolled.

Now, Mum wasn’t a big fan of me being home alone, but she worked full-time every day and didn’t get back till 5.45 p.m. We could only afford three days of After-school Club: Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. On Tuesdays, I went to Neena’s house after school. (Who, for a while, depending on which news programme was on, was either my gormless best friend, evil partner in crime, evil best friend or gormless partner in crime.)

Anyway, Mondays were my home-alone afternoons. On Monday mornings, Mum would always say: ‘Don’t burn the house down, and make sure you do your homework.’ As if I needed telling. Who knew exactly what she should be doing at any given time? Who had written Sorrel’s Stupendous Schedule?

I had, that’s who. My Stupendous Schedule played a big part in my being good. It’s sooo much easier to toe the line when you have a row of neat little boxes waiting to be ticked.

So there I was. Wiping sticky marmalade patches off our table. Emptying the dishwasher. Opening the back door to air the kitchen, which always smelled damp.

Once I’d done all that, it was 4.25 p.m. I had just a few more precious moments of leisure time before I had to crack on with my homework, and I knew exactly how to spend them.

I went to my rucksack and took out the letter which had been given to us at the end of school that very day. And this time, I didn’t skim it, surrounded by noisy classmates. I devoured every single word.

This is what it said:

Are the buttons always shiny on your blazer?

Do you regularly come home with Perfect Behaviour reports?

Could YOU be the winner of the school competition to find the Grittysnit Star of the Year?

There’s only one way to find out.

Enter my GRITTYSNIT STAR competition for the chance to be crowned THE MOST AMAZING GRITTYSNIT STAR OF THE ENTIRE SCHOOL AND LITTLE STERILIS at the end of term.

You will also win a seven-day family holiday in the Lotsa Rays Holiday Resort in Portugal. (Prize kindly donated by local travel agency Breakz Away.)

A family holiday in the sun! I’d never been abroad before, let alone on a plane. Mum always said money was a bit too tight for that. As if our money was an uncomfortable jumper.

On the letter, someone – probably the school secretary, Mrs Pinch – had drawn four little matchstick figures sunbathing on a beach. They were holding ice-cream cones and smiling at each other.

They looked happy.

I read on.

The winning GRITTYSNIT STAR will possess that special something that makes an ideal Grittysnit child.

I held my breath. What?

Each child will be judged on their ability to obey the school rules every second of the day.

I gasped in delight. That was me!

I did a quick mental calculation. There were sixty children in each year at Grittysnits. I’d be up against 419 other entrants. Or would I? I had six full years’ practice of obeying school rules. The odds were in my favour. Most kids in Reception and the early years could barely tie their own shoelaces, let alone mind their pees and, for that matter, their queues.

Winning that holiday would be like taking candy from a baby. I almost felt guilty as I mentally marked the number of competitors down. Them’s the breaks, kids.

The most important thing to remember is that the Grittysnit Star will be a living embodiment of our school motto, BLINKIMUS BLONKIMUS FUDGEYMUS LATINMUS. Or, in English …

I didn’t even have to read the English translation, I knew it so well. Looking up for a moment, I caught sight of my reflection in the kitchen window. Standing solemnly in front of me was a short, round, pale and freckly girl, her hair (the washed-out yellow of mild Cheddar) scraped back in a bun. She returned my gaze confidently, as if to say, ‘School motto? Cut me and I bleed school motto.’

Together, we chanted: ‘May obedience shape you. May conformity mould you. May rules polish you.’

The tap dripped sadly.

I read on.

The lucky winner will also enjoy other special privileges. These will include:

1. Having your own chair on the staff stage during school assemblies.

2. Never having to queue for lunch.

3. A massive badge (in regulation grey) which says:

What, you want more? That’s the problem with children these days it’s all take, take, take.

May the best child win.

Now, go and do your homework.

Your headmaster,

Mr Grittysnit

I put the letter down and took a big shaky breath. This was my destiny. Window girl and I looked solemnly at each other, as if bound by a silent pact.

Holding the letter as gently as if it was made of glass, I walked over to the fridge. I wanted to fix it there with a magnet so I could see it every day. But finding a space would not be easy. Already the fridge was plastered with yellowing bills, old recipes Mum tore out of magazines …

And, of course, that photo of us on our most recent summer holiday, taken just a fortnight before. It showed us on a small pebbly beach, huddled under a blanket, beneath a sky as grey as the bags under Mum’s eyes.

I stared at that photo, remembering. How the caravan had smelled of somebody else’s life that we’d wandered into by mistake. How Mum had spent the whole week begging me not to break anything. How it had rained for six days straight and then, just as we’d boarded the coach back to Little Sterilis, the sun had come out.

Which had made everything worse somehow.

Mum had spent the whole journey back – all five hours of it – with her forehead squished up against the window, staring at the blue sky like it was someone else’s birthday cake and she knew she wouldn’t get a slice.

Next to the photo was our calendar for the year ahead. I saw that Mum had marked our summer holidays on it already. CARAVAN, she’d written, in thick red ink. No exclamation marks. No smiley faces.

To be honest, it looked more like a threat than a holiday.

But if I won the Grittysnit Star competition, we could have a proper family holiday, somewhere sunny. Somewhere else. My yearning hardened into determination. All I had to do was be perfect for the next eight weeks.

No sweat.

I’d just fixed Mr Grittysnit’s letter over the photo, feeling immense relief as Mum’s troubled frown disappeared, when …

SLAM! The back door whipped open with a bang.

My heart hammered with fright. Who’s there?

But it was no one. Just a gust of wind and a door nearly swinging off its hinges. I must not have shut it properly after airing the kitchen earlier.

The wind roared in and seemed to fill the entire kitchen with anger. I felt as if I was standing in a room of invisible fury. On legs as wobbly as cooked spaghetti, I staggered over to shut the door and force the wind out.

Something white and fluttery flew over my shoulder.

I shrieked and ducked down.

Is a pigeon trapped in our kitchen?

I looked closer. It wasn’t a white pigeon, all claws and feathers. It was Mr Grittysnit’s letter! The wind had ripped it off the fridge and it was flying frantically about the room. When I jumped up to catch it, it darted out of reach, as if invisible blustery hands had snatched it away. I just caught a glimpse of the stick figures hovering in mid-air, their smiles turned to frozen grimaces, before they flapped and fluttered …

… out of the doorway and into our backyard.