line of sweat bubbles above Dad’s top lip. He pulls his wallet out of his pocket and digs his fat fingers in to get at the cash. He sighs and all his strength kind of drains away like water.
“All right then,” he says, “anything you like.” He turns to me. “Gabriella, run down to Chang’s, will you?”
“Good idea, Dave,” says Amy, giggling, wriggling her way into his arms, nibbling at his ear. She glares at me and holds Dad tight like she’s won him as a prize.
I ignore Dad and watch the burny bits creep along the chips until every one is black and smoke is billowing into the kitchen. Amy starts flapping her arms like mad.
“I’m gonna choke, Dave!” she squawks. “Open the window, will you, you stupid old fat bum!” She puts her hands on her hips and stares at me. “I’m the woman of the house, Gabriella Midwinter, your dad just said so. So you’ll keep your grubby hands out of my kitchen and get sharpish at tidying up that bedroom of yours. Do you hear?”
My heart thumps in my ears. I glare at her through the swirls of black smoke. My room is none of her business.
“I like it in a mess,” I say. “I know where everything is and Dad doesn’t mind.”
She moves towards me, her shoes clip-clopping on the kitchen floor, her waggling finger pointing. “Well, young lady,” she says, pushing her face so close to mine I can see the streaks of fake tan on her cheeks, “things are about to change round here. I’m the boss now. So you’d better get used to it.”
My legs are trembling. “But it’s not your flat, Amy,” I say. “It’s ours. And Dad’s the boss. I like my room how it is.”
“This place is a disgrace,” she snaps. “The council would slap a health warning on it if they came for a visit!”
I wish Dad would charge forward and pull her away from me. I wish he’d tell her I can have my room how I like. Instead, he pulls a can of lager out the fridge, snaps it open and takes a long cool sip. He pours a glass of wine for Amy that reminds me of blood, and looks at her and then at me. He sighs, handing me a wodge of cash. I glare at him.
“Dad!” I say. “We can’t afford takeaway—”
“Gabriella,” he interrupts, “don’t be boring. Be a good girl and go and get the food.”
“And make sure you get my order right, Miss Flappy Ears,” says Amy. “I want beef with black bean sauce.”
I’m glad to leave the flat. The air outside is warm and the sun’s turning red in the sky. I stare at it for ages, watching it sink lower and lower. I wish I had some paints with me. I wish I were a proper artist with a real easel and proper brushes and a little stool and an actual canvas. I would really love to paint that sun.
The queue at Chang’s is long. But I don’t mind. I sit and watch the fishes swim round and round the tank, in and out of a little blue castle that’s nestled in the gravel. Round and round and round, weaving through the plants. I wonder if they ever get bored?
I feel like a fish sometimes, going from home to school and back again. Round and round, to town or the park or Grace’s. Dad and me never go anywhere fun. We never do anything special. If Grace invites me on one of her famous expeditions my tank gets a little bit bigger for the day, but it doesn’t happen very often. Zoe and Elsie from my class have amazing lives full of glitter and lip-gloss shimmer, full of popcorn and pony trekking and soft pink leotards with white net tutus for ballet dancing.
I like Friday afternoons when the Play Rangers come to our estate and make us hot chocolate and we toast marshmallows on a fire. We build camps from blue plastic and rotten wood, and run around playing games, squealing at the top of our lungs. But I can still see our flat from the green. I can still see Mrs McKlusky’s tartan slippers fringed with the soft tufts of cotton, shuffling about. I can still hear her mumbling words rude enough to make your ears sting.
Grace came to Play Rangers once and thought it was the best thing ever. My tummy felt warm then, that I had something special to share. Dad keeps promising he’ll come and watch us one day. He keeps promising to fix us a rope swing in the tree on the green.
I order crispy duck for Amy and wish I could tell Chang to put poison on it. But I don’t in case Dad eats it or me. I worry in case one of us dies or if Amy dies and Dad gets sent to prison. Sometimes my heart burns hot with worry. My tummy gets in tangles because who would care for me if Dad was gone? Grace is lucky. Grace has a nice mum and a nice dad. She has two grannies and a grandpa and all sorts of special aunties and uncles and cousins who send her things in the post. Things wrapped in shiny paper with ribbons so colourful I just want to snip them up and make beautiful patterns with the scraps.
When I get back home the flat is quiet with a note on Dad’s bedroom door saying, DO NOT DISTURB. I push my ear against the cold paintwork to listen. Dad’s laughing, Amy’s squealing, their music is blaring.
I grab a fork from the kitchen, shut myself in the front room and put the telly on so loud I know that Mrs McKlusky will bang on the wall with her broom.
I don’t care about Dad and Amy. I’m glad they’re not with me because I can stretch right out on the sofa with my feet up and all the cushions are mine. I can watch my favourite hospital programme in peace. There’s been this big car crash and people are dead, but some are still alive, groaning. My favourite paramedic girl with the soft, kind voice is coming to the rescue. I watch carefully, trying to work out how the make-up artists make all the gashes and bruises look so real.
When I’ve finished my chicken chow mein I lick my fingers and slide my tongue across my lips to keep the taste going on for a little bit longer. I dig into the mountain of prawn crackers, dipping them in the sweet chilli sauce, cramming them into my mouth, tasting them prickle and melt. Dad’s sweet and sour pork smells so good I can’t stop myself from dipping my fingers in its sticky red juice and licking them like lollipops.
And I know he won’t mind because you could easily lay my dad on the floor and wipe your muddy feet all over him and he wouldn’t say one thing. You could slap him round the face, like Mum used to, and he’d just slide off into the bedroom to hide. Like I’d slide under my bed and get as close to the wall as I could. As far away as possible, so she couldn’t get to me with her sharp slaps or see how much the big purple bruises they left on my skin hurt.
I can’t stop fretting that Dad’ll miss his tea and be starving. Amy’s food is sitting on the edge of the coffee table, staring at me, daring me to touch it. I won’t eat it. I’d never do that. But this idea starts swimming round and round my head like Chang’s fishes, pressing in on my skin.
I write ‘beef in black bean sauce’ on the lid so it looks like Chang made a mistake with the order. Then I peel off the lid and rest it on the side. I breathe in crispy duck dare. I put my face close and let spit dribble out and melt into the sauce. I stir my fork round and round then put the lid back on so neat that unless Amy is a detective she’ll never find out.
When my favourite lady on the hospital programme has finished crying into her boyfriend’s arms because she didn’t save the people in time, I watch this other one about cooking in Italy. They make this yummy red sauce and powdery cheese pasta with green basil sprigged on top. They show you the sights and it’s so real I feel like I’m actually in the car with the man with the rusty beard. I’m driving down the avenues of tall trees, past golden fields. I’m drinking the cappuccino hot milk froth with chocolate. Like it’s me, far away from here.
And
