myself in. But when I got to my third school and discovered the truth, I gave up. I discovered trying was a pointless waste of time because the army can treat my family like carrots. They can uproot us any time they like and ship us off to the other side of the world. I discovered that fighting wars is more important to the army than caring about girls like me making friends.
I’d wish I could stand on a chair with a megaphone and say to my family, LOOK AT MY LIFE! IT’S NO WONDER I’M FEELING UNHINGED!
What makes matters worse is that I should be at boarding school because some bossy body said that boarding school is what happens when you’re the daughter of a Lieutenant Colonel. It’s supposed to be more settling for army kids. But how can you ever get settled and learn stuff like equations and be interested in Shakespeare or William Blake when your dad is on the other side of the planet with bombs going off around his head? How can you get settled when you’re worrying your dad might be lying hurt somewhere? Or that he might even be dead?
I did try boarding once, but I ran away three times and said I would never stop running. And I meant it. When my dad looked into my eyes, he knew I was telling the truth. He said I could stay home until it’s time for GCSEs. Then I’ll have to board. No choice.
I would like to stand on a chair with a megaphone and say, WE’LL SEE ABOUT THAT! But I never want to upset my dad so I swallow down my words.
If my dad didn’t have a job that moves us around the world every five minutes and leads him to the edge of death every day, things might be a bit better. I might be able to screw myself back on my hinge.
I hate school lunchtime more than I hate the bus. The toilets are torture chambers full of bitchy girls like Tory Halligan and the cooks and supervisors are worse. They’re the school’s sergeant majors. You can see their tonsils dangling when they shout out their commands, and little bubbles of spit that gather in the corners of their mouths when they speak.
“Jemima Taylor-Jones!” shouts Mrs Currie, the head cook. “Uniform!”
I look at her, then down at my boots and smile.
“My dog ate my shoes, miss,” I lie. “It was these or my trainers. Mummy thought black was best.”
She flaps her bingo wings.
“I was referring to the beret, Jemima,” she spits. “This isn’t French week, you know! Take it off now, please, before I’m forced to send you to Mrs Bostock’s office. And she will confiscate it! Rules are put in place to be adhered to.”
“Rules are made to be broken,” sniggers Jess, sliding on to the seat next to me. “Have you heard?” she says.
“What?”
“The news?” She pulls out her phone and opens a text from her mum. “There’s been another bomb,” she says. “Really bad! Soldiers have been killed. My mum’s at home, just waiting for more news. You never know… but then the lines are probably down – we might not find out who’s dead for days. It feels weird, knowing it might be my dad. The thought kind of bubbles in my tummy.”
She dips a chip in ketchup.
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