***
Later, Jake’s straightening up from the car with the last box in his arms when he glances up and sees her. She’s sitting in the front of a van a few cars down, staring at him. He sucks in a breath. Everything seems to go into slow motion.
She looks a couple of years younger than him, although because he’s small for his age they’re probably the same height. A white-blonde ponytail is sticking out from under a baseball cap and she has milky skin with dark eyes. He’d have to get closer to see what colour they are. She looks like an angel. He bets her dad doesn’t breathe booze all over her or use his belt on her legs ’til they bleed. As Jake’s wondering about going over and saying hello, hoping his clothes aren’t too scruffy, she pulls the cap down low and turns away. She obviously saw his scar and eyes. He doesn’t know what he was thinking. He’s not good enough to be friends with someone like her.
‘What are you doing just standing there? You’re bloody useless.’ His dad cuffs him hard around the side of the head, catching him by surprise. He stumbles over his own feet and shoots into the house before he can get hit again, face red as he realises the girl must’ve seen. Racing up the stairs, he kicks open the door to his pink bedroom, throws the box on the floor and rubs his ear. It throbs. Swinging around, he frowns at the door. No lock. That means he’ll be out on the roof tonight, depending on his dad’s mood later. Hopefully, he’ll be too drunk to climb up after him. Or if he does, maybe he’ll fall off. That would be something.
As Jake drops to the floor with a thud, he notices scuff marks on the base of the bed and a few loose pieces of stitching hanging down. Frowning, he lies down on his back and shuffles to push himself along until he’s lying directly below where he’ll sleep. There’s enough daylight coming in through the bare windows to illuminate the underside of the bed. As Jake looks up, his eyes widen at the picture stuck there. It’s childish, but altogether beautiful.
Something about the magic and imagination of it makes him feel fearless.
***
A few minutes later, ignoring his throbbing ear and the chance his dad will cuff him again, Jake runs back downstairs and onto the street.
Racing down the road, he takes a deep breath and goes up to the window of the scuffed white van, knocking on the door with a dull metallic clang. The girl stares at him through the glass, fair eyebrows drawn together, dark eyes unreadable. She bites her bottom lip but after a moment, opens the door. Jake steps back as she climbs down onto the pavement. She’s in baggy blue jeans and a plain white T-shirt.
‘Hello,’ he says, keeping his voice steady even though inside he is quivering. What if she doesn’t like him? What if she turns away?
But ‘Hi,’ she replies quietly.
‘I moved into the neighbourhood today.’ He can smell strawberries and is sure it’s coming from her. It reminds him of the time he and his mum went strawberry picking, just the two of them. It’s a good memory, a rare one.
‘Yeah,’ the girl scowls, ‘into my house.’
‘It’s yours?’ He thinks of what he just discovered under the bed, and the painted walls. ‘I mean, sorry. Didn’t you want to move then?’
‘No, I didn’t. It’s Mum’s fault.’ Her scowl deepens. ‘We’re leaving at the end of the week.’
‘Oh.’ His stomach drops with disappointment. ‘Where is she?’
‘Not here. I don’t know.’ A sigh this time.
‘Sorry.’ This isn’t going well. He’s upsetting her. Jake takes a step back and rubs his scar. It used to pull his lip up when he was little, but his mum managed to get him into a hospital for surgery, so it’s now just a straight vertical line cutting down into his top lip on the right-hand side. ‘What’s wrong with your mouth?’ she asks.
‘Um … I was born with a defect. But it’s fixed now.’
‘Huh.’ She stares at his face. ‘I can still see the scar though.’
‘Yeah.’ He blushes then stares at the ground. When he looks up, she’s studying him, her eyes warmer.
‘Don’t worry, it’s not that bad. Besides, I think it’s good to be different.’
‘Thanks,’ he mutters. Though he is touched by her kind words, he wants to change the subject, so he nods to her wrist. ‘That’s a nice bracelet. Who gave it to you?’
‘Mum, before she ran off.’ Her face twists. ‘I guess it’s something to remember her by. It sucks that she left but the bracelet’s my favourite thing, even though I’m cross with her.’
He feels privileged she’s sharing her feelings with him. Or maybe she’s just so angry at her mum she’ll talk to anyone about this. ‘Well, maybe—’
‘Oi, what do you think you’re doing? Get inside, now.’ A large hand hauls Jake backwards.
‘Dad. I just—’
‘Back in the van, little girl.’ Jake’s dad smirks at Leila, his voice rough. ‘Didn’t your dad ever teach you not to talk to strangers?’
With a start, she scrambles into the van and slams the door shut, her eyes round.
The last thing Jake sees before he’s frogmarched inside is her face, full of fear and disgust. He realises he doesn’t even know her name.
We only have five days left in Bournemouth and then we’re leaving for good. I hate going to bed every night because I know when I wake in the morning, we’ll be one day closer to moving out of Grandad Ray’s, to a town I’ve never been to and where I don’t know anyone. Starting mid-term at a secondary school where all the other kids will know each other makes me feel sick, and the thought of saying goodbye to Eloise makes me even sicker. She’s my best friend. I didn’t even get to spend this half-term with her because she’s on holiday with her family. It’s totally rubbish. Dad says we’ll come back and visit sometimes but it won’t be the same.
I roll over and curl into the rumpled quilt as morning winter sunshine creeps through the curtains, but my mind is on the house a few doors away. Our old house, the one I had to part with yesterday. I hope that whenever I close my eyes and imagine it, it’ll always be there in my head, waiting for me. I’ll open the front door and pass the doors to the kitchen and lounge, thundering up the stairs to my bedroom, which is exactly how it’s supposed to be. My bed will be tucked against the wall covered in stuffed toys and sketch books, the bookshelves crammed full of different-sized paperbacks, and all my posters will be hanging on the walls. A white wardrobe is in the corner and my white dressing table is covered with pencils, charcoals, and paint pots, as well as a hairbrush Mum used to brush my hair with every night. Before she left.
The doors to Narnia and Hogwarts are still painted on the walls, along with other entryways like the Gates of Argonath from The Lord of the Rings. I’ll slide under my bed and my charm bracelet will swing against my wrist as I lift my hand to smooth the wooden bed slats. My wonderland will still be there, a picture I worked on for two weeks solid when I was seven years old. I went back to it six months ago, after Mum left, to add more detail. Wanting to be swept away and distracted from the reality of my world.
I used every colour felt-tip pen I owned on that piece. In some places I used two or three colours on top of each other to make a new one. In other places I applied craft glue to stick feathers, gems, and ribbons to the scene. There are stickers too, of animals, hearts, and smiley faces. I drew a unicorn and gave it a rainbow tail. I added a peacock with green, purple,