What is the Ring of Fire?
The Ring of Fire is a volcanic chain surrounding the Pacific Ocean.
2: Where are volcanoes located?
Volcanoes are found along destructive plate boundaries, constructive plate boundaries and at hot spots in the earth’s surface.
3:What are lahars and pyroclastic flows?
I know what those big words mean, but I can’t be bothered to write the answer down. My mum’s biting huge chunks out of my brain with her shark’s teeth, blood dripping down her face. My tummy’s grumbling. I try calling Dad again, and Amy. A plane roars overhead and it makes me think about them flying off. Where are they even going?
I pack my stuff up and start walking. I don’t really think about where I’m going, but suddenly I’m standing at Grace’s front door, which is painted smooth red and has a shiny brass lion’s head knocker and letterbox. Yellow flowers nod in wooden boxes on the windowsill and tangles of white roses hang around the doorway like a big messy fringe. I stuff my nose in a creamy bloom and breathe in its perfume. It smells so beautiful. “Hi,” I say, when Grace’s mum opens the door. “Is Grace in?”
“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 shiny balls. 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 café. “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 café 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 buttercups 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 grass.
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 canal 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 canal 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 bashing about in my pocket, demanding