Wishbones. Virginia Macgregor

and even at this distance he looks so thin you wonder how his body stays pinned to the ground.

      Jake and I are the only teenagers in Willingdon: the school bus does a detour especially for us. Whoever this guy is, he’s not from around here. But this is the really weird thing: he looks as though he’s meant to be here; when I look at him I feel like I’m meant to know him.

      Just as the bus pulls in, the guy jumps on, gives the driver a note, then goes to sit at the back and takes out an old battered paperback. No one’s ever read a book on the school bus before, not unless it’s cramming before an exam.

      Everyone else on the bus fixes their eyes on him, like Jake and I did, but he doesn’t seem to notice – or to care. He just sinks into his seat and stares at his paperback.

      I keep wondering whether maybe he came here one summer with his parents, whether maybe they’re one of the rich families from London who bought a cottage on The Green and now leave it empty for most of the year.

      The guy looks a couple of years older than Jake and me. He’s so thin that his collarbones stick out. In fact, the whole of him looks hollow, like there’s something missing. I’m almost grateful that Mum’s the weight she is, it would be worse to have her look like this – like a ghost.

      ‘Weird, hey?’ I whisper. ‘Do you think he’s sick?’

      Jake shrugs.

      ‘He looks interesting though,’ I add.

      ‘Interesting?’ Jake pokes me in the ribs.

      I blush. ‘Not like that, I just mean that there’s something about him – he looks kind of familiar, don’t you think?’

      ‘I hope you’re not going to feed him that line,’ Jake grins.

      ‘What line?’

      ‘Haven’t we met before?’ Jake says in a voice that’s obviously meant to be mine but that sounds totally lame.

      ‘Just forget it.’

      Jake leans over and gives me a loud kiss on the cheek. ‘Just teasing, Feather.’

      Sometimes it totally feels like Jake’s my brother.

      There’s another thing that’s different between me and Jake: I can’t ever remember him not being in a relationship; I’ve never even been out on a date. Or kissed anyone. Or received a Valentine’s card. On my birthday a year ago I asked Jake whether he would kiss me just so that I could stop worrying about it, but he got all embarrassed and then refused and said, It’s meant to be special. He paused. Plus, I’d be cheating on Amy. And I know he’s right, but it would still make me feel like less of freak to know that I’ve at least kissed one boy before I die.

      We have made a pact though: if we’re still living in Willingdon when we’re fifty (and if Jake hasn’t been an idiot and married someone like Amy), we’re going to buy a house and live there together and get old and wrinkly together. It’s kind of a relief to know that when Mum and Dad aren’t around any more, I’ll always have Jake.

      Jake looks back at the guy. ‘I know what you mean. He’s cool.’

      By which, Jake means that the guy’s way too cool to be seen hanging around with us. Or rather me. Which kind of sucks, because he does look interesting – more interesting than any other guy that’s stepped onto the Newton Academy minibus.

      It’s the longest Monday ever. I find it hard to concentrate in lessons because my brain keeps buzzing all over the place: I make up healthy recipes for Mum and think about the Slim Skills meeting on Tuesday and how Mum’s actually coming and about how Jake’s promised to sort things out between our mums and about how I have to work out a way to get Dad on board. Anyway, thinking about Mum makes quadratic equations and Mount Vesuvius and iambic pentameter seem pretty pointless. The only lesson that I feel remotely interested in is Miss Pierce’s History class.

      ‘I thought we’d do some poetry today,’ Miss Pierce says.

      The class groans.

      ‘Aren’t poems for English?’ Jake calls out.

      That’s another reason girls like Jake: he makes them laugh and he’s not afraid to stand up to teachers. Take Amy: for a second, she’s stopped drawing hearts on the back of her file and is looking at Jake like he’s some kind of hero.

      Sometimes I worry that if I wasn’t the only person Jake’s age living in the village, if our mums hadn’t brought us together when we were babies, he wouldn’t even notice me.

      ‘Poems are for every occasion Jake,’ Miss Pierce looks straight at him with her sharp, blue eyes. ‘And in the case of the First World War, poetry was one of the only ways that the men could truly express what they were going through.’

      Jake has some teachers totally wound round his little finger, but Miss Pierce wins every time. And Jake doesn’t mind because he likes her just as much as I do. She’s one of those teachers who cares more about pupils than about impressing the Head or his millions of deputies, which means she actually talks to us like she’s interested in hearing what we have to say rather than waiting for us to come up with the right answer.

      ‘Don’t we have textbooks for that?’ Jake asks.

      ‘Textbooks tell us facts, Jake, poems tell us the truth. And they bring us together: they teach us about our common humanity, about how the past and the present are connected, about how a man sitting in a trench a hundred years ago writing a love letter to his girlfriend back home might feel the very same thing as you feel when you pass notes to Amy under the desk.’

      The class erupts in laughter.

      That’s another thing about Miss Pierce: she always knows exactly what’s going on.

      Jake blushes and stares down at his desk.

      Amy grins stupidly because she’s got attention, even though she probably doesn’t understand what she got attention for.

      ‘These two men have given us the greatest treasures from the First World War,’ Miss Pierce says, switching on the projector. The black and white faces of two young men flash onto the whiteboard. ‘Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon.’

      ‘Didn’t they meet in a loony bin?’ Matt calls out from the back of the class.

      ‘They met at Craiglockhart Hospital, Matt, where soldiers were recovering from shell-shock.’

      I’ve heard that term before but I’ve never really got my head round it. I put my hand up.