rubs his head thoughtfully.
‘Oh, yeah – you can’t, can you? Listen,’ he continues, ‘if you ever want a bit of help, I could –’
We both hear footsteps on the stairs. Dan backs away. His face transforms from ugly sneer to fake grin, his features softening as if they have been remoulded.
‘I’d have done better than that pair!’ he laughs, pointing to the telly. ‘Reckon we should go on this, eh, Sarah?’
I get a waft of Sarah’s perfume, which is quickly overtaken by the smell of onions frying in the kitchen.
‘I’m useless at quizzes,’ she laughs as she comes into view. ‘I bet Jemma could do it, though, if she had the chance.’
I don’t know about that, although I do sometimes get the right answers. It’s possible I’d be better than Sarah. She’s a brilliant carer, but she’s not too clever when it comes to general knowledge – or boyfriends.
At the edge of my vision, I see her kiss Dan softly on the lips.
Watching them, my own mouth feels suddenly dry.
The pair playing Pointless are out. They look very disappointed.
Dan and Sarah only have eyes for each other. ‘Ready?’ Dan smiles at Sarah. ‘You look stunning, babe.’
She nods and turns to me. Her eyes are sparkly, her cheeks flushed. ‘Bye, Jem. See you in the morning.’
‘See you, Jemma,’ says Dan. He winks at me.
‘Sorry to leave you so long, pet!’
Mum bundles into the room and I’m relieved to hear her warm, soft voice. She switches off the telly and pushes my wheelchair into the kitchen, to my place at the end of the table.
I hear the car on the drive. Dad’s back from taking Finn to his swimming lesson and picking up Olivia from ballet. Soon the kitchen is noisy and cheerful, as usual, and I push Dan out of my mind.
Olivia’s boasting to Mum about how good her dancing was and I watch as she shows Mum the new steps, while Mum tries to get her to sit down at the table. She’s nine and has only been here a year. We’re all fostered – I’ve been here since I was two and so has Finn, who’s nearly six. I’ve heard Mum say Olivia was ‘hard to place’. Maybe that goes for Finn and me too, though Olivia’s problems are different from ours. Finn is autistic, and right now is lining all his beans up neatly on the plate with his fingers. He’s obsessed with straight lines. Olivia’s a whirlwind – sometimes a tornado – and she’s loud. Finn and I don’t speak, so life is very different and much noisier since she came.
‘Sit down, Olivia!’ Dad says in his ‘firm but kind’ voice, and Olivia finally does. At least she doesn’t start one of her tantrums.
Mum serves up Dad’s shepherd’s pie and beans then starts feeding me my mushed-up version. Dan’s words creep back into my head while I’m eating and I try to shut them out.
‘If I were you, I’d top myself. Listen, if you ever want a bit of help, I could – ’
I can’t believe he said it – as if my life is worth nothing!
Olivia is wolfing down her food like she’s never eaten before. She’s skinny, but she has a huge appetite. Finn isn’t eating. He’s still lining up his beans, concentrating as if his life depends on it.
‘Come on, Finn,’ Dad coaxes. ‘Time to eat them now.’
But Finn clearly doesn’t think his line is straight enough.
‘Finn, my love,’ says Mum gently, ‘why don’t you start with the pie?’
I don’t think Finn is listening to Mum, but I think he’s happy now with his line of beans. In any event, he forks a small amount of shepherd’s pie into his mouth.
Mum spoons some more into mine.
‘I saw Paula earlier,’ she tells Dad. ‘She looks dreadful, the poor woman.’
‘Still no news, then?’ Dad asks.
Mum shakes her head.
‘News about what?’ Olivia demands.
Paula lives down the road, and her son, Ryan, was murdered last month. He was nineteen and he was stabbed to death and no one knows who did it. Everyone’s talking about it, though – it’s even been on the radio.
Dad quickly changes the subject.
‘Finn’s swimming like a fish now,’ he tells Mum. ‘He’s come on so fast.’
‘And I was really good at ballet!’ Olivia says, never wanting to be left out.
‘I’m sure you were,’ says Dad.
‘How was school?’ Mum asks Olivia.
Olivia shrugs.
Olivia never wants to talk about school. It’s like it’s some big secret for her.
I have no secrets of my own. I’ve never done anything without someone knowing about it. I’m fourteen years old and I have severe cerebral palsy. I am quadriplegic, which means I can’t control my arms or legs – or anything else. I can’t eat by myself. I can’t go to the loo without help. I can’t move without someone lifting me with a hoist or pushing me in a wheelchair. I also can’t speak.
I’ve been this way all my life. I can see, though, and I can hear, and sometimes people forget that; they don’t realise that I have a functioning brain. Sometimes people talk about me as if I’m not even there. I hate that.
And sometimes people tell me their secrets. I think it’s because it’s quite hard to hold a one-way conversation. If they are alone with me, they want to talk to pass the time and they end up telling me stuff. They know I won’t tell anyone else so they think telling me is safe. The perfect listener.
Sarah told me her secret. She’s cheating on Dan. She’s still seeing Richard, her old boyfriend, because he’s so sweet and she can’t bear to hurt him by breaking up with him. Neither of them knows the other exists.
I’m always worried when Sarah has a boyfriend, although I enjoy the way she gossips to me about them. She has this dream of a fairy-tale wedding – she’s even shown me pictures of her ideal wedding dress online. I know I should want her to be happy – and I do. It’s just that I’d miss her so much if she went off to get married. She’s the best carer I’ve had.
More than that, I don’t want her to marry someone who isn’t good enough for her. And I definitely don’t want her going off to marry Dan.
Sarah’s in a great mood when she’s back on duty the next morning, though I can tell she’s got a hangover and is trying to hide it. She’s drinking loads of coffee. She clearly had a good night out with Dan and is singing a track by our favourite band, Glowlight.
She’s wheeling me from my bedroom to the kitchen when I hear the clunk of post landing on the mat. Sarah stops to pick it up and puts the small pile of letters on the kitchen table.
‘Oh look – one for you, Jemma,’ she comments. As she pushes me into my place, I see that the top letter, though addressed to Mum and Dad, has my name on it too – Parents/guardians of Jemma Shaw. I rarely get post. I wonder what it could be?
Mum picks up the pile and glances down. Then she quickly moves my letter to the bottom and puts them all on the kitchen counter. Sarah doesn’t seem to notice.
Now I am even more curious. Why doesn’t Mum want to open it?
After breakfast Sarah goes to get Olivia