She jogs away from me, rucksack bouncing, and joins Izzy, who’s waiting at the end of the road. Back to where you came from, she said. I want to shout after her, ask where does a person go if they can’t stay where they are, or go back to the place they’ve come from. Where will I go after the court case is over? A temporary placement, that’s what June said when I met her at the unit. Mike and Saskia have decided I’m the last foster child they’ll take until Phoebe finishes her A levels. She has no idea how lucky she is and how much I wish there was room for us both.
When I get to school I check my timetable inside my locker. First period I’m supposed to have maths but as I walked past the office on the way in, there was a note pinned up outside announcing that Miss Dukes, our teacher, was off for the day, Year Elevens to work in the library. I decide to go to the art room first to see if MK is around. Her room is empty when I arrive, a tasselled cardigan hanging on the back of her chair, an art textbook open, face down on the desk. I want to turn it over, see what it is she’s looking at, but the door to the corridor opens and she comes in carrying a pile of paper plates decorated with felt faces. She smiles when she sees me.
‘This is a nice surprise. How was your weekend?’
‘It was good, thank you. How was yours?’
‘Pretty quiet, to be honest,’ she replies. ‘If it’s me you’re after you’re in luck, I’ve got half an hour spare before the little ones pile in.’
‘I wanted to show you some drawings I did over the weekend.’
‘Wonderful, let’s have a look then.’
I slide the roll of sketches out of my rucksack flap, hand them to her.
‘Wow, you have been busy.’
‘There’s only three,’ I reply, enjoying the way her enthusiasm makes me feel.
‘Let’s flatten them out on the table.’
We use pots of felt-tip pens to hold down the corners of the pages, she steps back when all three are laid out. Nods.
‘These are great, particularly the girl with the eagle wings. Have you always liked to draw?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘Are either of your parents artistic?’
How to tell her, how to explain that you believed what you did was art.
Skin, not paper.
‘My mum left when I was young, so I’m not really sure.’
‘Sorry, that was insensitive of me to ask, I know you’re staying with the Newmonts.’
I tell her it’s fine, but it’s not. It’s not what she said, it’s what I can’t.
‘You’re very talented. Have you thought about studying art once you finish school?’
‘Maybe, but I also really like science.’
‘Better money in science, that’s for sure. Thanks for sharing them with me, I love to see what you girls come up with. If you don’t mind I have to reply to some emails but feel free to stay and do some drawing for the next twenty minutes or so.’
‘I’m supposed to be in the library. Miss Dukes is off so we’ve got a study period instead.’
‘I can give the librarian a quick call if you like, let her know you’re with me.’
‘You don’t mind me staying?’
‘Of course not, the more the merrier. It’s nice to have company, isn’t it?’
Yes.
I sit at one of the easels while she phones Mrs Hartley, reach for a red piece of chalk from the box on the table next to me. I sweep, swirl. We work in silence. Dust flies, so does time. Red splinters stand out against the navy of my school skirt. I press too hard, the chalk breaks.
‘May I see?’ she asks.
‘Yeah.’
She walks over, stands behind me.
‘The colour in this piece is very powerful.’
I nod.
The spillages and seepages.
‘Can you describe what you’ve drawn? Is that a person there?’
MK’s finger hovers close to your face, but doesn’t touch it. She traces the air around it, does the same for the red sweeps of chalk surrounding you.
‘It’s an interpretation of something I saw.’
‘Something on TV?’
‘Something like that, yes.’
‘Have you heard of the Sula Norman Art Prize?’
‘Is that the girl who died?’
‘Yes, she died of leukaemia two years ago. A very talented artist I believe, although I never met her, before my time here. When she passed away her parents pledged an art prize to the school, a year’s supply of art materials and an exhibition at a gallery in Soho. Having seen your work, I’d recommend you enter it.’
‘I’m not sure I’m good enough.’
‘Trust me, if you keep turning out work like this I think you’ve got a strong chance of winning. I shouldn’t say that, but it’s true.’
‘Thank you, I’ll think about it.’
I walk to the sink, focus on washing my hands, anything but the warmth spreading across my face. Stupid to blush, and she noticed. I pull a paper towel from the dispenser, dry my hands. She joins me at the sink, gives me a damp cloth.
‘For the dust on your skirt,’ she says.
I spend the remainder of the period in the library, and leave as fast as possible when the bell goes, make sure I get to the gym before the others. I change in a cubicle. Private. My body’s my own these days, leotard on for vaulting practice. I’m glad I didn’t cut last night, Mrs Havel’s arms support either side of my ribs as she helps us turn headfirst over the vaulting horse. A younger pupil comes in and interrupts the lesson.
‘There’s an important phone call for you, Mrs Havel.’
‘Can’t it wait?’
‘No, Mrs McD in the office said it was urgent.’
‘Okay, I won’t be a minute, girls. Lay off the vaulting and do some mat work instead and for goodness’ sake no messing about, be careful.’
The noise rises as soon as the door to the gym closes. Laughter and teasing, conversations about boys and things that happened over the weekend. I listen, it helps me learn how to fit in. Blend in. I watch Georgie, one of the smallest girls in the year, climb up a rope attached to the ceiling. She uses her feet to push against the large knot at the bottom, her arms to pull up, gain height. She’s doing well, almost halfway, the rope swings a little from side to side as she continues. I see Phoebe nudge Clondine, whisper something, then giggle and approach the rope. Georgie’s high up now, no crash mat, I know what they’re about to do, I can tell. I should intervene but for once it’s not me being ridiculed. Belittled.
They start to swing the rope, gently at first. It doesn’t take long for the other girls to notice. The crowd soon gathers, high ponytails dip down as necks bend and heads look up to the roof. Phones would be too, but no pockets in the leotards. Georgie tells them to stop, but they don’t. Climb down, quick, I want to yell, but fear gets to her first. Tells her to hang on, whispers in her ear, hang on for your life. She pulls her body in close, tightens her grip round the rope, bare feet useless. Slips a little, scrambles up. One leg released, clamped in again. Somebody makes a joke, says what’s the weather like up there, Georgie. Laughter. Swearing. Oh fuck, look how high she’s swinging. Then a warning from Annabel.
‘She’s going to fall, Phoebe, stop it.’
But she doesn’t listen, she pulls harder on the rope, her smile bigger, enjoying the power. The control. Georgie swings like a baby monkey without its mother’s back or tail to hang on to. No branches, no trees. Nothing to break the fall. Up there alone. Out there alone. We all are.