All About Mia E-Book

Lisa Williamson

• Herausgeber: David Fickling Books
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 402

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Mia's two sisters are pretty much perfect, but Mia's life is a series of disasters.Fuelled by alcohol and insecurities, she betrays one of her best friends in the worst way imaginable.But will her little sister going missing finally make her realise making everything All About Mia just isn't going to cut it any more?It's time to grow up and face reality.

Leseprobe

For Jake

Contents

Title PageDedication123456789101112131415161718192021222324252627282930313233343536373839EpilogueAcknowledgementsAlso by Lisa WilliamsonCopyright

Everyone in Rushton knows the Campbell-Richardson sisters.

Grace is the oldest and destined for a first from Cambridge. Signature scent: grapefruit shampoo, second-hand books and perfection.

Audrey is the youngest and destined for the Olympics. Signature scent: chlorine, Lucozade Sport and discipline.

Then there’s me, Mia. I’m in the middle. I have no idea what my destiny is. Signature scent: coconut oil, Haribo and TROUBLE.

1

‘I feel like getting wasted tonight,’ I announce.

It’s a Friday evening in early June. Me and my three best friends – Stella Fielding, Mikey Twist and Kimmie Chu – are packed into Stella’s messy bedroom, the air thick with perfume and hairspray.

Mikey rolls his eyes at the others. ‘No offence, Mia,’ he says, ‘but when do you not feel like getting wasted?’

He makes a valid point. My fondness for getting drunk is one of my trademarks.

‘Yeah, but tonight I feel like getting especially wasted,’ I say, sloshing at least three fingers’ worth of vodka into a plastic beaker before topping it up with a splash of Diet Coke. I stir it with my straw, watching as the liquid turns the colour of dirty paint water.

‘Why? What’s the occasion?’ Kimmie asks, blowing on her newly painted fingernails.

‘Does there have to be one?’

‘I suppose not.’

The truth is, I’ve had a crappy week. The evidence so far:

On Monday, I dropped my iPhone on the patio when I was out on the roof having a late-night cigarette, and now the screen is all cracked and Mum and Dad are refusing to replace it again.

On Wednesday, the English essay I worked really hard on for once came back with a big fat ‘D’ on it and the words ‘a poor effort’ scrawled on the top in red pen.

On Thursday, I was hauled into Mr Joshi, the head of sixth form’s, office for ‘flouting’ the sixth-form dress code for the third time this term. Apparently my ripped jeans were ‘inappropriate for an academic environment’. I argued back for a bit, telling him that whether you could see my kneecaps or not had no reflection on my ability to discuss the symbolism in A Streetcar Named Desire, but he was having none of it, confiscating my hooped earrings while he was at it for good measure.

The real nail in the coffin though, the cherry on top of the big fat cake, happened earlier today. I was in the sixth-form social area scrolling through Instagram when a selfie of my ex-boyfriend Jordan, kissing some blonde girl I’ve never seen before, popped up on my feed. Straightaway I got that horrible sick feeling in my stomach, the sort that makes your insides slosh about like unset jelly.

I down my drink and pour another.

‘Someone’s phone,’ Stella says, turning down the iPod speakers.

It’s mine. I pluck it off the bed and peer at the shattered screen. ‘MUM’ flashes back at me. I consider not answering, but I know she’ll only go and leave me a really long voicemail message if I don’t.

‘I’ll be back,’ I say, putting down my beaker and heading out onto the landing, shutting Stella’s bedroom door behind me.

I swipe my finger across the screen.

‘Hey, Mum, what’s up?’ I ask, dangling my spare arm over the banister.

‘Hi, sweetheart, change of plan, I’m going to need you at home tomorrow,’ Mum says.

‘But I’ve got plans with Stella.’

‘You see Stella every day at school.’

‘That’s not the same. This is chill time,’ I say, my voice venturing dangerously close into whining territory, something I know Mum hates.

‘Well, I’m sorry, Mia,’ she says, ‘but you’re going to have to chill another day.’

‘Why? What’s going on?’

‘Grace is coming home.’

What? But Grace isn’t due back for another six weeks. Since last September my older sister has been in Greece volunteering on an archaeological dig. Which I just don’t get. I mean, Greece is nice for a holiday and everything, but why would you willingly spend your entire gap year digging for bits of broken pottery when you could be somewhere cool and exotic like Thailand, sunbathing and tubing and going to full-moon parties? But then most of what Grace does bewilders me. Grace and I may have the same blood and DNA and stuff, but that’s kind of it; we are chalk and cheese to the extreme.

‘When?’ I ask, swapping my phone to the other ear, as if that’s going to make a difference to the news Mum is delivering.

‘Tomorrow,’ she answers.

‘But how come?’

‘She just said that she’d done all she wanted to do, and it felt like time to come home. Between you and me, I think she might be feeling a bit homesick.’

I scrunch up my face. Who suddenly gets homesick after nearly nine whole months away?

‘Anyway,’ Mum continues, ‘they’re due to arrive home about one o’clock tomorrow, so I’ll pick you up from Stella’s in the morning after I’ve got Audrey from training.’

‘Hang on a second, who’s “they”?’

‘Grace and Sam.’

‘Sam? As in Grace’s lame-arse boyfriend?’

‘Mia …’ Mum says in a warning voice.

Even though she’s yet to meet him face-to-face, Mum won’t hear a word said against Grace’s new boyfriend. Apparently he and Grace bonded on their dig because he’s also going to Cambridge this autumn, to study medicine. Mum almost wet herself when she heard that. I keep hearing her refer to Sam as Grace’s ‘doctor boyfriend’ on the phone. Audrey’s chatted to him on Skype and reckons he’s really nice, which everyone knows is just the polite code word for ‘lame’. If anyone ever called me nice I’d probably chuck myself off the nearest bridge.

‘Anyway,’ Mum says again, ‘we should be with you around ten thirty tomorrow.’

‘Ten thirty?’ I splutter. ‘As in ten thirty a.m.?’

‘Of course. It’s not going to be in the evening, is it?’

‘But why so early? You know Saturday is my only chance for a lie-in.’

‘I’d hardly call ten thirty early. Besides, we’ve got a lot to do.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, you need to sort Grace’s room out for a start. It’s a complete tip.’

‘It’s not my fault she gave us zero notice she was coming back so soon,’ I huff.

But Mum ignores this. Just like she ignores anything negative I ever say about Grace. Because Grace is perfect, and I am not.

‘And then I need you and Audrey to get started on lunch while I do a cake delivery,’ Mum adds.

‘Can’t Dad do the delivery?’ I ask, picking at a loose thread on the pyjama shorts I’d put on to wear while I was getting ready.

‘No,’ Mum says. ‘He’s been on nights all week and he does need a proper lie-in. When I spoke to him earlier he was so shattered he could hardly string a sentence together.’

‘It’s not fair,’ I say.

Mum tuts. ‘Oh, come on, Mia, I’m only asking you to tidy up a bit and maybe chop some salad for lunch, not go down a bloody coal mine.’

‘Fine,’ I mutter. ‘Look, is that all you wanted? I kind of need to start getting ready. The party starts at seven and I haven’t even had a shower yet.’

‘Where is this party again?’

‘Andrew Stark’s house, remember? And before you ask, yes, of course his parents are going to be there.’

The second part is a lie. Obviously. Not that I’m going to let Mum know that.

‘Stella’s mum is going to pick us up at midnight,’ I add.

Another lie. Stella’s mum, a flight attendant for Virgin Atlantic, is currently en route to Shanghai, leaving Stella’s older brother Stu in charge. Stu doesn’t care what we do, providing we don’t burn the place down and keep our hands off his beer stash.

‘Can I go now?’ I ask.

‘Fine, fine, I’ll leave you to it,’ Mum says, sighing.

There’s a pause. I know what’s coming.

‘Now have fun tonight, Mia.’

I wait for the inevitable ‘but’. She doesn’t let me down.

‘But just try not to go too crazy.’

‘Mum,’ I groan. ‘Please don’t do this.’

‘It needs to be said,’ she says, talking over me. ‘I don’t want a repeat of New Year’s Eve.’

‘You promised not to keep banging on about that,’ I said, closing my eyes, my hand curling round the banister, fingernails digging into the soft wood.

‘I’m not “banging on”,’ Mum says. ‘I’m just reminding you of what happens when you get carried away.’

‘Look, I’ve really got to go now, Mum. Stella needs me. I’ll see you tomorrow, OK?’

She sighs again. ‘OK. Ten thirty a.m. Make sure you’re ready, I don’t want to be hanging around waiting for you.’

‘OK, OK.’

Back in the bedroom, Stella is sitting at her dressing table, frowning at her reflection.

‘What’s up?’ I ask, tossing my phone on the bed.

‘Hair dramas,’ Mikey says.

‘I can’t believe I didn’t notice how disgusting my split ends were until now,’ Stella moans, holding her hair out in front of her as far as it will stretch.

‘I could have told you that,’ I say.

‘I’m serious!’ she cries. ‘I can barely look at them without wanting to throw up in my mouth.’

‘They’re not that bad,’ Kimmie offers, her eyes round and hopeful. Of the four of us, she’s the closest we have to a peacekeeper.

‘Yes they are,’ Stella snaps. ‘I should have gone to the hairdressers, I knew it.’

‘Well, you didn’t,’ I say, flopping onto the bed next to Mikey. ‘So quit whining.’

Stella turns round in her chair to face us. ‘Trim them for me, Mia? Please?’

‘Why me?’

‘Because you’re good at hair.’

This is true. Sixteen years of taming my own hair – a big fat curly Afro – has forced me to develop some pretty advanced hairdressing skills. Stella and Kimmie are always begging me for ‘fishtail plaits’, or ‘beachy waves’, like I’m their on-demand personal hair stylist.

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Have you got any scissors?’

A prolonged search produces a pair of craft scissors from an ancient pencil case, the inside blackened with ink and pencil shavings. I run the blade against my finger. I secretly long for blood, but they’re as blunt as can be.

‘These will barely cut through a piece of paper,’ I say.

‘I don’t care,’ Stella replies. ‘At least try.’

‘Well, on your head be it.’

‘Literally!’ Mikey chimes in, high-fiving Kimmie.

‘You guys are so lame,’ I mutter, brushing Stella’s hair so it falls in a single straight sheet down her back. ‘So how much do you want taking off?’ I ask, snipping in mid-air.

‘Just the very ends,’ Stella says. ‘I don’t want to lose the length. A couple of centimetres at the very most.’

Thanks to the fine texture, the scissors cut through Stella’s hair more easily than I’d anticipated.

‘Done,’ I say, taking a step backwards.

Stella inspects my work. ‘Maybe a tiny bit more?’ she says. ‘The ends are still kind of raggedy-looking.’

‘Fine,’ I say, rolling my eyes at the others as I resume cutting. I work faster this time, taking big swishy slices out of her hair.

I’m beginning to quite enjoy myself when Stella lets out a scream.

‘What the actual fuck, Mia!’ she shrieks as she falls to her knees to retrieve the chunk of hair I’ve just hacked off. It’s five centimetres long at the most but she’s wailing like I’ve just scalped her or something.

‘You were the one who bugged me to cut it,’ I say, putting the scissors back down on the dressing table. ‘I told you I didn’t want to do it.’

In the mirror, I can see Mikey and Kimmie gaping at Stella, wearing a mixture of horror and delight on their faces. Meanwhile Stella continues to kneel on the carpet and scream over the piece of hair like it’s a dead baby.

Calmly, I sit down on the chair she’s just vacated.

‘Jeez, relax, Stells. It’s only hair.’

But that just makes her scream even more.

I know for a fact I should feel guilty, but the truth is, I don’t feel anything at all.

2

You have got to be kidding. I swear I only set my alarm about three minutes ago. How the hell can it be 10 a.m. already?

I open my eyes a crack, praying to see darkness, despite the fact the birds were already singing when the four of us stumbled off the night bus. Instead, I’m greeted with full-on blinding sunshine blasting through Stella’s white organza curtains and threatening to burn my poor hungover retinas to dust. I squeeze my eyes shut again and pull the duvet over my head.

The alarm is getting louder. Where the hell is my phone? Beside me, Stella doesn’t even stir. She sleeps like a corpse, flat on her back and eerily still, her mouth slack and shimmering with drool. The piece of hair I cut yesterday sticks out from her skull at a right angle. She finally stopped going on about it last night, around the time we located the exotic booze stash at Andrew’s party.

Over the other side of the room, Mikey and Kimmie are totally out of it on the inflatable mattress; Mikey is star-fished on his front, the soles of his skinny pink feet poking out from under the duvet, Kimmie nestled at his side, curled up in foetal position.

I hang over the edge of the bed, figuring I must have plugged my phone in to charge when we got in, my hand almost upsetting a plastic washing-up bowl on the floor. I peer in. A couple of centimetres of congealed vomit clings to the bottom. The stench of regurgitated banana tequila hits my nostrils at the exact same time the flashback of sitting on the edge on the bed, head between my knees, whooshes before my eyes. Bile gushes up into my throat and before I know it I’m puking all over again. A curl falls loose from my ponytail and dangles in the vomit. I pluck a tissue from the box on Stella’s bedside table and attempt to wipe my hair and chin clean. With the other hand, I locate my phone in the tangle of wires under Stella’s bed and manage to turn off the alarm. I expect the silence to make me feel better but it does the opposite, drawing all my attention to the ringing in my ears instead. I flop back on the bed, my head hitting the pillow like a ton of bricks.

This is all Grace’s fault. If it wasn’t for her stupid welcome-home lunch, I could sleep in until one or two, then spend the rest of the afternoon lying in Stella’s massive bed watching Netflix and guzzling full-fat Coke and Domino’s pizza, and by 4 p.m. I’d be more or less back to normal. As it is, I’m destined to feel crap until tomorrow morning at the very earliest.

It’s worth it, though; last night was a right laugh. Once we got bored of Andrew’s, I suggested we get the bus into town, sparking a mass exodus from the party. As I headed up the group on our way to the bus stop, I couldn’t help but picture that experiment Mr Crowley did in Year 7 science, the one where he held a magnet above a pile of iron filings and they all leaped up in the air to cling on. It’s always been like this. When I was younger Mum used to call me the ‘Pied Piper’ because wherever I went, other kids would follow, no questions asked.

When we got into town, we almost didn’t get into the Cuckoo Club because the bouncer didn’t believe Kimmie was over eighteen. Poor Kimmie, she’s so dinky that when we went to Pizza Express for Mikey’s birthday last year, the waitress gave her the kids’ menu and a packet of crayons (we nearly died laughing). Anyway, I had to flirt like mad to get the bouncer to let us in, fluttering my false eyelashes for all they were worth until he groaned and unclipped the tatty velvet rope.

Once we were inside, loads of boys came up to me. I didn’t really fancy any of them, but who cares, especially when they’re buying the drinks and telling you how gorgeous you are.

The next thing I know, my alarm is going off again, this time right next to my head. Only it isn’t my alarm, it’s a call. I must have drifted back off to sleep. I jab at the screen with my index finger.

‘Hello?’ My voice sounds like gravel.

Stella rolls away from me, yanking the pillow from under my head and pulling it over her face.

‘It’s me. We’re outside,’ a female voice crackles down the line.

It’s Audrey. I check the time. 10.30 a.m. bang-on.

‘Coming,’ I say, struggling to sit up, my head still pounding. I can hear Mum tutting away in the background, bitching about how much we have to do before Grace arrives.

Grace, Grace, Grace.

Groaning, I hang up and start the search for my clothes.

‘I thought I asked you to get rid of those shorts,’ Mum says as I climb in the back seat of the car five minutes later.

Audrey is in the passenger seat directly in front of me, eating a protein bar, a damp semicircle on the back of her T-shirt from her wet hair.

‘Why, what’s wrong with them?’ I ask, even though Mum’s issue with my shorts is well established.

‘Well, for starters, I can see your bum cheeks,’ she says.

‘You’re supposed to,’ I mutter, pulling on my seatbelt and gazing mournfully up at Stella’s bedroom window.

The shorts in question are my very favourite pair of denim hot pants. Mum hates them with a passion. But then she hates most of my clothes. Which is totally unfair. It’s not my fault I have a naturally hot body and everything I put on looks automatically sexy whether I intend it to or not. In fact, if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s Mum’s, considering the fact her DNA is fifty per cent responsible. Sometimes I think she’d be happier if I just went full-on Amish and started wearing a bonnet and woolly tights with dresses down to my ankles.

It’s going to be a hot day, a proper scorcher according to the weather report on the radio, which of course means the entire country will fall apart temporarily. I can already feel sweat patches forming under my armpits. The sweat smells of booze, I swear. I peel my T-shirt away from my skin and try to waft some non-existent air with the loose material, making a mental note not to let Mum get too close.

Mum and Audrey are talking about Audrey’s new training schedule, their voices low and serious. Ever since she won a string of medals at the British Junior Swimming Championships last year, people have been throwing the ‘O’ word around, like it isn’t totally outlandish to imagine Audrey up on the podium one day in the not-so-distant future, a shiny Olympic medal dangling round her neck and the British national anthem blaring out over the tannoy.

I fiddle with the hem of my T-shirt, curling it round my index finger until the skin goes bright white. I let go, watching as the blood rushes back, turning my finger pink again. I can smell Audrey’s protein bar. It reminds me of the stuff she feeds her guinea pig, and makes me feel a bit sick. I look down at my legs. They’re covered in bruises and inspire another flashback to last night – me and Mikey on Andrew’s trampoline, competing to see who could jump the highest. From the state of my black and blue legs it didn’t end well. I catch Mum’s eye in the rear-view mirror. She frowns. I pretend not to notice, rifling in my bag for my sunglasses. I slip them on and try to ignore the churning in my stomach as Mum and Audrey talk about ‘land training’ and ‘kick boards’ and ‘county times’ and a ton of other swimming stuff that has nothing to do with me.

Not that I’m surprised. I know perfectly well where I come in the family pecking order – right at the very bottom.

3

Ten minutes later, Mum pulls into our weed-infested driveway, parking up next to her treasured motorbike. I open the passenger door of the car before Mum has even turned off the engine, and make a beeline for the kitchen.

After downing a cup of black coffee and sneaking a couple of Nurofen from the stash behind the tea bags, I’m despatched straight to Grace’s room with strict instructions to return it to its former glory. And fast.

Despite Mum’s instructions, I hesitate at the bottom of the stairs. Ordinarily I charge up them without paying much attention to the framed photographs and memorabilia that hang on the wall, but today I take my time, actually looking at them for the first time in ages.

The jumble of photos and certificates and press clippings are in no particular order. I’m convinced Mum and Dad have done this in an attempt to disguise the fact that, unlike my sisters, I’m not award-worthy in any shape or form. As it is, it would probably take a moment or two for the untrained eye to notice that evidence of my personal achievements on the Campbell-Richardson ‘Wall of Fame’ is woefully lacking.

About halfway up the stairs, nestled between the press cutting from last August’s Rushton Recorder article celebrating Grace’s record-breaking A-level results, and a photograph of Audrey diving into the water at a recent swimming competition, her body long, lean and powerful, is a picture of all three of us. It was taken when Grace was still at Queen Mary’s, and Mum paid the visiting school photographer extra to take a photo of the three of us together.

It’s super-cheesy. Shot from the waist up, it shows the three of us sitting astride an unseen wooden PE bench in age order, our heads turned to face the camera, arms looped around each other’s waists. I remember the photographer – a tall skinny guy wearing a shiny waistcoat – repeatedly urging us to ‘move in closer’, so in the end my boobs were all squished up against Grace’s ramrod-straight back and, behind me, Audrey was stuck with a mouthful of hair. But even without the awkward pose, I would have still looked the odd one out.

Grace and Audrey got Dad’s height and Mum’s slim boyish build and although I’m an above-average 5’5”, Grace (5’10”) and Audrey (5’8” and still growing) make me feel like a midget in comparison. Figure-wise, I have the sort of curves that get grown men flustered – something that isn’t lost on either of my parents and perhaps accounts for their disapproval of ninety per cent of my wardrobe. Although all three of us inherited the same chocolate-brown eyes, while Grace and Audrey got our Irish mum’s smooth, wavy hair, I landed the massive Afro, courtesy of our Jamaican dad. When I was little I used to hate my hair and cry every time Mum combed it, begging her to let me have it relaxed so it would look like Grace’s and Audrey’s. These days, I love it. It’s still a pain to look after sometimes, and I could do without the creepy blokes in bars who sidle up to me and try to guess where I’m from, like there’s a prize going for the correct answer, and then get all shirty when I tell them I’m from Rushton. But despite all that, the payoff is worth it every time I strut onto the dance floor, or walk down the high street or corridor at school, heads turning like falling dominos as I pass. Because there’s no one else in Rushton who looks quite like Mia Campbell-Richardson.

The day Grace left for Greece, I moved out of the bedroom I share with Audrey and took over Grace’s. As I look around, I have to admit Mum wasn’t exaggerating about the state it’s in. Whatever way you try to spin it, it’s a complete tip. It’s been hard though, putting my stamp on a room that’s still full of all of Grace’s stuff – the piles of books, the billions of awards and certificates proclaiming just how brilliant she is, the stacks of old diaries filled with her perfect handwriting, the framed photographs of her collecting her Duke of Edinburgh award or posing triumphantly with the school netball team. It doesn’t help that Grace’s room is barely bigger than your average cupboard.

I wonder where Grace’s spoddy boyfriend is going to sleep, whether Mum and Dad will make him go downstairs on the sofa or if he’ll be allowed to join Grace in her single bed. When Jordan and I were still going out and I asked if he could sleep over one time, Mum and Dad reacted like I’d just requested to take over the house for a mass orgy or something.

I strip the sheets off Grace’s bed, bundling everything up and chucking it onto the landing, before sinking down on the carpet for a rest, my head still pounding. I’m unsure where to start. There are clothes and magazines all over the floor, makeup and toiletries littering every other available surface. The other day I knocked over an entire can of Diet Coke and there’s a brown stain the size of a dinner plate on the pale blue carpet.

I can’t cope with any hardcore cleaning so I start with the cosmetic stuff, peeling my posters off the walls. I crawl onto the bed and reluctantly pull down a topless Zac Efron, revealing the vintage map of Cambridge that Grace has had hanging over her bed since she was about eight years old.

Time for a fag break. I crawl out of the window and onto the kitchen roof. Both Grace’s bedroom and mine and Audrey’s look out over the back garden. When we moved here nine years ago, the three of us were expressively forbidden from ever coming out here. It’s a rule I’ve broken pretty much every day since.

I peek to check Mum and Dad are safely inside before lighting up, dangling my legs over the edge, climbing ivy tickling my calves.

Before she went away, Grace used to stick her head out of her window and beg me to stop, reeling off facts about lung cancer and blood circulation and premature aging. My response was always the same – just because I like to unwind with the occasional cigarette, it does not mean I’m addicted.

I take out my phone and, before I can stop myself, bring up the photo of Jordan and his new girlfriend again. The photo is pretty gross. Jordan’s practically chewing on the girl’s lip, like it’s a piece of grisly steak or something, his arm outstretched to capture the moment for prosperity on his phone. Since yesterday I’ve discovered the girl’s name – Hattie Trevellion – and from poring over her Instagram feed, it’s quickly become clear she’s the polar opposite of me in pretty much every single way – tall, blonde, skinny, no tits, posh. I know she’s posh because in one of her posts she’s wearing the Toft Park uniform, and everyone knows it costs an arm and a leg to go there. I sometimes see Toft Park girls in Rushton town centre after school, wearing the stupid straw boater hats that even the sixth formers have to wear, and carrying their school books around in Marc Jacobs handbags, their noses in the air. I bet Hattie is a right stuck-up cow; she certainly looks it from her photos.

It takes over an hour to remove all evidence of my occupation from Grace’s room, shoving everything into bin bags and transferring them back to my old room where Audrey is lying on the carpet in low plank position, her face red with determination. As I pile the bags onto my bed, she lowers her chest to the floor for a few seconds before transitioning into cobra position.

‘I’m glad you’re back,’ she says.

I pull a face. ‘Seriously?’

‘Yes. I get lonely without you.’

‘You need to get out more, Auds.’

Of the three of us, Audrey is the biggest homebody. Even though she’s popular at school and swimming club and has plenty of friends, given the choice I reckon Audrey would always choose home over anywhere else.

I go back to Grace’s room and do one final sweep. The room looks sort of sad and empty without my fairy lights and postcards, lava lamp and hot-pink duvet cover brightening up the place. I push the bed so it’s under the window. It means Grace won’t be able to open her wardrobe door all the way, but at least the Coke stain will be hidden from immediate view. I sigh, shut the door, and head downstairs.

In the kitchen, Mum and Dad are snogging up against the fridge.

Ew.

They’ve always been pretty hot on PDAs, but ever since they set a date for the wedding they’re all over each other any moment they get.

People are always surprised when they find out my mum and dad aren’t married. They met when they were teenagers, in a dodgy Rushton nightclub called Rumours that no longer exists. Within six months Mum was pregnant with Grace. Dad proposed the day Mum found out (in the loo at Grandma Jules’s house apparently), but they’ve never actually got round to saying ‘I do’. Then on Christmas Day last year, with Grace on Skype in Greece, Dad got down on one knee amongst the discarded wrapping paper and re-proposed to Mum with a brand-new diamond ring to replace her crappy twenty-year-old Argos one.

They’re getting married at the end of July with Grace, Audrey and me as bridesmaids. There are only two real downsides to any of this:

1) The wedding preparations are making Mum and Dad super-frisky, and;

2) They’re being even tighter than usual, because even though they’re apparently on ‘a strict budget’, Dad is determined to give Mum ‘the wedding of her dreams’, which is all very cute and everything, but means I haven’t had a new pair of going-out shoes in ages and keep having to borrow Stella’s like a total pleb (not to the mention the fact she’s a full size bigger than me).

‘Get a room, guys,’ I say, squeezing past my parents to fill up the kettle.

They separate reluctantly, grinning, Dad holding a tea towel over his crotch. Double ew.

I turn away, grabbing a teaspoon from the cutlery drawer and heaping coffee granules into an oversized mug. If I’m going to make it through a full-on family lunch, I definitely need more caffeine.

‘I thought you were supposed to be in bed,’ I say over my shoulder.

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ Dad replies. ‘Too excited about having all my girls back under the same roof.’

I roll my eyes. Dad can be a proper sap sometimes.

He gives Mum a kiss on the cheek and scampers out of the kitchen to sort himself out.

‘Another coffee?’ Mum says, eyeing the jar of Nescafe in my hand. ‘All that caffeine isn’t good for you, you know, Mia.’

‘Well, if I hadn’t had to get out of bed at the crack of dawn this morning, I probably wouldn’t need it,’ I say, adding hot water to my mug and watching the liquid turn inky black as I stir.

‘Oh, don’t be such a drama queen,’ Mum says, fiddling with the temperature on the oven.

I take a slurp of coffee. It burns the back of my tongue.

‘Ooh,’ she says, turning round. ‘I forgot to ask, how’d you do on that English essay?’

‘Oh. OK. I got a B.’

I don’t even know where my lie comes from. Only that I’m too hungover to deal with Mum’s disappointed face today. I’m unprepared for how thrilled she is, smiling and hugging me tightly.

‘See, I told you you’d start to see results if you put the effort in.’

I look at my feet. There’s a dirty tidemark across my toes from the pair of shoes I wore last night.

Mum lets me go and opens the cutlery drawer. ‘Here you go,’ she says, thrusting a bunch of knives and forks at me.

I frown. As usual the kitchen table is covered with bits of newspaper, unopened post and change from Dad’s pockets.

‘Not there, we’re going to eat outside,’ Mum explains. ‘Oh, and remember to set an extra place for Sam.’

‘About Sam,’ I say. ‘How long exactly is he staying for?’

‘I don’t know,’ Mum admits. ‘The weekend at least, I imagine, maybe longer. Why?’

‘No reason,’ I say, sighing and slumping against the fridge.

‘Come on, chop chop,’ Mum says, clapping her hands together and motioning towards the patio doors. ‘The table isn’t going to set itself.’

I groan and head outside. The garden is a proper suntrap, the hot paving slabs beneath my bare feet forcing me onto my tiptoes.

‘And once you’ve done that,’ Mum calls after me, ‘you can go upstairs and change out of those bloody shorts.’

I make my way round the table, chucking the knives and forks down haphazardly. I’m not overly thrilled at the prospect of Sam gate-crashing for the weekend or however long he plans on sticking around for. It means I’m going to have to act all polite and civil. I expect he’s a total dullard too, just like Grace’s ex, Dougie. Grace’s taste in men is boring with a capital ‘B’. They’re always total suck-ups with neat haircuts and good table manners, the sort of boys who offer you their jacket when it’s cold and point out the constellations and ask if they can kiss you. Snooooooooze.

Dad ends up doing the cake delivery for Mum so I manage to sneak upstairs for a quick nap while Audrey helps with lunch. I must be totally out of it when Dad gets back because the next thing I know the doorbell is chiming and Mum’s bellowing, ‘They’re here!’ up the stairs.

I peel myself off the mattress, blood rushing to my head as I slowly become vertical. My nap has had the reverse effect it was supposed to, and somehow I feel even worse than I did before I lay down. I go over to the mirror to survey the damage. I look like shit, my eyes bloodshot, a massive lightning-shaped crease down the left-hand side of my face and a brand-new spot the size of Mount Vesuvius slap bang in the middle of my chin.

I know they’re probably expecting me to go straight down and join the welcoming committee, to be all fake and huggy and say, ‘Oh, Grace, I’ve missed you soooooo much!’ but I can’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I creep out onto the landing, ducking into the bathroom quickly and turning on the radio at maximum volume before Mum or Dad have the chance to summon me downstairs.

I take my time in the shower, letting the water pummel against my back and shower cap while I sing along to the radio. By the time I get out, my skin is wrinkly and tender and there are puddles all over the tiles. I chuck a towel down and push it around with my foot, soaking up the excess water, then wrap another round my body and pad over to the mirror. The remnants of last night’s smoky-eye makeup are smeared down my cheeks. It’s actually kind of a cool look, although I doubt Mum would agree. Reluctantly, I wipe my face clean with a cleansing wipe, quickly turning it a muddy grey before helping myself to a big dollop of Mum’s nice moisturizer, smoothing it on all over.

Clean and creamed, I turn off the radio and step out onto the landing. It’s eerily quiet. Which is weird. Our house is many things but quiet is rarely one of them, and from the way Mum and Dad have been acting about Grace’s premature return, I’d been expecting a carnival atmosphere.

I’m distracted by my stomach rumbling. The last thing I ate was a McDonald’s Happy Meal at about 4 p.m. yesterday. I wonder what’s for lunch. I bet Mum has made a proper effort. Anything for her darling Grace.

Back in my room, I get changed quickly, pulling on a clean pair of shorts and my favourite T-shirt – grey marl with the words ‘It’s All About Mia’ splashed across the front in hot-pink lettering. I consider attempting to cover up the volcano on my chin before remembering there’s no one important here – just my parents, Audrey, Grace and her stupid boyfriend. I abandon my makeup bag and head downstairs. About halfway down, I encounter Audrey huddled on one of the steps, her bony knees drawn up under her chin. Again, weird. Why isn’t she in the kitchen with everyone else?

‘What’s going on?’ I ask, peering over the banister and noting the closed door. ‘Why are you out here?’

‘Mum and Dad are talking to Grace and Sam,’ Audrey replies.

‘But what about lunch? I’m starvacious.’

‘I don’t know.’

I pause and listen. I can hear raised voices, though not quite loud enough for me to make out actual words. They don’t sound happy, which is even weirder still. Mum and Dad are always happy with Grace. It’s usually me they reserve their shouting for.

I frown and continue past Audrey down the stairs.

‘I don’t think we’re meant to go in there,’ she calls after me.

I throw her a look over my shoulder (so?) and open the door.

Out in the garden, lunch is laid out on the patio table, untouched and attracting flies. Everyone is inside, sitting at the kitchen table. Dad’s mouth is set in a straight line, while Mum’s eyes are glossy with tears. On the other side of the table with their backs to me are Grace and Sam. They’re holding hands.

‘Mia,’ Dad says, noticing me in the doorway. His voice is flat and he looks like he’s aged about five years since I saw him this morning.

In unison, Grace and Sam twist round in their seats. It’s strange seeing Grace’s face after so many months. She’s cut her hair into a bob and her skin is noticeably darker.

‘Hey, Mia,’ she says.

‘Hey,’ I reply, shrugging.

She removes Sam’s hand from hers and uses the table to push herself up, before turning to face me head-on.

I blink.

OK, I’m seeing things. I have to be seeing things.

Because Grace, my perfect sister, has either got a beach ball shoved up her top or is 100 per cent pregnant.

I look over at Mum and Dad. Mum is staring at the ceiling. Dad is staring into the depths of his mug.

Back to Grace. Her hands are resting on her swollen tummy. She does this little nod, as if to say ‘yes, it’s true’, her eyes wide and doe-like.

That’s when I start to laugh.

4

I can’t believe I’m being thrown out of my own house.

Mum denies this of course. She says I’m being ‘melodramatic’. At least Audrey is being shipped off too, to her friend Lara’s place, which at least hints at some effort to be fair. We’re both practically shooed down the path as we’re given strict instructions to stay away until further notice.

My laughter probably didn’t help our cause. Not that I could have stopped even if I’d wanted to. It was like that time I got the giggles during the two-minute silence for Remembrance Day back in Year 9, only about ten times worse. Anyway, Mum and Dad weren’t terribly impressed, which is totally unfair because Grace is the one they should be angry with, not me.

At Stella’s, Stu answers the door. He’s wearing a ratty dressing gown and holding a massive bowl of Coco Pops and a soup spoon.

‘Didn’t you just leave?’ he asks.

‘Change of plan.’

‘How’s Grace?’

Stu and Grace were in the same year at Queen Mary’s. I reckon he has a bit of a thing for her because he’s always asking how she is.

‘Pregnant,’ I say.

Stu’s eyes almost pop out of his head. ‘What?’

‘Exactly.’

I push past him and bound upstairs to Stella’s room, throwing open her door. The three of them are sitting on Stella’s bed, surrounded by pizza boxes and watching Orange Is the New Black on her laptop.

‘What are you doing back?’ Stella asks, pressing pause and scooting over to make space for me on the mattress. ‘I thought you had family shit to do.’

I climb on the bed and start opening the pizza boxes, searching for leftovers. I score on the final box, folding the last slice of Hawaiian in half and taking a massive bite.

‘You’re never going to guess in a trillion years,’ I say once I’ve swallowed it, licking grease off my fingers.

‘In that case, you may as well just hurry up and tell us,’ Stella says.

I leave a suitably dramatic pause.

‘Grace is pregnant.’

They gasp in satisfying unison.

‘But how? Grace has always been so good,’ Kimmie cries.

‘Not any more,’ I singsong, tracing my finger along the seam of Stella’s duvet cover.

Because Grace the great and powerful has finally messed up. Not only that, she’s messed up in the most spectacular way imaginable.

‘Is she keeping it?’ Stella asks.

‘She must be. She’s massive.’

‘Who’s the father?’

‘This bloke she met in Greece.’

‘Is he Greek?’ Kimmie asks, her eyes wide.

‘I don’t think so, he’s ginger.’

‘What’s his name again?’

‘Sam. He’s in our kitchen right this second.’

‘What’s he look like?’ Mikey asks. ‘Is he fit?’

I try and fail to get a picture of Sam in my mind. I seem to remember him being tall and having reddish hair but that’s about it.

‘He’s OK,’ I say. ‘Like I said, gingery.’

‘OMG, ginger babies!’ Stella shrieks.

‘Hang on, Ed Sheeran ginger or Eddie Redmayne ginger?’ Mikey demands. ‘You need to be way more specific with the hue, Mia.’

‘I dunno. I was too busy gaping at Grace’s massive pregnant belly to pay all that much attention.’

‘Prince Harry ginger?’ Kimmie suggests, her eyes shining hopefully (Kimmie is obsessed with the royal family).

‘Are they gonna get married?’ Stella asks.

‘God, I don’t know.’

‘I bet he asks her,’ Kimmie pipes up.

‘Yeah, shotgun wedding,’ Stella chimes in. ‘Old school.’

If that happens before the year is out, Grace will be nineteen and married with a baby. An actual baby.

I don’t like them one bit. Babies, I mean. I once helped look after my cousin Poppy while Auntie Ali had her hair done. It was only for an hour, but it was enough. Pops screamed literally the entire time, and for the few minutes she wasn’t screaming she kept trying to use my fingers as a teething ring, which was beyond disgusting. God, is Grace going to expect me to babysit? I bet she is. And probably for free too.

‘How far gone is she, do you reckon?’ Stella asks.

‘Far,’ I say. ‘Like out here.’

I hold my hands out about ten centimetres in front of me, cupping them around an imaginary baby bump.

‘Wow,’ Stella says. ‘That’s far then. How many months, do you know?’

I shake my head. Just thinking about it creeps me out. I mean, my sister is growing a baby inside her – an actual human being, with fingers and toes and stuff.

‘I bet she looks well nice pregnant,’ Kimmie says. ‘I bet her bump is really cute.’

God, Kimmie is soppy sometimes. I roll my eyes at the others.

‘Yeah, not like my mum’s,’ Mikey says, his voice dripping with disgust. ‘When she was preggers with The Accident, she was massive. Even her fingers got fat.’

The Accident is Connor, Mikey’s five-year-old brother.

‘Are your parents totally flipping out?’ he asks.

‘God, mine would be,’ Stella says.

‘Mine too,’ Kimmie agrees, nodding solemnly. ‘They’d probably lock me up until I was twenty-seven or something.’

I picture Mum and Dad’s faces when I barged into the kitchen earlier. ‘They looked so upset they could hardly speak,’ I say.

‘Poor Grace,’ Kimmie murmurs. ‘Your mum and dad can be proper scary when they want to be, especially your mum.’

Mum doesn’t lose it often, but when she does it’s terrifying. I’ve never seen her lose it with Grace though.

‘They’ve told me not to come home until they say so, so she must be getting a proper bollocking,’ I say.

‘Shit, do you think your dad might beat him up?’ Kimmie asks, her eyes bulging. ‘Her boyfriend, I mean.’

‘I don’t think so.’

Dad is a big guy but a complete softie. His nickname down at the ambulance station is the ‘Gentle Giant’. No, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.

Would he?

A vision of Sam pinned up against the kitchen wall, Dad’s hands around his throat, pops into my head.

‘Hang on a second, are you smiling?’ Stella asks.

‘No.’

She gasps. ‘Oh my God, you totally are! Look, guys, she’s smiling!’

‘No, I’m not!’ I say, desperately trying to stop my lips from curling upwards. It’s impossible though, my grin is inevitable.

‘You shady bitch!’ Mikey says, laughing.

‘Oh, give me a break,’ I reply, swatting him away. ‘It’s about time Grace got in some trouble for once.’

Because it is. It so, so is.

5

The following morning, I leave a dozing Stella in bed and walk to work.

The Rushton farmers’ market takes place every Sunday morning in the playground of my old primary school. I work on the ‘Brilliant Bangers’ stall, flogging packs of fancy sausages at four pounds a pop to people who have more money than sense.

When I arrive, my co-worker Jeremy is already there. He’s a politics student at the local uni and totally up himself.

‘Afternoon, Mia,’ he says, wearing this trademark smirk. ‘Nice of you to join me.’

‘Oh, shove off, Jezza,’ I mutter, tying on my apron. ‘I’m only a few minutes late.’ I turn my back on him and pounce on a middle-aged couple hovering by the stall. ‘They’re four pounds a pack,’ I say. ‘A bargain.’

‘Oh, we’re just browsing,’ the woman says, taking a step away.

‘No probs. Browse away, absolutely no pressure to buy. It’s just probably worth mentioning you’re not going to get this kind of quality at such a low price anywhere else.’ I turn to the bloke. ‘Here’s a guessing game for you, sir. How much meat do you think is in our sausages? Say, as a percentage.’

He glances at his wife.

‘Tell you what,’ I continue. ‘If you get it right, I’ll give you a pack on the house, any flavour you like.’

Another glance at his wife. She shrugs as if to say ‘why not’.

‘Er, ninety per cent?’ he suggests.