School for Nobodies E-Book

Susie Bower

• Herausgeber: Pushkin Children's Books
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Family secrets, circus folk and a school for misfits - a young girl goes in search of her past in this hilarious, captivating debut Until she was 10, Flynn didn't even know her real name. Her adoptive parents have always kept her past a secret, but one mysterious note transforms her world and sets her on a path to discover who she really is. How did she get the burn that covers most of her face? And could she really have a twin? Packed off to a boarding school for misfits, Flynn tries to adjust to the unfair rules and stomach-churning soup while making friends with her unusual classmates. All the while, she receives more cryptic messages that slowly bring her closer to her true identity. Bursting with magic, intrigue and humour, School for Nobodies is a delightful debut about the beauty of not fitting in.

Leseprobe

 

By the time she hit her teens, susie bower had lived in 8 houses and attended 7 schools. This theme continued in her working life: she’s been a teacher, a tour-guide, a typist, a workshop facilitator, a PA and a painter. She formerly wrote and directed TV programmes for children at the BBC and Channel 4, for which she won a BAFTA Award, and she currently writes audio scripts. School for Nobodies is her debut novel. Susie lives in Bristol.

For Charlie and Dave with love

CONTENTS

TITLE PAGEDEDICATION THE GIRL WITH NO NAMETHE FIRST MESSAGEIN THE MIRRORTHE TRUTHTHE SECOND MESSAGETWO SCHOOLSMY THREE WORST THINGSTHE PARTYTO BOARDING SCHOOLIT MUST BE A MISTAKENOBODIES, AND CUSTARDUNREGISTRATIONRULE THREETHE TALKING STICKTHE ROOM OF REFLECTIONDO YOU BELIEVE ME?IN MR GOLD’S STUDYIN THE WOODTHE RESCUEA FERAL BOYSECRET MUSICGOOD AND BAD CIRCUSTHE SHOWDODGING FERALFERAL SPOILS ITNEXT DOORI FIND HERTHE LION TRAINERMIDNIGHTSECRETSINTO THE WOODUNDER THE MOONNIGHT VISITORSTHE NEXT MESSAGESHAPESHIFTERCOUNTDOWN TO NOONTRUTH AND LIESIT ALL GOES WRONGACCUSATIONSI SEARCH FOR THE TRUTHNIGHT MUSICPREPARATIONSTHE DOORWAYTHE CHOICEFERAL’S SACRIFICEMY TWINTHE TRUTHFIREALL FOR ONE, AND ONE FOR ALLAFTERWARDS11TH JUNE ACKNOWLEDGEMENTSABOUT THE PUBLISHERCOPYRIGHT

7

THE GIRL WITH NO NAME

I’m going to tell you a secret.

Until the day of my tenth birthday, I had no name of my own.

Sonia and Claude, who adopted me when I was three, called me Claudia. It wasn’t my name—it was their two names joined together.

Even worse, their last name was Finklebottom.

Only, they pronounced it FinkleBOME, because it sounded posher.

Sonia was tall and skinny, had pouty lips and wore long dangly earrings and overalls smeared with paint. She told everyone she was an artist. Claude was short, fat and bald, and made lots of money in the City. He talked in an old-fashioned way, and called Sonia vomity names, like my little piggy wiggy and pootlekins. His chins and belly shook when he laughed—haw-haw-haw!—and Sonia’s mouth always crinkled up in disapproval like a cat’s bottom until he stopped.

My birthday began like every other day, except that two envelopes were propped against my plate. A little bit of 8me hoped, every year, that inside one of the envelopes would be a ticket to the circus, but that never happened. I’d been crazy about circuses ever since I was small—I’d secretly read every single book about them in the school library. Each year, the circus came to town and everyone at school told me about the acrobats in their sparkly leotards, and the way the clowns squirted water at the crowd, and how daring the tightrope walkers and the trapeze artists were. But Sonia and Claude disapproved of circuses, so I’d never actually seen one in real life.

I opened the first envelope. Inside was a birthday card. It had a picture of a girl holding a basket of kittens. She had long, shiny hair and a perfect, pretty face. Inside, it said:

To Claudia,

Wishing you a happy birthday.

Sonia and Claude

There was no ‘with love’, and not even one kiss.

The second envelope contained my present, which was a donation to a charity called Save the Andalusian Donkey. There was a badge which said: i saved a donkey today!

Sonia and Claude didn’t appear at breakfast. Sonia said I was too restless in the mornings, which gave her a migraine. She and Claude wanted a girl like the one on the card—a girl who smiled nicely and sat still. The trouble was, I couldn’t. It was like I had an everlasting itch just out of reach for scratching. My feet needed to tap, my fingers to wiggle, my legs to jump and dance and kick. And my 9mouth needed to talk a LOT, and to say shocking and unusual things, and I had to press it closed so it wouldn’t. Every time Sonia snapped, ‘Be quiet, Claudia!’ or Claude said, ‘Turn that frown upside down—haw-haw-haw!’, I got That Feeling. Have you ever had it? The feeling where your insides are about to erupt like a volcano, or crash like a giant wave, or fizzle and hiss like a bolt of lightning—so you have to wriggle about, or else explode.

I didn’t tell anyone at school that it was my birthday. Afterwards, I cycled back to the Gables, which was the name of Claude and Sonia’s house. I dumped my bike in the garage, hurried up to the front door and let myself in.

The Gables was painted grey on the outside, in a colour called Cool Pavement, and white on the inside, in a colour called Arctic Fox. There was a notice just inside the front door which said: remove shoes and wash hands!—because the furniture was white, and so were all the rugs and carpets, and Sonia had One Of Her Turns if she spotted a fingerprint or a footprint.

I took off my shoes and put them in the shoe rack, and raced upstairs before Claude or Sonia spotted me. My room (which was also painted white) was up in the attic, as far away as possible from Sonia and Claude’s part of the house. It had:

a television (for educational and instructive programmes only), 10a laptop (for homework only),a walk-in wardrobe, full of horrible, muesli-coloured cardigans and skirts with pleats and brown leather sandals,and a bathroom, which Sonia called the Wet Room. It had white towels and white quilted toilet paper. It used to have a mirror, only I took that down and hid it under my bed.

Sonia made sure the neighbours knew all about the television, the laptop, the Wet Room and the walk-in wardrobe.

‘We’ve given her everything a child could want,’ I once overheard her saying on the phone to Mrs Weebly next door. ‘Of course, we adopted her out of charity. Who else would take her on, with that problem?’

That problem was the burn mark on my face. Shrivelled and pink and ugly, it ran from my left eye, down over my cheek to my chin. Ever since a boy shouted Scab Face in the street, I wouldn’t look at myself.

I asked Sonia and Claude how I got it.

‘An accident,’ muttered Sonia.

‘What sort of accident?’

Sonia frowned. ‘A fire.’

‘My… my face got burnt?’

Sonia’s lips went all tight, the way they did when Claude told one of his jokes, and she picked at a dry patch of green paint on her overalls.

‘You’re upsetting Sonia,’ said Claude, putting his arm 11round her shoulders and murmuring in her ear. ‘It’s all right, pootlekins.’

Sonia shrugged his arm away. ‘I’m not upset,’ she snapped. ‘I just don’t see the point in raking up her background. And don’t call me pootlekins!’

‘Quite right, poot—er, precious poppet,’ said Claude. ‘Let sleeping dogs lie. Water under the bridge.’

‘What background?’ I said.

‘The subject is closed, Claudia,’ Sonia said. ‘I forbid you to speak of it again.’

‘Least said, soonest mended,’ said Claude, and that was that.

Or it was, until today.

12

THE FIRST MESSAGE

Four thirty until five thirty was timetabled as Outdoor Activity and it was My Best Thing, the one hour I looked forward to all day. The garden was long and thin and boring, like Sonia. She’d made Claude build a posh shed halfway down it, where she painted enormous pictures of naked people with triangular faces and eyes in the wrong places. The shed had a sign above the door which said, the studio —and I was strictly forbidden to enter it.

But if you walked past the Studio and down the manicured lawn, at the very bottom you’d find a high brick wall with a gate in it, and if you pushed the gate open you found yourself in an overgrown, secret place. In a corner was a collection of broken pots and garden furniture and a compost heap, where Claude emptied the grass from his ride-on mower. There was a rough circle of lawn in the middle. It was here that I practised my cartwheels and somersaults and walked on my hands and dreamt about being in a circus.

Best of all, there was Tree.

Tree was my friend: tall and ancient with huge twisted roots and helpful knots for footholds. There was a sitting place halfway up, like a nest, and when I wriggled in and 13settled into the curve of the branches, it felt like Tree was hugging me. Tree’s leaves hung down around me like soft hair and when the breeze whispered through them, Tree sang to me. Sometimes I’d see how long I could balance on a branch with my arms stretched out. Sometimes I’d hang upside down like a monkey and pretend I was swinging on the flying trapeze. I’d chatter like a monkey too, telling Tree all the forbidden things.

Things I dreamt of, such as:

Having a real family, and especially a sister, who’d be my best friend. Who wouldn’t roll her eyes when I spoke, like Amelia Peacock did. Or stare at my burn all the time, like Emma Crouch.Running away to join the circus.

And things I wished would disappear, such as:

The burn on my face.Sonia and Claude.

Today, the garden was full of birdsong and magic. Orange poppies bobbed in the wind and wildflowers buzzed with fat bumblebees and fluttered with butterflies. I stood and breathed in the smells of cut grass and warm, soft earth and rose petals until I couldn’t stand still a second longer and I whirled in circles, faster-and-faster-until-I-was-dizzy and I had to lie on my back on the grass while the world spun.

Then I saw it. The balloon. 14

It was a red one, fat and full, and its string had caught high in Tree’s branches. It bobbled about cheerfully as if Tree was holding it and wishing me a happy birthday.

I got to my feet, still dizzy, and stared up at it.

‘Is that for me, Tree?’ I asked.

A breath of wind blew Tree’s leaves into a rustle, like a whispered yeeeeeeeeesss and I knew I had to get it.

I began to climb. Up past my sitting place, further than I’d ever been before. It was like climbing a ship’s mast at sea—the higher I went, the more the wind gusted among Tree’s branches, and the more Tree rocked. If only I could climb on, up and up till I got to the sky, till the world turned blue.

Now I could see right over the wall to the Studio and the house. Of course, climbing Tree was strictly forbidden. But at this time of day, Sonia liked to recline on the white chaise longue (a posh name for a sofa), reading magazines with titles like Wallpaper and House Beautiful, while Claude, home from work, chuntered around the neighbourhood in his most prized possession, an ancient car he called Mildred. He wore aviator’s goggles and sounded the horn at unfortunate cats.

The balloon was just out of reach, its string wound around a twig. I wedged my foot in the fork between two branches… stretched up as far as I possibly could… and reached… and reached…

… until my fingers found the string.

I tugged. But the balloon stayed stuck. There was a label attached to it and it was this that had got tangled 15in the leaves. I tugged harder, and harder still, but it just…

… wouldn’t…

… budge.

Suddenly—so suddenly that I almost lost my balance—there was a wild flapping of wings in the branches. A little blue-grey dove, its feathers dappled with soft patterns, landed on the branch beside the balloon. It gazed down at me with dark eyes, its head on one side.

Turrrr… turrrr! it called, and my tummy suddenly filled with a warm, huggy sensation—like when you drink hot chocolate.

Then the dove reached to the tangled string and, using its bill, gently pulled the label loose.

The balloon came free.

The dove watched as I wound the string safely round my wrist. Then it gave its strange, purring cry—turrrr, turrrr—and was off, spiralling up into the sky, higher and higher. My heart fluttered, like there were wings in my chest. I stared at the dove until it was nothing but a speck in the blue.

It was harder climbing down, because the balloon kept getting caught in the branches. I so wanted to read that label. But I made myself wait. It would be my reward for getting back in one piece. At last I jumped down from Tree into the circle of grass.

Then I read the label. There were just two words written on it: pop me.

I sighed. I’d never had a birthday balloon, and this one was so big and red and yummy. I didn’t want to jump on 16it, so I carried it over to the rose bush and looked for a long thorn. Squeezing my eyes tight shut, I pushed the balloon down on it.

BANG!!!!!

The sound echoed round the garden. I stood very still and listened, in case Sonia stalked out to see what was disturbing the peace, or Mrs Weebly peered over the fence, saying she could swear she’d heard a gunshot.

All was silent. The balloon was a shrunken sliver of red rubber lying in the grass. And there was something else: something which must have been hidden inside it.

It was a scroll of paper, tied with a gold satin ribbon. Not the sort of paper Claude used in his printer, but thick and heavy, like parchment. What could it be? My fingers trembled as I untied the ribbon and unrolled the paper. Written across it, in old-fashioned script, were the words:

Look in the mirror, if you dare.

Your name is hidden under your hair.

My name? A shivery feeling made my knees wobble, and I reached up to my hair and felt around.

Nothing.

It was probably Claude’s idea of a joke. Maybe he’d tied the balloon to the top of Tree to send me on a wild goose chase on my birthday. I could just see his fat belly shaking with laughter—haw-haw-haw!

There again, Claude and his belly would never get up Tree. 17

Carefully, I pushed the message into my pocket. Then I threw my arms as far as I could around Tree’s trunk.

‘Thank you for my birthday present,’ I whispered, as Tree’s branches creaked in the breeze. ‘And I will dare to look in the mirror. I’ll do it right now!’

And I raced up the garden path, before I could change my mind.

18

IN THE MIRROR

Back in my bedroom, I groped around under the bed until my fingers found the mirror I’d hidden. I dragged it into the Wet Room—it was very heavy—and hung it back on its hook.

I pulled out the parchment scroll from my pocket and read the words again.

Look in the mirror, if you dare.

Your name is hidden under your hair.

I really, really didn’t want to look at myself.

I wasn’t a coward. It was just that my burn took up all the room. People’s eyes got stuck to it, like it was a magnet. No one noticed the rest of me—my browny-gold eyes, the freckles on my nose, or the flurry of marmalade-coloured curls down my back—except when Sonia glared at the curls as if she was itching to brush them flat. But she refused to let me have them cut.

‘No, Claudia!’ she snapped. ‘Short hair is not appropriate.’

Which was strange, considering her own hair was cut above her ears. 19

I made myself stop thinking about Sonia. The mirror was waiting for me. Dust lay like a mist over its surface and I could only just make out the shape of myself. Taking a deep breath, I wiped the glass with my sleeve, and looked.

There it was, my burn. Like a map of a strange country no one wanted to visit. I tore my eyes away from it, scooped up a handful of my curls and lifted them above one ear. There was nothing there. Then I did the same on the other side. Still nothing.

I turned sideways to the mirror, grabbed all my hair, twisted it high into a ponytail, then tied it in place with the gold satin ribbon.

What was that, on the very back of my neck, just below where my hair grew? I twisted my head and screwed up my eyes. Was it writing? Blue and faint, like…

A tattoo.

Tattoos, like curly hair, were among the many things that Sonia disapproved of.

‘They’re common, Claudia,’ she sniffed. (‘Common’ was Sonia’s worst word.) ‘And they’re so ugly.’ Her eyes went straight to my burn, as if to say I was ugly enough without a tattoo.

It was no good. However much I twisted and turned, I couldn’t make out the strange blue writing.

Back to my bed I went, scrabbling underneath it until I found the hand mirror—the one that used to be on my chest of drawers. I stood with my back to the full-length mirror and held the little mirror up to my face. 20

Then I saw it quite clearly. A name and a date, written high on the back of my neck:

FLYNN

11 JUNE

Today was 11th June. My birthday.

And Flynn? I reached up to my neck and ran my fingers over the word, as if it could speak. If only my real parents were here. If only I could ask them. On and on I stared, until my arm began to hurt and I had to put the mirror down.

Was Flynn my real name?

I whispered it to the mirror.

‘Flynn.’

Short and true and real. Claudia made me think of claws, of Sonia’s long painted nails. Flynn just felt… right. It felt like it belonged to me.

My own name. The name my real mum and dad gave me on the day I was born. This was My Best Birthday Present Ever. That same warm, huggy feeling filled my tummy again.

Then I had a shocking thought.

Sonia and Claude must have known about my name all along. Sonia would have seen it when I was little every time she washed my neck. No wonder she’d refused to let me have my hair cut. But why had she and Claude kept my name a secret from me for seven whole years?

‘Clau-dia!’

Sonia was shouting from the kitchen. ‘Hurry up! Supper’s ready.’ 21

I reached to unfasten the gold satin ribbon and let my curls down. Then I stopped.

Let Sonia and Claude see my name. Maybe then, at last, they’d tell me the truth.

Sonia and Claude were sitting at the dining table under the most horrible of Sonia’s paintings—a bare man holding a dead fish while two bare women danced around him. Sonia was pouring water into three glasses and didn’t look up. Claude did. He went pale and gave Sonia’s elbow a sharp nudge, sending one of the glasses flying.

‘You’re so clumsy, Claude!’ Sonia snapped, grabbing a tea towel and mopping at the spreading stain.

My name felt like it was burning, like it was shouting, Flynn! But Sonia was too busy fussing over the tablecloth, and Claude’s mouth was hanging wide open like a fish’s.

‘Er, piggy wiggy…’ he muttered.

Sonia finally looked up. She glared at my ponytail.

‘What have you done to your hair?’ she said. ‘Untie it immediately.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I won’t.’

My knees were shaking under the table. I’d never disobeyed Sonia, ever. Maybe my new name was making me brave.

‘Whaaaaaat?’ squawked Sonia, stretching her eyes and turning to Claude. ‘Speak to her, Claude.’

‘Do as you’re told, Claudia,’ he said.

‘My name isn’t Claudia.’ My teeth were chattering, but I carried on. ‘It’s Flynn. And I… I want to know about my family.’ 22

Sonia’s eyes flashed. ‘Family? We are your family.’

‘No, you’re not!’ My fists were clenched and I felt hot all over. I took a deep breath. ‘I’ve asked you and asked you, but you always refuse to tell me. Who are my real parents? Where are they? And why did they leave me here with you?’

There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

23

THE TRUTH

‘What’s past is past,’ said Claude. ‘No point in raking all that up.’

‘All what?’ I said.

A burning smell meandered in from the kitchen.

‘The coq au vin!’ shrieked Sonia, and Claude leapt to his feet and hurried out.

Sonia was about to follow him, but I stood up and grabbed her sleeve.

‘Stop pretending my parents don’t exist,’ I said.

Sonia shook my hand off. ‘Has it never occurred to you,’ she hissed, ‘that we might be trying to protect you?’

‘Protect me from what?’ I said. My voice sounded shaky and scared.

Sonia’s eyes narrowed into angry slits. ‘Enough, Claudia!’

Claude lumbered in with the coq au vin and began ladling it onto our plates.

‘Sit down, Claudia,’ he said. ‘And please demonstrate that you can behave in a civilized fashion.’

We ate the coq au vin in silence, apart from Claude loudly slurping his gravy and Sonia tutting at him. I pushed most 24of mine to the side of my plate. I felt sick. Why wouldn’t Sonia and Claude tell me about my parents? What could be so terrible that they refused to even mention them? I had to wriggle on my seat and clench my fists over my mouth to stop myself shouting.

At last, Claude clattered his knife and fork together. ‘What’s for dessert, my heavenly honeybee?’

Sonia frowned. ‘Rice pudding. But we’re not having it until Claudia finishes her coq au vin.’

‘My name is Flynn,’ I muttered, pushing my plate away. ‘And I’m not hungry.’

Sonia pursed her lips. ‘Then you can go to your room!’

‘I want to know the truth,’ I said. ‘And I’m not going anywhere until you tell me.’ And I folded my arms and stared at the horrible painting without blinking.

There was a long silence. Claude and Sonia looked at each other. Claude’s belly gave an enormous gurgle.

‘Tell her, Sonia-kins,’ he said. ‘Then we can have our rice pudd… I mean, then we need never speak of the matter again.’

Sonia sighed, picked up a napkin and dabbed at her lips.

‘Very well,’ she said, and turned to me. ‘You are a very foolish child. You will regret hearing what I have to say. But, if you insist…’

I nodded. My heart was thudding and my mouth was dry. Under the table, my feet twitched and jumped, as if they wanted to kick Sonia.

‘Your birth parents are dead,’ Sonia said. 25

A cold, hard pebble seemed to drop into my tummy.

‘H-how did they die?’ I whispered.

‘I’ll tell her, sweetest snookums,’ said Claude, patting Sonia’s hand. ‘They died in a fire.’

My fingers went up to my burn.

‘Yes,’ said Sonia coldly. ‘The same fire that scarred your face.’

‘You were fortunate to be rescued,’ added Claude. ‘Otherwise you would have died that night, along with your parents and your twin—’

He slapped a fat hand over his mouth and Sonia gave him a killer stare.

‘My twin?’ The words seemed to come from a long way away. I had a twin.

Sonia stood up. ‘I hope you are satisfied now,’ she said, and began to gather up the dishes. ‘Perhaps you will learn, one day, that some things are better left unsaid.’

‘Ignorance is bliss,’ said Claude. He gave a sharp sniff and dashed into the kitchen, returning with a blackened casserole dish. ‘And now, thanks to all this nonsense, the rice pudding is ruined.’

And they both looked at the smoking dish with more interest than they’d ever shown in me.

My insides were doing That Feeling again, boiling and curdling and wanting to erupt. But this time, the words wouldn’t stay in.

‘Why couldn’t it have been me who died? I’d rather be dead like my parents and my… my twin than living here with you. You’ve never loved me. You don’t even like me. 26I hate you. I hate you both! And I’m glad your rotten old rice pudding is burnt. I hope it chokes you!’

Sonia looked like she’d swallowed a wasp. ‘Impertinent child!’

‘Go to your room, Claudia,’ said Claude.

I stood up. ‘My name is Flynn,’ I shouted.

‘Go to your room—now!’ said Sonia.

‘And stay there till morning!’ added Claude.

In my bedroom, I wrapped the duvet round me as tightly as I could, and thought and thought. I thought about my parents, who I had never known, who I would never know, because they had died in the fire. And I thought about my dead twin.

This felt worst of all. What would it have been like to have a twin? The sister I’d always dreamt of, who looked just like me—only without my burn. A sister who would always be there, just the way Tree was, to talk to and play with and hug—who would never whisper about my messed-up face, or call me names like they did at school.

The empty hole in my heart felt twice as big. And my room seemed to get smaller and smaller, closing me in. I ran over to the window and opened it. Down in the garden, an owl called. The other windows were all dark. Sonia and Claude must have gone to bed. With my duvet still wrapped around my shoulders, I slipped down the stairs, through the back door and down the path.

In the secret part of the garden, Tree waited, a tall black shadow in the night. The owl hooted again, somewhere 27nearby. I found the soft place between two roots, made a little nest with my duvet and snuggled into it, my back against Tree’s trunk.

‘Oh, Tree,’ I whispered. ‘I’m so alone. What will I do?’

There was no reply. Tree’s bark was warm against my back. I shuffled around and put my arms about Tree’s trunk, hugging as if I was hugging my twin, who died.

And then I couldn’t help it. I cried myself to sleep.

28

THE SECOND MESSAGE

Someone was gently brushing the burn from my face, back and forth, back and forth… or was it Tree’s leaves, softly waving over my skin? I opened my eyes.

At first I thought I was dreaming.

Dangling from Tree’s lowest branch, blowing back and forth in the wind, was something golden and feathery, sparkling and turning in the early-morning sunlight.

I scrambled to my feet, rubbing my eyes. It must be a dream.

But it was still there. It was a leotard—just like the ones the acrobats and trapeze artists wore at the circus. It was as fine as a cobweb, embroidered in golden thread. Running across it were strange patterns of pearls and sequins and crystals, like back-to-front words. Who could have left it here?

Then I heard a soft, haunting cry.

Turrrr! Turrrr!

There, on a branch just above my head, was a dove. Was it the same one that had helped me untangle the balloon? It sat very still, peering down at me with its dark eyes as if it wanted to tell me something important. It bobbed its grey head, as if pointing to the leotard. 29

I turned back to it. A word was embroidered inside the neckline: flynn.

That warm, hot-chocolatey feeling filled my tummy and spread through my whole body, just the way it had when I saw the dove for the first time. I began to tingle with excitement. Could this really be for me? Was it another birthday present? I reached out to touch my name, half expecting it to disappear under my fingertips like a mirage. But it didn’t.

I slipped the leotard off the branch. Shards of golden sunlight bounced over my skin. I had to try it on. But not here—Mrs Weebly was always on the lookout. I spread open the crumpled duvet, which was damp with the dew and with my tears, and folded the leotard carefully inside it.

I looked up at Tree. The dove had disappeared.

I bundled the duvet under my arm and made for the house.

Claude’s snores rumbled across the landing. He and Sonia stayed in bed until ten at weekends. I tiptoed up to my room, silently shut the door, lay the duvet down on my bed and unfolded it. Maybe the leotard would have disappeared, like a dream disappears when you wake up. But it was still there, shining soft and gold in the white duvet.

I slipped off my pyjamas and held the leotard up in front of me. It was so fine and cobwebby that my fingers felt like sausages. Hardly daring to breathe, I drew it up over my body. 30

It fitted me perfectly, without a wrinkle or a sag, as if whoever made it knew every inch of me. It made me want to cartwheel and handstand and jump. Then I remembered my burn. However beautiful the leotard was, I’d still look like me.

The mirror hung where I’d left it, in the Wet Room. I took a deep breath, and looked at myself.

A girl stood in front of me. She had my burnt face, but from the neck down she was golden and gleaming and glittering. She looked like a real circus performer.

I ran my fingers over the sequins and crystals. And then I read the back-to-front words embroidered in pearls, reflected the right way round in the mirror:

You aren’t alone—it’s not too late!

Your twin’s ALIVE, in Middlethwaite.

In the mirror, my mouth made a big O. I’d never believed in magic. But three magic things had happened since yesterday: I’d discovered my real name; I’d been given a golden leotard; and now—could it possibly be true?—my twin was alive!

Did she know about me? Did she look like me? I knew I’d recognize her straight away when I found her, and she would recognize me. We would run into each other’s arms and hug and hug and hug, and that empty space in my heart would be filled at last.

But what, or where, was Middlethwaite?

Shaking with excitement, I opened my laptop. I was 31just about to type in Middlethwaite when Sonia shouted up the stairs.

‘Claudia! Are you ready? We’re leaving in two minutes!’

My heart sank as I remembered that we were going to the shops to buy me a new dress. Quickly, I slipped out of the leotard, pushed it carefully under my pillow and pulled on one of my muesli-coloured skirts. As soon as I got back, I’d find out about Middlethwaite. And then I’d make a plan to find my twin.

Sonia was tight-lipped and still cross after the row last night. I hardly noticed. My mind was fizzing with my discovery. Maybe my twin was living somewhere nearby! Maybe she too was out shopping with her adopted parents—just like me!