Michelle Burton
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An extract from Open Day
Mum finds a space to park Gertie. When I open the door, the gap is so tiny I have to stretch like an ostrich to get out. Now my hair’s messed up.
Mum pulls my ponytails straight. “Come on, we mustn’t be late.”
We hopscotch across the paving to the open corridor that stretches to my classroom. Her new engagement ring digs between my fingers. So I swap sides and hold the other hand and we walk past the line of waiting parents.
White, lined paper squares of handwriting are stuck to the board outside Room 3A with coloured drawing pins. Lovely work and Well done loop across the bottom of each one in Miss Hawley’s red pen.
I can’t wait for Mum to notice mine in the top left-hand corner.
Noises in the Night
Every night when I go to bed I listen to the noises around me. First I hear Mum running her bath. As the water fills up, she cleans her teeth and gargles. Then I hear the pipes creak as the water stops running and they cool down again. When it’s quiet, I hear Jem snoring next to me, and the wind outside. Then I feel my eyes closing and I know it’s time to sleep. Every night it’s the same. But on Friday nights I hear the sofa squeaking in the lounge., and that doesn’t put me to sleep. It keeps me awake.
“What do you think?” Miss Hawley peers over her glasses.
“Lovely.” But Mum’s face is pink and she doesn’t look at me.
“Why don’t you look through Michelle’s books? Then we can chat.”
Mum slings her bag over the back of my chair and sits down. She struggles to fit her legs under the small desk. I laugh and wait for her to laugh back. She doesn’t.
My books are in a perfect pile. I straightened them yesterday. Then I threw away an old naartjie peel and used a wet tissue to wipe up the pencil sharpenings.
Mum takes my Maths book and flicks through the pages before closing it and picking up the second. She’ll like my storybooks.
I don’t think she does. Before Miss Hawley has finished talking to other parents, Mum comes out into the corridor. She tries to smile, but her lips are a thin line.
Why doesn’t she like them? I haven’t got red lines through my work - not like Steven Sinclair who has Careless written everywhere.
“Felicity’s story wasn’t as neat as mine,” I say.
“Really?” Mum’s only half-listening.
“Yes. Only the neatest writing is allowed. I think mine is first or second. Definitely not third.”