edges as if soaking with damp, and by the time Mrs Craven finished the register they had all fallen onto the floor with papery slithers.
“Oh!” said Mrs Craven, picking up the posters and coughing again as she passed through Mandeville. He waved long fingers at Isis.
Go away go away go away.
But no amount of thinking would make him leave. He slid across the classroom, his arms and legs blurred at the edges. Softly he blended into the centre of Jess’s table, his upper body cut through by the plastic. The group of girls were talking, taking advantage of Mrs Craven’s distraction.
Mandeville nodded at Jess and politely lifted his fez. There were only a few wisps of hair on his scalp and his skull gleamed white through his skin.
“Your grandmother sends her best wishes,” he said to her.
One of Jess’s friends sneezed, and another pulled the sleeves of her jumper down.
Mandeville looked over at Isis, his eyes lit in blue as if closer than the rest of him.
“Poor girl,” he said. “She can’t see or hear me, so she is left without the comfort she might gain from her grandmother’s love.”
Isis pulled her bag onto her desk, opening it up and pretending to search for something inside. He wasn’t going to trick her again!
The bell rang for the start of lessons, and Isis pushed to the door, wanting to get out as quickly as possible. She moved along the corridor as fast as she could without breaking into a run. She didn’t look back; she was focused on getting to the next classroom before anyone else. They had French, with Mrs Potter. Jess wouldn’t try anything on in there – Mrs Potter was known for sending people off to see the head. Isis was almost at the door of the classroom when she felt a hand tap her back.
“Isis!” It was Jess.
“Go away!” snapped Isis, not even looking round. Jess was probably wearing one of her nasty smiles and flanked by her little gang. But when Isis did turn, she saw Jess was on her own, breathing hard. Her eyes were wide, and she was chewing her lip.
“I’m sorry,” Jess said quickly, “about Friday. Will you sit with me today?”
Isis studied Jess’s face, trying to see the signs of whatever cruel joke she was working up to.
“You never want to sit with me,” said Isis.
Now Jess’s gang were coming up behind them, giggling about something as they walked. Isis had no idea what they were talking about, but she felt sure it was her.
She shook her head at Jess. “No thanks.”
She went into the classroom, heading for a seat at the back, but Jess followed, and when Isis sat down, Jess sat next to her. Jess’s little gang hovered at their usual table, uncertain, and looking their way. Isis was staring at Jess too. When would the joke hit?
“I’m sitting with Isis today,” Jess said to the others. Isis would’ve smiled at their shocked faces if she hadn’t felt so anxious. The other girls muttered together as they sat down. Maybe Jess hadn’t told them what she was planning?
“On Friday Mrs Craven had to make you sit next to me,” Isis whispered.
Jess’s eyes flicked down and she fiddled with her pen, twizzling it in her fingers. “No one’s making me sit here now.”
Isis didn’t know how to answer that. So she sat silently, tense and untrusting, as the class settled down. Mrs Potter announced they would be learning sporting vocabulary. Voices broke out again and the room filled with the sound of ruffling paper as the teacher handed around photocopied sheets.
“Practise the first column of words with your partners,” said Mrs Potter.
Isis studied the words, trying to pretend everything was normal.
“Jouer a tennis,” she said.
“Jouer a tennis,” repeated Jess.
Isis’s finger was on the next word, but she couldn’t say it.
“What do you want?” she hissed.
Jess glanced around, then whispered back. “I want you to tell me more about Gran Marie.”
For a moment Isis was too surprised to answer, then she shook her head.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
This had to be it. Jess was getting her own back somehow. Except she was chewing her lip, and her voice was hesitant.
“Those things you told me on Friday,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about them all weekend.”
Now Isis rolled out the words she’d been practising. “It was just a joke. I shouldn’t have said that stuff, but I don’t like being called ‘dead girl’.”
In her mind they’d sounded firm and she’d even imagined