lot in the past, but Maddie and I have been known to write ‘helpful exam hints’ on the inside of our shirt cuffs—only when things were desperate, though, like: ‘if you don’t pass this exam you’ll be chucked off the course’.
“It’s not. It’s called giving yourself the best possible chance.” She pulls the paper from my hand and writes my name on it. “There. I did it so it’s not like you can accuse yourself of cheating.”
“Thanks. I think.” I take the slip from her, fold it in half and slide it in my pocket—in case someone sees what she’s written.
It takes ages to get from where we’re sitting to the entrance because everyone keeps stopping to congratulate me. When we finally make it I give my voting slip a good luck kiss (under the pretence of coughing) and drop it in the box.
***
“Hey Mom, guess what,” I say the moment she arrives home. She’s never usually out when I get home, but isn’t it typical that today just because I had news she wasn’t here?
“What?” she replies not stopping to hear me out but heading toward the kitchen. I follow and watch as she reaches for the kettle and fills it with water.
“I’ve been nominated as seventh form rep on the Student Liaison Committee.”
The look of disbelief on her face is classic. Good job she wasn’t holding anything or she would have definitely dropped it. She hasn’t looked like that since the day I told her I was going to be a nun when I left school—luckily, the nun phase didn’t last too long. Once I found out you have to take a vow of silence it became much less appealing.
“That’s marvelous,” she says after a few seconds. “Well done. Your dad and I are really proud of the effort you’re making. We know it hasn’t been easy.” She gives me a huge hug and it brings tears to my eyes.
When I think of how close I came to destroying everything—as if things weren’t bad enough with Rosie dying.
“Yeah.” My voice is a little croaky so I cover it up by coughing. “A bit of a shock though.” She releases me and I turn slightly so she can’t see my tears—it’s not like me to get all emotional, but sometimes the enormity of what’s happened hits me without warning.
“I can’t wait to tell your Uncle Peter tomorrow. He’ll be very impressed.”
Oh no. Uncle Peter’s coming tomorrow. That brings me back to earth with a jolt. I don’t believe it. How could I forget that? What the hell am I going to do? Mom will never let me go to the movies now. A huge sigh escapes my lips. Nothing ever goes right for me.
“What’s the matter, love?” Mom asks.
“I forgot about Uncle Peter. And I’ve arranged to go out with someone from school.” I bite on my bottom lip.
“Just explain to her. I’m sure she’ll understand.”
“He won’t,” I mutter. An urge to stomp up the stairs is coming on big time. But I guess it’s not acceptable behavior anymore.
“He? Did you say he? You didn’t tell me you were going out with anyone.” She leans against the work surface and fixes me with a stare.
“I’m not going out with him. We’re just going to the movies, that’s all.”
A slow devious smile stretches across her face. “I’ll tell you what. Invite him around here for tea, which will give you time with Uncle Peter, and then you can go out with him.”
Yeah, that’s a great suggestion. I can just imagine Guy’s face if I ask him. I never bring boys home. Never. Mom and Dad would’ve freaked—the boys I knew were nothing like the boys Rosie went out with, who were all rich and heading for high-powered careers (well, maybe not all of them but definitely her last two).
Although, just for argument’s sake, say Guy did agree to come. He would definitely be boyfriend material from a parents’ perspective. It could work. The only thing is, how to break it to him?
“I’ll ask him and let you know.” Mom practically chokes on the sip of coffee she’s just taken. “Is that okay?” I ask, trying to keep a straight face and failing miserably.
“Sure. I’ll look forward to it.”
“I’m going to my room,” I say trying to act all virtuous. “Call me when dinner’s ready.”
I’ve got some serious planning to do. First thing is to text Lori and elicit her opinion on my best course of action. I race up the