CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  COPYRIGHT

  “LACEY LAYTON!” Mr Jenson yells. “I am sick and tired of hearing your voice.”

  I’m about to get kicked out – again. I just need to say one more thing and I’ll be free.

  I hate Maths more than any other subject. Well, actually it’s Mr Jenson I hate more than any other teacher. I used to be pretty good at Maths in primary school.

  I consider keeping my mouth shut for a second. Maybe I’ll stay and mess with Mr Jenson for a bit longer, but then he gives me a look. It’s a look that says he’s disgusted by me and would rather be teaching anyone else in the whole world. That does it – I can’t keep it in.

  “Well, I’m sick and tired of hearing your voice, sir,” I say with a smirk. It works.

  “Out!” he shouts.

  None of the teachers seem to understand that I don’t care. I don’t want to be in their boring lessons, so it’s hardly a punishment to get kicked out, is it? Anyway, I only said what Mr Jenson said to me. Why do I get kicked out and he’s still free to teach his boring class?

  So I’m soon sitting in ISO (isolation) yet again. The headteacher, Mrs Hukin, spots me from her office and shakes her head.

  “What are we going to do with you, Lacey? That big brain of yours is being wasted. You spend more time here than in the classroom.”

  “I love it here, miss,” I reply.

  “Mmm, I’m sure you do,” says Mrs Hukin. “We might need to chat to your mum again, see what we can do to make school a bit easier for you.”

  “Mum’s busy, miss. She won’t answer the phone today.” This is a lie. Mum’s shift will have finished by now. She’ll be in the kitchen drinking tea with Auntie Jackie before her next shift starts.

  “Well, you are on your last chance, Lacey,” Mrs Hukin goes on. “Try to stay out of trouble for a while, hey? What are you doing at lunch-time? I know you find break-times complicated.”

  “It’s not me, miss,” I say. “Everyone starts on me for no reason.”

  “Well, stay out of it today, OK? Find something else to do or somewhere else to be.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  I don’t want the school to call Mum again. It’s not that she’s bothered about me getting in trouble. I think she actually finds it pretty funny. Mum says I remind her of her when she was young. But I don’t want to have to deal with the other kids making comments about her. Seeing the way she is and saying that’s why I’m like I am.

  The last time Mum was in, she’d been singing down the halls, looking in all her old classrooms and pulling faces at the teachers. Then Alyssa Harris made some snooty comment about how rough Mum was. You can’t let someone comment on your mum and not do something about it. I had to punch Alyssa in the face, didn’t I?

  I hate Alyssa and her posh mates. They think they are better than me.

  *

  At lunch, I try to keep my head down like Mrs Hukin said. Mum’s already had two calls from Teresa and Britt’s school this week, so she doesn’t need another call about me. Teresa secretly put her teacher on her Insta live again. She films everything – it’s like she’s addicted.

  Teresa is only ten, but she’s got thousands of followers. Sometimes people recognise her in the street. Mum got a second call when Britt used a bad swear word for an eight year old – the worst word.

  Mum calls it a hat-trick when she gets calls about all three of us in the same week. Last time she said she kept expecting the phone to ring about the baby and make it a full set.

  Auntie Jackie thought that was hilarious and they started acting out a phone call about what a naughty baby Baye was. Auntie Jackie put on this posh teacher voice.

  “Hello, Mrs Layton?” Auntie Jackie said.

  “Yeah?” Mum answered. “What’s wrong this time?”

  “I’m afraid it’s baby Baye, Mrs Layton,” Auntie Jackie went on.

  “She’s not even at your school,” Mum said. “She’s only a baby.”

  “But I can tell how badly behaved she is from here and so I thought it was worth a phone call.”

  They both howled with laughter at this.

  It always happens. When I’m trying to stay out of trouble, it just seems to come and find me. I’m heading over the yard after lunch and am just minding my own business. But Alyssa and her gang shove past me and nearly knock me over.

  I half think about ignoring them. I can’t really be bothered with more drama today. But then I hear Alyssa’s snide voice say, “Don’t touch her. She probably can’t afford to wash.”

  I can’t stop myself. No one speaks about me like that. It’s like a switch has been pressed in my head and my body. I lose it. I shove her hard in the chest, her pathetic mates squealing as I do. As she falls backwards, I see Mrs Hukin coming towards us.

  *

  An hour later I’m sitting in Mrs Hukin’s office with Mum and Auntie Jackie either side of me. I just want this to be over with. Baye is sitting in her pram playing with one of my old Barbies.

  I know how this all goes. Mrs Hukin tells us all how violence is not tolerated at this school. Mum defends me and says what a horrible mare Alyssa is. Mrs Hukin tells Mum to watch her language but agrees that what Alyssa did was not OK.

  Talk, talk, talk. Nothing changes. If Mum swears too much or storms out, then I might get suspended and stay at home for a few days. But everyone knows that suspension won’t do much. The whole thing is pointless. I’m only in Year Seven and we’ve been here so many times already.

  Then Mrs Hukin starts.

  “I think we need to try something different this time, ladies.”

  “How about dealing with that little cow bag who keeps starting on my daughter?” Mum says.

  “I will talk to Alyssa separately, Mrs Layton,” says Mrs Hukin. “Let’s focus on Lacey, shall we?”

  “Lacey’s a good girl,” says Mum. “She’s the brainiest one of the lot of us.”

  Mum has always called me a brain box. Just because I used to do well in tests at primary school. Baye squeals and throws the Barbie on the floor.

  “Baye Layton, you will get yourself a detention!” Mum tells Baye, adding, “Sorry, miss.”

  Mum acts weird with Mrs Hukin. Like she’s a child again. One minute she’s cheeky and rude, and the next she’s trying not to get into trouble.

  Mrs Hukin carries on.

  “Lacey seems to find lunch-times most difficult and so I have an idea that could help. We have a music tutor visiting the school. They work with students, using music as therapy.”

  “Our Lacey doesn’t need therapy.” Auntie Jackie spits this out as if even the word “therapy” is revolting.

  Mrs Hukin just carries on, as cool as a cucumber. I’m always amazed by how calm she stays.

  “In which case she can just play music and stay out of trouble each lunch-time. Therapy or not, this is a chance for Lacey to have somewhere to go, to be safe and stay away from the kids she struggles with.”

  “Oh God. What are they gonna get her playing this time?” Auntie Jackie says, snorting and nudging Mum. “Remember that chuffing recorder?”

  “Shut up, Jackie,” Mum whispers. “I’d like to hear you try to play something.” Then she looks at Mrs Hukin as if she’s not sure. “They better not send Lacey home with some horrible-sounding thing. I’m not having a trumpet or anything like that in the house.”

  “If Lacey doesn’t take up this offer, Mrs Layton,” Mrs Hukin says, “I think we may need to look at other options for her schooling.”

  I see panic in Mum’s eyes. I know the look – she’ll either get angry and storm out swearing or turn into a little girl.

  “She can’t go anywhere else, miss,” Mum replies, choosing the little girl. “Mountview is too far. I haven’t got a car any more since Phil left.”

  Mrs Hukin smiles. She knows she’s won.

  “In that case, let’s see what music can do, shall we? We might all be surprised.”

  The next day I’m walking down the music corridor and can hear sounds coming from behind every door. There’s the low umpa pa of some big blowy thing behind one door and then the loud smashing of a cymbal behind another. I’ve never been here at lunch-time. It almost sounds alive with all the different noises.

  I’m meeting Mr Day in music room seven. It’s down the end of the corridor. I keep walking, listening to the sounds. Angry guitars are followed by something light and airy and playful. Maybe a flute.

  Music lessons are pretty much a total doss class, unless you can actually play an instrument. I just mess about on my phone while holding a bongo. The teacher only speaks to the kids who are interested anyway, which is fine by me.

  That’s why I’m not really bothered about coming here every day. I’ll just do the same. Sit on my phone and pretend to play a bongo or something. Mr Day will try to get me to talk about my family and my feelings – they always do. I’ve had so many people trying to figure out why I’m like I am.

  Back in Year Six, some woman with frizzy hair used to take me to a room full of dolls and ask me to act things out. I used to make stuff up. Get the dolls to start dog fights and then set them on each other and argue and light fire to themselves. The woman thought she was a genius. Like she’d uncovered all of m

y inner demons. Then I told her that it was all from some film I’d watched in bed.

  As if I would ever act anything real out. There is no way I would have little dolly Mum and Dad shouting and swearing at each other and all us dolly kids crying upstairs. Dolly Daddy slamming the door and not coming back, while frizzy hair sits there smugly waiting for me to cry – I don’t think so. Anyway, today I’ll just hit my bongo if Mr Day asks me anything about my life or my feelings.

  It’s quiet behind the door of music room seven. I pause for a second before I open it. The silent door alongside all the loud ones somehow makes it feel important or something. When I push it open, I see a room full of instruments and a man sitting with some long boingy strings and a guitar. He looks up and smiles.

  “Lacey?” he asks.

  I nod and he gestures to come in. “Pop your stuff down and take a seat,” he says. “I’ll just finish this and then show you round.”

  Show me round? It’s a music room not a mansion. I almost say this out loud but manage to keep it in. I dump my bag on the floor and then flop down into a chair on the other side of the room. I pretend that I’m not watching him and take my phone out of my bag.

  “No phones in here,” Mr Day says. He’s going to be annoying, I can tell. I ignore him and look at my phone.

  My home screen is a picture of me and all my sisters with dummies in our mouths doing peace signs with our fingers. Apart from Britt – she has her fingers the other way round. She’s the naughtiest of all of us, way worse than me. I look at the picture and smile. We all still suck dummies. Mum gets really annoyed because we go in Baye’s cot and steal them.

  Mr Day’s voice pipes up again, “There’s zero reception in here anyway. Pop it on the desk and then come and help me with this.”

  The options start running around my head. Do I ignore him, just do it or say something back? I always have something to say. It doesn’t matter what a teacher says to me, my brain can instantly come up with a million cheeky responses. It’s like a talent, but a talent that only gets me into trouble. In this case the top three options are:

  “I’m not putting my phone on your desk, sir. I don’t even know you. You might have diseases.”

  “Don’t worry about me, I don’t need reception, sir. I’ll just take some selfies. Careful, you might end up on my sister’s Insta. She’s got 24,000 followers.”

  “Why do you need my help? Are you thick, sir?”

  Some days I just give in and say the first thing that comes into my head. I get sent to ISO for the whole day then. Other days just one or two comments sneak out because they are too good to ignore. The idea of saying them makes me laugh inside and I just have to see how they sound on the outside.

  Some days, but not very often, I try to be good and ignore the comments that pop up. That’s when the teachers tell me I’ve had a good day. But it doesn’t feel good to me. It feels boring and like I’m not being myself – like I’m pushing down the one thing I’m really good at.

  I know it’s not good to be skilful at being cheeky, but I bet everyone couldn’t do it as well as me. A few times I’ve made teachers smile before they kick me out. Once, I told Mrs Freye she looked like a turkey twizzler and she hooted with laughter just before she sent me to ISO.

  I look at Mr Day messing with all his wiry strings. I don’t know why but I decide to push the comments down for now. I put my phone back in my bag and go over.

  “Have you tuned a guitar before, Lacey?” Mr Day asks.

  “I’m tone-deaf, sir,” I say. “You should hear me on the karaoke.”

  “I would very much like to hear you on the karaoke.” Then he passes me a little black plastic box that has a tiny screen on it and a clip on the back. “Sing a note and look at the screen.”

  “Are you actually joking, sir?” I say. “As if.”

  “OK, I will.” Mr Day starts singing a note before I can say one of the million options that flood my brain. He gestures to the little screen. I go bright red on his behalf and look at the screen. Then he stops – thank God.

  “What did it say?” he asks.

  “G and a dash, sir,” I say. “Sir, that was one of the most embarrassing things a teacher has ever done.”

  “Oh dear, I think if you found that embarrassing, things are going to get far worse, Lacey.” Mr Day smiles to himself as if he is proud of being embarrassing. “You don’t need to even sing. Just say a word slowly and it will tell you which note you are speaking in.”

  “I’m all right, sir, thanks,” I say.

  He laughs and looks back to the guitar.

  “If you keep plucking this string here, I’ll turn the tuning peg and you can tell me when the tuner says E.” He passes me the guitar and then waits for me to start plucking.

  “I’ll probably break your guitar, sir.”

  “It was already broken,” Mr Day says, “so you can’t make it any worse.” Then he just waits.

  I can’t think of a good reason not to, so I start plucking the string and he twists the peg and the noise changes. I look at the letters on the screen and when it says E, I stop plucking.

  “Perfect. Now let’s do the next string.”

  “This is a bit dull, sir,” I say. “I thought you were meant to be finding out what’s wrong with me.”

  “Well, feel free to tell me if there’s something wrong, Lacey, or we can keep tuning the guitar. Totally up to you.”

  “You’re weird, sir.”

  He smiles at this and then points to the next string.

  “Next you’re looking for an A,” he says.

  I start plucking. This is going to be a very long lunch break.

  The next day, I walk into the music room and Mr Day’s sitting at the piano.

  “I’m not tuning a piano, sir, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I say.

  “No, Lacey,” he says, smiling. “We’ll leave that to the professionals, shall we? You ever played a piano?”

  “All the time, sir. Me and my whole family are always at piano recitals. We can’t get enough.”

  “You’re very funny, Lacey,” Mr Day says.

  “You’re very funny, sir,” I say. I pull a face that shows I mean a different kind of “funny”.

  “Take a seat and have a play.”

  “I’m not playing that thing,” I tell him. “I told you I’m tone-deaf. Anyway, I’ll probably break it.”

  Then Mr Day starts bashing away at the keys and making a horrible sound. I cover my ears and laugh.

  “Sir, that’s the worst sound I’ve ever heard.”

  “Exactly. You can’t be worse than that.” Then Mr Day waits, just like he did with the guitar plucking. If I play the thing it feels like he’s won, but I don’t want to sit in silence for the whole of lunch break.

  Anyway, I don’t mind him. Mr Day isn’t really like other teachers – he dresses normal and has an accent like mine. He’s not in a rush and he thinks I’m funny. I don’t know if he would ever send me to ISO.

  Just as I think that, all of the things I could do to get Mr Day to send me out start popping into my brain.

  Smash a guitar up.

  Call Mr Day the worst swear word.

  Say stuff about his family.

  Pour my water all over the piano.

  The thoughts keep flooding in, but then I realise that I don’t need to do any of them. Maybe it’s because he’s not staring at me, waiting angrily for me to do what he wants. Or maybe it’s because there is silence in the room and I can hear all the thoughts clearly. There is another thought there too.

  I could just turn around and walk out.

  I don’t actually have to be here.

  I think about it in the silence. He’s just looking at some piano music. I’m not sure that Mr Day would even tell Mrs Hukin if I did leave. He would probably just carry on messing around with the instruments all lunch-time.

  The feeling of knowing that I can leave is enough. I have that power. I don’t need to smash anything up, not today.

  I sit down at the piano and press a white key. It makes a shy kind of sound as if it knows that I have no idea what I’m doing.

 

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