Good Me Bad Me Read online

  ‘Hello, dog-face.’

  Dog-face? We were supposed to become sisters. Little women.

  ‘She’s waiting for you. So sweet that you got your itty-bitty Miss Kemp to fight your battles.’

  ‘About the necklace, Phoebe, I won’t wear it, I feel bad.’

  ‘What’s this about a necklace?’ Izzy asks.

  ‘Nothing,’ Phoebe responds.

  ‘Oh, come on, share,’ Izzy says, jabbing her in the stomach.

  Depleted. Less hostile, less brave. Embarrassed in front of her friend. I should feel bad for mentioning it now, in front of someone else. I should.

  ‘My stupid fuck-face of a mother bought her one of those gold name necklaces too.’

  ‘The one she had made for you? Did she not have one made for herself as well, so you guys could be matching?’

  Phoebe nods. I try to say sorry, but she tells me to shut up.

  ‘Uh-oh, dearest Mummy let you down again, has she?’

  ‘Fuck off, Iz.’

  ‘Chill out, who needs mothers anyway when we have each other?’

  They laugh and continue down the stairs to the next landing. I say nothing, but I want to say, I do.

  I need a mother.

  Izzy stops, looks up at me, asks, ‘Had any strange phone calls recently?’

  My hand moves towards my phone in my blazer pocket.

  ‘I take it by the silence that’s a no then. Well, strap in, I’m sure it won’t be long.’

  More sniggers and laughter.

  Salt in the wound. Stings. As I look down at their beautiful faces I remember a story I read. A Native American tale where the Cherokee tells his grandson there’s a battle between two wolves in all of us. One is evil, the other good. The boy asks him, which wolf wins? The Cherokee tells him, the one you feed. Their faces become targets as I look at them. I’m tempted to open my mouth, saliva and spit across the make-up on their faces. Dolls. A biscuity smell of fake tan hangs in the air. Izzy makes a V with her fingers, shoves her tongue through them. Phoebe does the same. Bad thoughts in my head. A door opens in the corridor below, prompts them to move. I check my phone as I head up the remaining stairs to MK’s room, no calls.

  When I arrive there are two easels set up opposite each other. Two stools, two boxes of charcoal. Two of everything.

  ‘Hey,’ she says. ‘Welcome! Ready to do some sketching?’

  I nod, place my bag and blazer down. She asks me if I’d like a glass of water.

  ‘No thank you.’

  ‘Have you worked with charcoal before?’

  ‘A little bit.’

  ‘Good, grab a seat at one of the easels.’

  Her hands are flighty, move quickly, as if the weight of the rings would be too heavy if they remained stationary for more than a split second. She sits down opposite me.

  ‘Any idea what you’d like to draw?’

  Yes. But I don’t think people would approve.

  ‘Not really, I don’t mind.’

  ‘How about we sketch the figure over there on the table, it’s by a sculptor called Giacometti, or I’ve got some perfume in my bag, the bottle’s an interesting shape.’

  Her perfume. That’s what it is. Familiar. Fresh sprigs of lavender cut from our garden, by you.

  ‘The figure is fine,’ I reply.

  ‘Good choice, I’ll grab it.’

  She moves with fluidity, the tribal beads she wears leaving a wake of noise with each step. Her hair piled up in a messy bump, secured by a clip with some kind of Asian pattern on it. She reminds me of something from a National Geographic magazine – a cross between a messy geisha and a tribal high priestess. We begin sketching at the same time, in tune somehow, our hands synchronized, reach for the charcoal. She asks me how things have been so far, I tell her fine.

  ‘Fine as in really fine, or as in could be better but you don’t want to say?’

  ‘A bit of both maybe.’

  Sweep. Dust. A head on the page, I wonder if she started at the top too.

  ‘Art’s an excellent therapy, you know.’

  I feel the prickles advance. Half-built walls live inside me, erected fully in minutes if I feel a threat of exposure. ‘Therapy’. Why would she say that? A need-to-know basis, Mike said. Ms James, the headmistress at school, and Sas and I, that’s it. Nobody else knows about your mother. I look over my easel at her. No make-up, a natural blush. Peaches and cream. She looks up, smiles, gentle crinkles and creases forming round her eyes. I bet she smiles, laughs, a lot.

  ‘How’s it going over there?’

  ‘Good, thanks.’

  The head has a body now, thin as a whip like the one you used, even though I said no.

  ‘How have things been with the girls?’

  Worse than ever.

  ‘Not too bad, I suppose.’

  ‘You suppose?’

  ‘I have a feeling I won’t fit in very well here.’

  ‘It can be tough, that’s for sure. The girls here are smart and streetwise, most of them have grown up in London their whole lives. I’ve seen it before, everybody new gets a bit of a rough ride which is what guidance teachers are for, and lucky for me, I got you! Now, are you ready to show me your drawing?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’

  She wipes her hands on the damp cloth by her side, stands up and walks over to my easel, makes an appreciative whistling noise, says, boy oh boy, your old headmistress was right.

  ‘Such incredible use of shading, the statue looks like it’s moving, walking off the page. Would you mind very much if I kept it? I’d like to show the Year Eights, they’re working on figure sketches at the moment.’

  ‘Sure, of course, if you think it’s good enough.’

  I’m about to unclip the paper but she tells me to stop, that I’ve forgotten something.

  ‘Oh, sorry.’

  ‘An artist must always sign their work.’

  I look up at her, she winks, nudges my shoulder, and I don’t feel weird or uncomfortable in the same way I did when June touched me. I sign it, but need to be more careful in future – I almost signed it Annie.

  I’m about to leave when she says, ‘Don’t worry about the girls, I’m keeping a close eye on them. I’ve had them in here tidying up and scrubbing palette pots. They seem to feel sorry for what they did so I’m sure it’s the last we’ll hear of it. Why don’t you grab a roll of paper on the way out and a box of charcoal, keep up the sketching at home?’

  A warm feeling as I leave, the good wolf. Feasted.

  A stillness fills the corridors, I don’t have to rush or worry about avoiding the rest of the girls. I head to my locker to pick up a folder I forgot and get halfway across the school courtyard when my phone rings. A number I don’t recognize.

  A flash of Izzy’s face sneering at me when she said, ‘Had any strange phone calls yet?’

  I shouldn’t answer, but curiosity gets the better of me. Curiosity killed the.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Is that Milly?’

  A deep voice. Muffled.

  ‘Who is this?’ I reply.

  ‘I’m ringing about the advert.’

  ‘What advert?’

  ‘The postcard.’

  ‘What postcard?’

  ‘Oh, come on, love, no need to be shy.’

  ‘How did you get this number?’

  ‘From the advert, I told you. Look, I’m not being funny but are you for real or not?’

  ‘I might be.’

  ‘You like playing games, do you?’ he asks.

  His voice. Different, more urgent. I recognize what it means.

  ‘Depends,’ I reply.

  ‘On what?’

  ‘If I get to win or not.’

  I hang up, stare at the phone for a few seconds, leave the courtyard. Although it was warm on the Tube this morning, the evening wind has changed in the past couple of weeks, brushes over my hands with a cool edge. I put my phone in my blazer pocket, too much to hold with the folder and the roll o
f paper MK gave me. I feel a vibration against my thigh, a message. I don’t stop to read it, in a few minutes I’ll be home. When I reach the turning into my road, I pull my phone out from my pocket, an unknown number again.

  My cocks hard and ready arrange to meet

  I read it again, unsure if the content or the fact it’s written without punctuation offends me more. Uncouth. The message disappears off the screen as a call comes in. I recognize the number this time, the same one as before. I can’t help but answer. Fun, almost.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did you hang up on me?’

  I pause at the corner, lean into the wall, rest my heavy school rucksack up and off my shoulders.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Are you in your school uniform now?’

  ‘How do you know I go to school?’

  ‘I could tell from the picture – do you wear a skirt or one of those little dresses?’

  I can hear the arousal in his voice, obvious to me. I’ve always wondered if it sounds different in a man than a woman. It doesn’t.

  ‘When can we meet? I pay well.’

  I hang up. Two nil, loser. I enjoy the power, being desired. I turn into my road, hear someone whistle. Morgan. She uses her fingers like a builder might, or a dog-walker calling her dog. I smile and she nods at me, calls me over then buries her mouth into the zip of her tracksuit so only the top part of her face is visible. She holds something in one of her hands. I walk over. Her eye is less bruised than before but I notice as she brings her mouth out of her top that her lips are chapped and bloody. She chews on them as if they are food. An appetizer.

  ‘Hi.’

  She doesn’t reply, turns her head to the side, picks at her lips, peels a bit of skin off them. Fresh blood when she turns back as if she’s eaten a berry, a more appetizing appetizer. She licks the blood away, wipes the back of her sleeve across her mouth. I can see the thing in her hand is a postcard, but I can’t see what of.

  ‘I’m just back from school.’

  She shrugs.

  ‘Your eye looks better.’

  ‘Till the next time, yeah.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Walked into a door, that’s what my mum always says anyway.’ A smirk on her face.

  And what Mummy says goes, right?

  ‘You said your name was Milly, yeah?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I found something I think belongs to you, it’s got your name and your photo on it. M-I-L-L-Y.’

  She sounds out the letters, releases them slowly from her sore lips with concentration.

  ‘Why are you sounding it out like that?’

  ‘Fuck off all right, I’m dyslexic.’

  A hurt look passes over her face. I look away, ashamed I caused it.

  ‘Anyway, you don’t need to know how to read properly to work this out.’

  She hands me the card. A professional job, laminated, quality colour. I think about how it was made, handed around a printing shop perhaps, overweight guys spluttering into mugs of tea as I’m passed back and forth.

  ‘Where did you get it from?’

  ‘Found it last night in the phone box, down on the right by the arches near Ladbroke Grove. My phone’s broken and my mum hasn’t got any credit on hers.’

  I know where she means. Amongst the dirt and grime, piss and chewing gum, a collection of adverts live. Me. A new face, added to the bill. Roll up roll up, a tasty newcomer. A gallery of boobs, open mouths, weird grotesque looks on the women’s faces. And now, a schoolgirl. The image, the same one used on the poster left on my locker. New words.

  SCHOOLGIRL MILLY ‘DTF’ READY TO SUCK COCK, CALL NUMBER BELOW

  The science-block toilets. Izzy. ‘I won’t ask again.’ My phone vibrates, a buzzing from inside my left pocket, I enjoy a brief moment of how popular feels. Hungry lambs at a teat, enough is never enough.

  ‘No offence, but you don’t look the type.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘What’s it all about then?’

  ‘Someone’s idea of a joke.’

  ‘You must have pissed them right off, it’s a pretty sick joke.’

  ‘It’s a couple of the girls from school, and the girl I live with.’

  ‘What, that snotty blonde bitch?’

  She points towards our house, I look over my shoulder.

  ‘Yeah, her.’

  The driveway obscures most of the windows but two or three look out on to the street. I’m hit by an urgency to keep Morgan a secret.

  ‘Has anyone called you?’ she asks.

  ‘Somebody just did.’

  ‘Fuck. What are you going to do to get her back?’

  I’ll think of something.

  ‘Not sure, probably just let it go. How long do you reckon the postcard was up for?’

  ‘Maybe a day or something, I don’t know. You just moved here, didn’t you?’

  I nod, reply, ‘They’re my foster family.’

  ‘We were almost in care for a bit when my mum was sent down but our nana came and looked after us.’

  ‘So your mum’s out now?’

  ‘Yeah, she was only in for a few weeks. Something stupid she helped my uncle with.’

  She picks at her lips again. I resist the urge to slap her hand away, tell her to stop. She pushes her body off the wall, stands up. I ask her if she wants to hang out some time. Maybe, she replies. Suspicious. That’s good, I want to tell her. Safer that way.

  ‘We could meet at the bottom of my garden. The blue door in the close takes you into it, it’s usually locked but I could open it. My room’s the one with the balcony.’

  ‘Why are you so keen to hang out?’

  ‘Dunno. It’s not easy being the new girl, especially with a foster sister like mine.’

  She nods. I get the impression she’s lonely too.

  ‘What do you reckon? Do you fancy it?’ I ask her again.

  ‘Like I said, maybe. You want us to meet in your garden so no one knows we’re friends, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s not that, it’s to do with the blonde bitch I live with. Your words not mine.’

  We both smile when I say it.

  ‘She’d find a way to ruin it, tell her dad or something,’ I explain.

  ‘Bet she would, silly cow.’

  I need something to close the deal. Gifts open doors, trust comes easier afterwards, I watched you do it a hundred times with the kids at the refuge. THINK, ANNIE, THINK. Your voice in my head. The phone thinks for me, vibrates again in my pocket. I ask Morgan if she’s any good with them, take it out, show her.

  ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘What am I supposed to do now that I’m getting calls from the advert?’

  ‘Don’t know, change the number?’

  ‘I can’t, I’d have to ask my foster dad, he’d figure something was up.’

  ‘Chuck it?’

  ‘It’s brand new, it’d be crazy to throw it away. I could tell him I lost it but he’d be pretty angry I think.’

  ‘Who cares, they must have a shitload of money, what’s a stupid phone to them.’

  ‘True, but I still feel bad about binning it. You said your phone was broken, maybe you could borrow mine for a bit, get the number changed or something.’

  ‘Nah, it doesn’t feel right, I don’t even know you.’

  ‘It means we’d be able to stay in touch though, if we did want to hang out.’

  ‘And I wouldn’t have to do anything for it?’

  ‘No, nothing. Like I said, you’d be helping me out.’

  She chews on her lip some more, stares down at her feet, then looks up and says, okay, deal. She takes it, says she’ll find a way to let me know when she’s sorted a new number, then asks me what to do with the postcard.

  ‘Was it the only one?’

  ‘Only one that I saw.’

  ‘Do what you like with it, burn it for all I care.’

  She nods, and walks away. I watch her go, pleased with myself. Your lessons, y
our voice, helpful to me. Sometimes.

  The house is quiet when I open the door, unlocked, so somebody must be home, likely Saskia, she always forgets to lock the door behind her. The radiator next to the shoe cubby releases a whispering sound, the effort required to keep the entrance porch warm exhausting for its ancient pipes. I notice a pair of trainers on the floor I don’t recognize, too large for a woman.

  I take off my shoes and dump my stuff at the bottom of the stairs. Rosie looks up at me with half-closed eyes, too comfy to rise out of her basket to greet me, a vague thump of the tail. Dinner is plated, left out on the kitchen counter. Three in a line. Sevita knows better than to leave anything for ‘Miss Saskia’, which means both Mike and Phoebe are still out. I take the chance to switch on the radio while the stew is heating up in the microwave, see if I can hear anything, but the headlines are over. I eat fast, hoping to avoid Phoebe, and after I put my plate in the dishwasher I head to Mike’s study, knock on the door, make sure he’s not home. No answer. I use a Post-it note from the block on the table next to the alcove, write ‘Dear Mike, I’m so sorry but I’ve lost my phone, I can’t find it anywhere. What should I do?’

  I stick it on the middle of his study door, at eye level, so he can’t miss it. A neon-pink apology, and a secret fuck you to Phoebe. I want to get a new phone as soon as possible so Morgan and I can stay in touch. I notice the door to the basement is open as I pass it, it leads to the laundry and the gym. I have a quick look to make sure Sevita isn’t down there, then close it, wishing there was a lock.

  I check from my balcony if I’m right about the gate leading into the garden being hidden from the house. I am. I’m about to come inside when I hear the whistle, a small figure in the close, waving at me. She does something after that with her hands. A spark, another, a lighter being lit, followed by a lick of flame. Impossible to see from this distance, but I know it’s the postcard she’s burning. When it becomes too hot to hold she drops it on to the ground, makes a swiping motion with her hands, job done, and jogs back up the close towards the street.