Five Things They Never Told Me (2 page)

It takes until Saturday morning, Thirty-seven Days Without Mum, for me to get the opportunity I need. I probably wouldn't even be bothering but Mum rang last night and Dad insisted that I talk to her, despite the fact that I was obviously gesturing to him to tell her that I was out. I had to stand in the hall, holding the phone away from my ear, while meaningless words floated out of the receiver as she went on and on about how
much she's missing me. She started saying how she wished that tomorrow were one of ‘our' Saturdays – like that's suddenly a thing, and how she's still my mum. Words are easy to say – if she really meant it then she'd still live in the same house as us. Anyway, Dad caught me not listening and had a real go at me afterwards. So he's brought this on himself. He's still in bed and I've checked that he's fast asleep by listening at his bedroom door – I can hear faint snores coming from the other side so I know it's safe to carry out my plan.

I get dressed quickly and creep downstairs into the kitchen. Picasso trots over to me and bumps my hand while I fill his bowl with dog food. Once he's distracted and munching away I tiptoe towards Dad's workbag, which is lying in the corner of the room where he always puts it when he gets home. I know it's silly but I really don't want Picasso to see me doing this.

I kneel down and open the zip. Inside the bag is Dad's skanky lunchbox that he hasn't unpacked yet and some of his tools. I take all of this out and rummage around in the bottom, my heart pounding until my hand closes on the thing I'm looking for. Pulling it out I open up his wallet.
Staring up at me is a photo of me, Mum and Dad, taken on holiday last year when we were still the three of us. I don't know why he's kept that in there. Ignoring the happy, smiling faces I open up the cash compartment and remove eight £20 notes. That's a start but it won't get me very far – not with the day I've got planned. Rooting through the old receipts I strike lucky.

‘Yes!' I hiss, holding up Dad's debit card. This is exactly what I need. I stuff the wallet back in his bag and then shove the tools and lunchbox on top, zipping it back up. No point in alerting him earlier than necessary. Turning round I see that Picasso has finished eating and is staring at me across the room, his head on one side and his eyes looking mournful. Picasso is a black and tan dachshund with one brown eye and one blue eye. One half of his face is white and the other half is dappled brown and black. He's the weirdest-looking dog I've ever seen. Mum says that he suits me – that we're both highly interesting and unusual. Except that I can't be
that
interesting, or she wouldn't have wanted to replace me.

Anyway, Picasso looks like his face has been split down the middle. That's how he got his
name. I've always loved those weird paintings that Pablo Picasso did of faces, all wonky and multicoloured, plus the artist Picasso had a dachshund called Lump who he really loved. I've got a copy of the picture he drew of Lump, on the wall in my room. It's just one line but it really does look like my dog.

‘It's OK,' I tell him. ‘I'm just borrowing it really.' I feel bad saying this but I really don't want Picasso to think I'm dishonest. He pads over to me and I sit down next to him, burying my head in his soft, furry coat. I suppose I could always put the money back? Dad would never know. I could just pretend this hadn't happened and make him a cup of tea and then let him cook me bacon and eggs for breakfast and take me out for a picnic and a walk at the sculpture trail, like he said last night. Dad's got a piece that's being displayed as part of the trail and he's been promising for ages that we could go and take a look.

But then I remember how I felt when he was mad at me about the burned chips. And I think about how he says he wants me to act my age and grow up but never actually lets me do anything fun. I think about how he still takes Mum's side,
even though she's not here. And I remind myself that I'm just an inconvenience to him. That neither him or Mum wanted me and I'm just a problem that needed to be solved.

And who wants to waste a beautiful Saturday morning on a rubbish walk, looking at a load of carved wood, anyway? Especially when it's mostly the reason that Mum left in the first place. It used to drive her crazy that Dad had got this amazing talent but that he ‘refused to do anything with it'. That was what she said. She used to go on and on about how, if only he'd believe in himself, he could sell his sculptures for thousands of pounds and then he wouldn't have to work as a badly paid gardener at a care home. Then he'd tell her that he
liked
being a gardener and that the day he started creating his sculptures for money and not for love would be the day that he stopped making anything worth looking at. I've got no idea if she even knows that he's got a piece being shown in the sculpture trail. I suppose it's a bit late now, anyway.

I rub my hand one more time down Picasso's firm back and then I stand up. They think I'm a problem so I'm going to show them that they're right. That should make them happy – maybe
they'll finally find something they both actually agree on.

The bus driver starts to make a fuss about me paying for my fare with a £20 note but I just look at him and tell him it's all I have. He mutters about how he's not going to have any change for the rest of the day, but I smile sweetly and he gives me a ticket, grumbling under his breath. I go straight to the back of the bus and look out of the window as we drive towards town. I've done this before lots of times with Lauren and Nat but it's the first time I've been on my own. Everything looks a bit different today. Brighter and sharper and a little bit scarier. Maybe that's because I know that there's no way I can wriggle out of what I'm about to do. There's no way I can say it was an accident, that I didn't mean to do it – because I am doing this one hundred per cent on purpose.

We reach the town centre faster than I thought we would. I get off the bus and look around me. Where should I go first? My stomach starts rumbling and I remember that I haven't had any breakfast yet. I'm right next to the coffee shop where I have to meet Mum every other Saturday
but I hate that place now and I know that Dad would go crazy if he thought I was getting breakfast in McDonald's so I head there and order food to take away. It's sunny today, only two weeks until the summer holidays, so I find a bench and sit outside watching the shops come to life while I eat my Egg McMuffin. It tastes surprisingly good – especially when I imagine what Dad would say about me eating junk food this early in the morning.

When I've demolished my breakfast I scrunch up the paper bag and lob it towards the bin. It goes in and I grin to myself.

‘Nice shot!' says a voice behind and when I turn round I see a boy chaining his bike to a lamp post. I recognize him from the year above me at school, but I've never spoken to him before. I look behind me to see if he was talking to someone else but there's nobody there and when I turn back, he's smiling at me.

‘Thanks,' I say.

‘Good breakfast?' he asks, nodding in the direction of McDonald's.

‘It was OK,' I tell him. I'm not usually shy but there is something about this boy that is making me feel self-conscious – possibly the fact that he's
totally gorgeous. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, praying that I haven't got any remnants of egg on my face.

‘See you then,' he says and saunters off down the road. As I watch him go I realize how much I want him to stay. I'd like to talk to him properly, not just mumble some rubbish about food. I want to yell at him to stop but I know I've got no reason to call him back.

I stand up and brush my hands off on my jeans. Today is already turning out to be more interesting than I thought it would be.

The cash starts to run out really quickly. It's amazing, really, how expensive everything is. I've only bought a few art supplies, some jeans and a couple of tops and I've spent £95 when I add in the bus fare and the McDonald's.

I have decided that the best way to show Dad how I'm feeling is to hit him where it really hurts. In the wallet. All he does is go on and on about money and how we have to tighten our belts because we've only got one wage coming in now. Well, whose fault is that? Not mine. Thirty-seven Days Without Mum and he's already told me that my pocket money is going to have to contribute
towards my clothes and any school trips that come up. That's totally unfair. I didn't ask for any of this so I fully intend to stock up on everything I'm going to need before he starts deducting my funds. I'm very aware that after this, I probably won't get any more pocket money until I'm eighty-five, but at least I'll have bought all the essentials. And I'll have shown him that he shouldn't EVER boss me about.

But now I've spent some of the cash I'm going to have to carry out the second part of my plan. I must admit, I am nervous about this part. It seems a little bit worse than just taking money out of his wallet. OK, quite a lot worse. But I know that this is the only way to get what I want – and as him and Mum have done what they want without any consideration about me, then I think it's OK for me to behave like this, just for one day.

I walk towards the cash point that I've seen Dad use and pull out his bank card. He uses the same code for everything, which is exactly what you're not supposed to do. It's like he's asking for trouble, really – he should know that he's just making himself an easy target.
Anyone
could steal his card and take his money. I look around me to check that nobody is watching and then I put the
card in and key in the numbers of my birthday. It works! I press the button for taking money out and then look at the choices. £10? £20? £50? £100? I think about what I'm planning on buying and make a decision because apparently I am now old enough to do that. Pressing my finger on the screen I watch as the machine whirs and magically spews £300 out and into my hand. Then I fold it up and stuff it into my pocket, its bulk making me feel like a bank robber.

In the Technology Store I make my way straight to the stand where the iPads are displayed. I have been asking for one of these for months but Mum and Dad always say that it would be a waste of money for someone my age and I should count my lucky stars that I've got an iPod Shuffle. I've tried telling them that it'd help me with homework but they just won't listen – and now Mum isn't even around for me to ask any more. Her and Dad have an arrangement where I have to meet up with her every fortnight but she said it wouldn't be ‘healthy' for her to come home and there's no way I'm going to Mark's house, so we have to meet in town. The coffee shop is not the best place to concentrate on Pythagoras' Theorem. An iPad would totally help me get better grades at school.

‘Can I help you?'

The shop assistant is looking at me suspiciously like I'm going to shoplift or something. I feel offended – there's no
way
I'd ever take something that didn't belong to me.

‘Yes,' I tell him. ‘I'd like this, please. In black.'

He looks at me. ‘It's great, that model, but you know it's really expensive, don't you?'

I make a huffing sound under my breath. ‘Yes, I know. I have the money,' I say.

He pauses, looking straight at me again, then appears to make a decision. ‘In that case, if you wait by the till I'll just go and get you one already boxed up.'

He walks towards the back of the shop and I go over to the till. The shop is busy and it's taking him some time to get back to me, so while I wait I look out of the window. Suddenly I see HIM again – gorgeous, scruffy-haired boy. I start to lift my hand, ready to wave, but then I see that he's talking to a girl and my arm drops back down to my side. I watch as they walk past, her all long legs and him laughing, and I feel a bit less happy than I did a moment ago.

‘Here you are.' Snotty shop assistant is back and is smiling now that he's going to make a sale.
He places the box on the counter and I look at it longingly, hoping and hoping that Dad isn't going to make me take it back when he finds out what I've done. I take the bundle of notes out of my pocket and put them on the counter. Snotty man looks at me with one eyebrow raised.

‘Birthday money,' I explain. ‘I've been saving.'

‘Ah,' he says. ‘Well, it's a good choice. I've just got one of these and it's fantastic. Just make sure nobody steals it. I've got my name engraved on the back of mine – makes it less tempting to thieves!'

I look at the box and then I look at him, an idea starting to form in my mind.

‘You can do that? Get it engraved with your name?'

‘You can get it engraved with anything you like!' he laughs, friendly now.

‘I want to do that!' I say. Dad can't make me return it if it's actually got my name on it, can he?