Glitter (2 page)

“My summer was rubbish,” I tell Alice while we’re unpacking our trunks and settling back into school for the start of the autumn term. “My dad just dumped me in our French house for the whole ten weeks with strict instructions that I had to do at least four hours’ school work every day. My granny wasn’t well so he hired this scary dragon woman with whiskers on her chin to look after me and he didn’t bother to come and see me, not even once. He kept phoning and saying he’d be over soon so we could go out on the boat. But he never even did. He just got more and more stressed and snappy on the phone as the weeks went by. Apparently something big
was happening at work
again,
and he said it was too impossible to leave. Lucky Sebastian was off jet-skiing with a friend so I didn’t get to see him either. Boring is an understatement, Alice. I had nothing to do but work, work, work, apart from the pool I suppose, but that’s not much fun on your own. Sometimes I think my dad forgets I’m still a child.”

“My summer was terrible too,” sighs Alice, lying back on her bed. “My parents just bickered the whole time we were in Greece. I sometimes wonder why they even stay married. I mean, plenty of parents get a divorce. I don’t know what the big deal is.”

“Parents have strange ideas,” I say. “I tried to talk to Sebastian about my mum and about what happened to her when we were out buying our uniforms. I wanted to see if there’s an actual reason behind the fact that my dad won’t let me play the violin. But he said he doesn’t remember anything about her, except her red hair and a tune that she used to play to him while he was drifting off to sleep.”

“That’s so sad,” says Alice. “I can’t imagine what it would be like without my mum.”

“I wish I could remember something about her,” I say. “I wonder if she ever played a tune to me?”

When we’ve unpacked and had our tea and sat through a house meeting and shared summer stories and welcomed the new girls, Alice and I sneak out of our window and on to the flat roof to look at the sky. Above us is a soft glittering blanket that twinkles through the darkness and wraps us up in stars.

“I’m so glad to be back,” I whisper.

“Me too,” says Alice.

“Whoever invented the stars,” I say, “truly was a glittering success. Can you imagine what it would be like to fly through them and feel them glittering all about you?”

“Of course a person didn’t invent them, Libby,” says Alice snuggling in close, “but imagine if they had. They would be the most popular and richest person in the world.”

“No, Alice,” I giggle, “your dad is the richest person in the world. Well, not like kings and princes, but he is rich.”

“Your dad too,” she says.

“I suppose so,” I sigh. “It’s just I don’t really see the point of it when he’s not happy and enjoying it. He’s so moody and stressed all the time, who cares how much money he has? My dad wouldn’t know how to enjoy
himself if it came and bit him on the nose. That’s what my granny says.”

“Daddy says things are changing,” says Alice. “He says the banks have more debts than they have money.”

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“Don’t know really,” she says. “He just says that things
will
change. But we don’t need to worry about anything, Libby, nothing will happen to us, silly.”

Having a best friend like Alice is as amazing as my school. I mean having a best friend full stop is brilliant, but for me it means I always have someone I can share my feelings with, someone I can trust. I know that whatever happens in our lives Alice will be there for me and I will be there for her. That’s how it is with us, it’s simple. Alice is also very good at telling me the truth, even when it hurts.

“Can you try not to dump your feelings on me this term, Libby. We’re nearly twelve and that’s too old for lashing out.”

“I’ll try,” I say. “It’s just sometimes I can’t help it. It must be my red hair.”

“The colour of your hair is no excuse, Libby, you have to take responsibility for your feelings.”

Three weeks later I’m sitting in a maths lesson with my mind half drifting out of the window when a prefect knocks on our door and tells our teacher that I have to go to the headmaster’s office straight away. I am completely sure that I haven’t done anything wrong or bad enough to need a trip to see Mr Jenkins, our headmaster, for a telling off, but anyway I’m careful to pull up my socks and straighten my tie before knocking on his door. “Yes,” booms his throaty voice, “come on in.” I turn the big brass handle, step inside and am surprised to see my dad sitting on one of Mr Jenkins’s black leather chairs. He’s looking all red faced and flustered and
Sebastian is there as well, pacing about the room in tears. My heart dives into my tummy like a cold hard pebble and bounces straight back up again and lodges in my throat.

“What’s happened?” I ask, immediately leaping to the conclusion that somebody we know has died or that Sebastian only got a B for his science homework or something terrible like that.

“Come and sit down, Liberty,” says Mr Jenkins. “I’m afraid your father has some rather upsetting news.”

But I don’t sit down. Because how can you sit down when the tension in the room is making you worried that your ears are about to hear some ultra-upsetting news. My dad looks terrible. He clearly hasn’t shaved for a few days and he looks like he hasn’t slept or eaten for weeks. I hover nearby without getting too close. I never know with my dad when he might unexpectedly bark some random command at me and make my feelings hurt. The headmaster coughs as a polite way of reminding my dad that it’s his turn to speak now.

“Liberty, I’m afraid I have some bad news,” whispers my dad, running his hand through his untidy hair. I’m shocked because I’ve never heard my dad speak so quietly before. His voice usually booms around the room,
deafening my ears, but now he sounds like someone’s just let the air out of him and there’s nothing left for talking. “The business has collapsed, Liberty,” he says. “I’ve hung on for months and months trying to keep it all going but now I’ve hit rock bottom, the official receiver has been called in and we’ve become victims of the credit crunch.”

Then he looks at me like I know what all that means, which, of course, I don’t. I mean I’ve heard of the credit crunch and everything and things closing down all over the place, because whoever on this planet hasn’t. That was what Alice was saying her dad was talking about. He said things would change and he was right, but what has any of that got to do with me? Then Sebastian explodes.

“What he’s trying to say, Libby,” he steams, “is that we’ve lost everything. And I mean,
everything
! All the houses, all the cars, the boat, all the shares and every last penny in the bank.”

“Oh,” I say, still not really understanding, but knowing that something has gone terribly wrong. “I’m sorry, Daddy.” And suddenly it’s like the word ‘sorry’ has been touched by the edge of a lighted match and whooshed it up in flames.

“Sorry!” my dad bellows, full of air again. “What do
you mean, ‘Sorry’? Sorry is hardly going to help now, Liberty, is it? What are you talking about, child? It’s far too late for sorry.”

I flinch and begin to feel like the whole credit crunch thing and Dad’s business collapsing and everything is really all my fault. All I want is to go back to my maths lesson, because right now maths feels like one hundred and fifty thousand times more interesting than the angry words that are flying out of people’s mouths and around this room. Luckily Mr Jenkins takes charge.

“Liberty,” he says, in a trying-to-explain-something-important-to-a-stupid-person kind of voice, “your father’s here to take you home. He’s come to pick you both up and take you home because he can no longer afford the fees to keep you here.”

Dad makes whimpering, hurt dog sounds and his left leg keeps jiggling up and down like it can’t stop.

“Home?” scoffs Sebastian. “And where exactly is that, Dad? Where is home?” And then he crumples in a heap on the floor, wiping his tear snot on his blazer sleeve. And my dad peers back at him through empty eyes. I’m afraid to even move an inch or say anything at all because I don’t want to make anyone else shout. And I’m relieved when
Mrs Peterson, the school secretary, arrives with a tray full of tea and biscuits. But Sebastian’s not letting up and he turns on Mr Jenkins.

“After all I’ve done for this school,” he shrieks, “and being head boy and everything. You can’t just turf me out on the streets; I’m in my last year of A levels. This disaster might well ruin my whole life and I will hold you,’ he points to Mr Jenkins, “and you,” he points to Dad, “personally responsible.”

“Calm down, Sebastian,” says Mr Jenkins, handing Sebastian a handkerchief and a cup of tea. “Of course I wouldn’t just turf you out on the streets. At your stage in your education and with your brilliant academic record there are plenty of bursaries and charitable funds available to finance your last year with us. It’s your father’s decision to take you home.”

Sebastian glares fury at Dad, wanting some answers.

“It’s true, Seb,” says Dad. “I can’t help it; I’m a proud man. I owe the school the whole of last term’s fees and there’s no money to left to clear the debt or pay for any more. And that debt doesn’t even touch the tip of the iceberg. I’m up to my neck in trouble, so I’m calling it a day. I’ve given it my best shot and now I’m drawing a line
under it and we’re moving on. Now, enough of this emotional display, I want the pair of you to go and pack your trunks immediately and we’ll be off.”

I don’t think my mind is totally taking all of this information overload in, because my legs are definitely not making their way towards my dorm to pack my trunk. I’m just standing quietly, keeping my eyes on the ground, sipping on the hot tea and nibbling a chocolate biscuit, wondering if this is the last food I might be eating in a while, because of us having no money any more. And then Sebastian starts up again.

“I’m not leaving here, Dad,” he spits, “and you can’t make me. I’m nearly eighteen, so it’s not like it’s even your choice any more.”

“Sebastian,” Dad booms, finding his voice again, “you will do as I say. Now go and pack your trunk at once and meet me in the Grand Hall in fifteen minutes.” Then he spins around and turns on me, making me jump and I spill a whole slop of tea in my saucer. “And that goes for you too, young lady. And I mean it, double quick sharp.”

I slip out of Mr Jenkins’s office and head towards my boarding house to pack my things. It’s not until I’m passing the fountains in front of the dining room that the penny suddenly drops and I realise that my dad is here to take me home. But he can’t take me home! What’s he talking about? I’ve been boarding at this school since I was seven years old. This place practically
is
my home and everyone here is much more like my family than even my own dad is. I like it here; I don’t want to go home. I wish I could run straight back to Mr Jenkins’s office and tell my dad that he’s got it all wrong. I wish I could beg Mr Jenkins to find some charitable something so that I can stay here,
but my obedient legs keep on walking towards my room, afraid to stand up to my dad’s shouting and angry face.

Matron is lurking outside my room, waiting for me and I can hardly even see her because I have angry, salty tears streaming down my face. She’s already lugged my trunk from the trunk room and quickly starts helping me gather and fold my things. I keep dropping stuff because my whole insides have become trembling jelly and my teeth are chattering with cold, even though the warm autumn sun is shining through the open window. I pull my pony posters and cards and fairy lights from my pin board and fold my duvet and pillow into my trunk.

“Have you got time to go and say goodbye to everyone?” asks Matron.

I shake my head. “No, my dad’s in a hurry and I don’t even want to,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I just want to disappear.”

Just then, our dormitory door opens and Alice walks in. The bell for lunchtime must have gone off without me even noticing.

“What’s happening, Liberty?” she asks. “What are you doing?”

I wish the floorboards would open up and swallow me
whole. Last year Bryony Eves was pulled out of school because her family ran out of money and the whole thing was so embarrassing for her. None of us were true friends, once she’d gone, we just forgot about her. I wonder where she is now?

“Matron will tell you,” I say, pushing past her and heading for the door.

“But why is your trunk packed up, Libby? You can’t just walk out and not tell me what’s happening.”

“I have to, Alice,” I shout. Tears are prickling in the back of my eyes, threatening to flow over again. “I don’t have any choice. I never have any choice. I have to go.”

But Alice isn’t going to be fobbed off. She knows me too well. She grabs me and makes me look at her.

“Liberty!” she shrieks. “Look at me; it’s me, your best friend Alice here. Tell me what’s going on.”

“I have to leave the school, Alice, OK?” I shout. “Is that a good enough explanation for you?” And then I feel myself go, I feel the heat burning inside of me, filling my body with rage. “It’s the credit crunch, Alice,” I scream, throwing my wash bag on the floor and trying to pull away from her. “Your dad was right about things changing and my dad’s gone bust and now I’m like Bryony Eves. So go
off to lunch and gossip about me like we did her and then forget about me. Just get on with your own life, Alice and forget I ever existed. I’m different now, I’m not part of this any more and I never will be, ever again. I have to go, my dad’s waiting.”

“Lashing out and throwing things isn’t going to help, Liberty Parfitt,” she says, gripping my arms. “I’m your friend, remember. I’m here for you whatever happens.”

“Yes, well, that was then and now things have changed,” I scream, yanking myself away from her and picking up my things. “And once I’ve gone you’ll find a new friend to replace me. Now go back to school, Alice,” I shout as I slam through the door, “and forget about me.”

When I get back to the Grand Hall I find my dad sitting alone with his head in his hands, all of the air sucked out of him again. All my rage has been sucked out of me too and it’s growing into cold goose bumps under my skin.

“Come on, Liberty,” he sighs, “let’s go.”

“What about Sebastian?” I ask.

“He’s convinced me to let him stay. Mr Jenkins is going to sort out some funding for him. He has so little time left
here, even I can see the madness in taking him away. So it’s just you and me, I’m afraid.”

I want to scream again and ask if I can stay and get some funding too so I can stay at school. But deep down I know that screaming won’t work, not with my dad, not with anyone. And anyway, I’m too scared to say anything because I can’t bear to hear the truth. I’m not a success like Sebastian, I’m an embarrassment to the Parfitt family and nobody in their right mind would waste their precious funding money on me.

The porters carry my trunk out to the car park and help Dad tie it on to the roof rack of a rusty old banger that I have never even seen before. Matron appears, waving me goodbye and crying and tucking a copy of
100 Favourite Poems
into my hand. Mr Jenkins is shaking my other hand and wishing me good luck and good health for my future. And although I can hear all the good wishes coming from their mouths, I can’t really feel them; they bounce off my blazer and fall like raindrops, splashing to the ground. Sebastian joins us, his eyes all red rimmed and teary.

“Sorry, Libby,” he says, pulling me into a hug. “I just have to stay…you know?”

“I know,” I lie. “I’ll be OK. And it’s good for you stay.
It’s important for your success. Don’t worry about us, I’ll take care of Dad.”

“I knew you’d understand, sis, and I’ll be home soon enough for the holidays,” he promises.

“I’ll miss you,” I say, covering the scared wobble in my voice and climbing into the passenger seat next to Dad. “Have a good rest of term.”

He gives my hand a friendly squeeze and keeps on waving us goodbye, until he’s a tiny speck in the distance.

Our new car is noisy and smoky and travels at snail’s pace compared to our old black Mercedes. The seats are battered and torn and big chunks of foam are forcing their way through the scratchy grey fabric. My dad sighs and turns on the Radio 4 news to fill the awkward silence that is growing between us. The newsreader keeps groaning on and on about the credit crunch and financial scandals and I wish we could have something more cheerful, like music, to fill our car. But that will never be possible. After a while he huffs and turns the radio off. I feel lonely, like all the warmth and friendliness of my life at school has drained down the plughole and I’m left alone sitting in an empty bath shivering, with no soft towel for comfort. There’s so
much I want to ask, like what’s happened to our houses and cars and where are we going to live and if he thinks that Sebastian really will come home for the holidays, because I don’t think he will. But all of these questions are out of bounds because they might turn my dad into a snapping dog again. So I file them away in the back of my brain.

“Granny will help,” I say. “I’m sure of it. Granny has the Wisdom of Age.”

My dad’s eyes flash fire at me. “I don’t want you mentioning a word of this to your grandmother,’ he spits. “The last thing I need right now is for her to start interfering and busybodying around. Do you hear me, Liberty? I need you to keep your mouth firmly zipped. I need to find my own way out of this situation. And if I discover you two have been gossiping on the phone there’ll be trouble. OK?”