‘Isn’t she?’ says Bridge.

I nod, my face burning.

‘How long’s she been back?’

‘Few weeks,’ I say, my words swallowed by the floor. ‘How’d you find out?’

Bridge shrugs like it doesn’t matter and maybe it doesn’t.

‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ Bridge looks right at me and I notice all these little new things, like her lips are pink and her hair is brushed and she’s wearing a t-shirt I haven’t seen before. I’m aware of people watching. I swallow again and sit up straighter on the couch.

‘Clem?’

I manage a shrug.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Bridge says. I see the hurt in her eyes and I start picking at the side of my finger. ‘I tell you everything,’ she adds.

‘No you don’t,’ I say.

‘I would if you didn’t hide out in the library. Ellie and I look for you every day,’ she says coldly.

‘And where is Ellie?’

‘At running practice,’ says Bridge. ‘I thought you were supposed to be there, too.’

I have no words. I was supposed to be there. But I didn’t want to face Ellie.

‘Well?’ Bridge says sharply.

Some kid from the table behind shushes us. Bridge turns and glares at him like he has no right to interrupt our fight.

‘I thought you were funny with me because of the different classes, which isn’t my fault, but this is about your mum. All this time I’ve been thinking it was me,’ says Bridge loudly.

The words are circling in my mouth, all there, but not in the right order. I try to force them out, but they won’t come.

‘Here,’ says Bridge, throwing my book down at me. ‘I have to go meet Ellie.’ She stands up. I can’t think of anything to say to make her sit back down.

By the time I find the right words, she’s walking through the sliding doors and out into the hall. I slump into the couch, making myself as small as possible, hoping the orange cushions will swallow me whole.

Chapter 15

I re-read my English essay subject. I’m supposed to be writing an autobiography. Instead, I’ve drawn a series of faces that refuse to smile.

‘Knock, knock,’ says Dad, poking his head around the doorway. He’s holding a small pile of clean washing. ‘We’re going to go and get some ice-cream. Want to come?’

We. I’m so tired of that word. I shake my head.

‘You can have two scoops,’ he says, smiling.

‘No, thanks.’

He steps into my room and then pauses like he’s waiting for a bomb to go off. ‘Can I come in?’

‘Yeah,’ I say, wondering why he had to ask.

‘Mum did your washing,’ he says, placing the clothes down.