Little Darlings (19 page)

And now it's the day of the concert, I know it the moment I wake before I even open my eyes. My heart starts thudding. I tell myself I'm mad to get into a state over a silly little school concert. As if I care about this school or anyone in it. But I care about my mum and I care about me, and this is our song, and I have to make it special. My throat dries and I clutch my neck anxiously, wondering if it's sore, whether I've got some cough or cold bug and won't be able to sing. I get up and go in the bathroom and clean my teeth, gargling for a bit, and then I try out my voice as I have a quick bath, and it's fine – perhaps a bit husky, but it'll do.

I get dressed in my usual burgundy rubbish school uniform, but I pack my black outfit and my beautiful leather jacket, carefully wrapped up in a soft towel in a laundry bag. Mum's back early from her cleaning and catches me before I leave for school.

‘Hey, babe, how are you doing?' she says, dashing in. ‘All set for your big day?'

Then she catches sight of my bulging bag. ‘What's that?'

‘Well, I can't sing in my uniform, Mum.'

‘Yeah, I know, but . . .' She opens the bag. ‘Oh, Destiny, not your
jacket
! You can't take that to school.'

‘I'll look after it, Mum. Believe me, I'm not going to let it out of my sight. But I
need
that jacket. I have to sing in it.'

‘But if one of them kids gets their mucky little fingers on it—'

‘Just let them try! I'm wearing it this afternoon – and you'll see me in it this evening.'

‘I can't wait, babes! I'm so proud of you. Singing in front of a packed audience, just like your dad! I'm so thrilled you've got Danny's talent.'

‘I don't want to take after Dad, I want to take after
you
,' I say, giving her a hug.

She feels so thin – and she's
burning
.

‘Mum, you're so hot! You haven't got a temperature, have you?'

‘What? No, of course not. I'm just a bit worked up, that's all,' says Mum.

I look at her worriedly. She's got dark circles under her eyes. I don't think she's sleeping
properly. Her eyes look so big, as if they're about to pop right out of her head. She looks permanently anxious now. I wish I could stop her being so worried all the time.

‘If I really do take after Danny then I'm going to be a big rock star, right – and do you know what I'm going to do?' I say, cuddling her.

‘What's that, babe? Are you going to buy a lovely big mansion like Danny's?'

‘Yep, and guess who's going to live in it with me?'

‘Who's that, darling?'

‘
You
, silly! You'll live like a queen. You'll have a whole suite of rooms, and one of those four-poster beds you like,
much
better than that one Steve got you, with wonderful velvet curtains and real silk sheets, and you can sleep in every morning because you won't
ever
have to do any work again – no cleaning, no sad old folk, no drunks down the pub – you can just lie back like a lady of leisure.'

‘Oh, darling, that would be lovely,' says Mum. ‘But just now I've got my old dears to change and feed and water – and you've got school. Good luck this afternoon, Destiny. You sock it to them! And for pity's sake, look after that jacket!'

This is harder than I'd thought. I lumber the laundry bag all the way to school – going the long way round, of course – and because I'm not as
nippy as usual I arrive a minute or two after the bell has gone. It doesn't really
matter
. The teachers are mostly glad you've turned up at all – but as luck would have it, Mr Juniper is hovering at the door, officiously recording in the late book.

Mr Juniper is a tall weedy guy fresh out of training college. Maybe it was a training college for Serious Young Offenders, because he's sooo strict. He yells at everyone, getting so worked up that froth forms on his lips and you have to stand back or you'll get sprayed. He's always dishing out detentions, trying to make you stay after school. You just know he would so love it if teachers were allowed to whack us with a cane like they did in the old days.

‘You! What's your name?' he shouts, starting to froth already.

‘Destiny.'

‘Destiny?' He pulls a ridiculous face. ‘You are not telling me that's your
name
?'

‘Yes. Is that a problem?' I say. How dare he patronize me just because I've got an unusual name.

‘Don't you use that tone with me! Destiny what?'

‘Destiny Williams.'

‘Well, Destiny Williams, you're now down in my late book. You will lose a form point.'

I don't give a stuff about form points but this infuriates me even so.

‘I'm only a
minute
late, Mr Juniper!'

He consults his watch. ‘Five minutes and thirty seconds,' he says.

‘Well, half of that time I've been here at school talking to you.'

‘Stop answering me back in that impertinent way! You'll get a detention if you're not careful. Now on your way to your classroom, quick sharp.'

I walk off briskly, dragging my burden.

‘What are you doing with that ridiculous bag?' he shouts after me. ‘That's not a proper school bag.'

‘It's my clothes for the concert this afternoon.'

‘Well, you can't possibly drag them around with you all day. Unpack them and hang them up in the cloakroom.'

I stare at him. ‘Are you
mad
?' I say it without thinking.

He holds me up for
another
five minutes, ticking me off for insolence and saying I've got to do a half-hour's detention in his classroom after school this afternoon – though he
knows
I've got to whizz home after the school performance to get my tea before coming back for the evening one. Still, it's a waste of breath arguing with him. I just stand there, letting him witter on, until some other poor kid slopes
in even later and he starts picking on him instead.

I make out I'm off to put my bag on my peg in the cloakroom – but as soon as Mr Juniper's back is turned I charge off with it down the corridor. As if I'm leaving my leather jacket there! Someone would nick it in five seconds. And I'm not going to bother to go to his poxy classroom after school either. He'll probably forget all about his detention – and too bad if he doesn't.

I manage to get myself and my bag into the classroom without Mr Roberts taking too much notice – he's in full flow, giving everyone performance tips for this afternoon. But then he starts walking up and down between the aisles – and trips right over my bag. He peers down at it.

‘Are you taking in laundry, Destiny?'

‘Oh, ha ha. It's my
costume
, Mr Roberts,' I say.

‘Well, put it in the PE store cupboard. That's where everyone else is keeping their kit,' says Mr Roberts.

‘I can't do that, Mr Roberts,' I say.

‘Can't – or won't?' says Mr Roberts.

‘Both,' I say.

Mr Roberts stands over me, folding his arms. The whole classroom goes eerily quiet. Mr Roberts is obviously pretty tense about the talent contest – and now, here I am, winding him up.

He clears his throat theatrically. ‘Here we both are in the classroom, Destiny. I have a simple question for you. Am I your fellow pupil? In which case you can choose to do what I say, according to your general obliging nature or common sense.
Am
I a pupil in this classroom, Destiny?'

‘No, Mr Roberts.'

‘What am I, then?'

Various answers spring to mind, but I'm not entirely daft.

‘You're my teacher, Mr Roberts.'

‘That's right! So therefore
I
tell you what to do – and you obey. Is that correct?'

I hesitate. ‘Generally, sir.'

‘No, no, Destiny. You obey
at all times
. So take your cumbersome laundry bag to the PE store cupboard and
leave it there
.'

I don't move.

‘Pronto!'

I don't know what to do. Mr Roberts isn't an officious twit like Mr Juniper. You can usually talk to him and explain stuff.

‘Mr Roberts, I
can't
. It's too precious.'

‘So what exactly
is
this costume, Destiny? Cloth of gold?'

‘It's – it's my jeans and stuff,' I say, not wanting to say outright.

Some of the kids start sniggering.

‘Oh, precious jeans,' says Mr Roberts. ‘Hand sewn with Swarovski crystals, perhaps?'

Now everyone's laughing at me.

‘Let's have a look at these little sparklers,' says Mr Roberts, and he dives into my bag before I can stop him.

He brings out the old towel. The classroom collapses. Mr Roberts shakes the towel as if he's a bullfighter, really hamming it up – and the leather jacket falls out. He picks it up in astonishment.
Everyone's
astonished.

‘Wow! Look at Destiny's jacket!'

‘That leather – it looks as soft as butter.'

‘Look at all those zippy bits.'

‘Where did she
get
it?'

‘It must be worth
hundreds
.'

‘I bet her mum nicked it!'

‘My mum didn't nick it, so you shut your face, Angel,' I yell. ‘It was given to me as a
present
, see.'

‘Yeah, pull the other one!'

‘You're talking rubbish, Destiny. A present!'

‘It
was
a present. You shut up!' I shout.

‘Now calm down, Destiny,' says Mr Roberts. He's folding my jacket up again, trying to put it back inside my towel, but doing it all wrong so that the sleeves are wrinkling up.

‘Let me do it,' I say. ‘It's my present. A friend gave it to me.'

‘Don't be so daft, Destiny,' says Angel. ‘You haven't
got
any friends.'

‘You don't know anything about me! I have so got a very
special
friend, only I'm not going to tell you anything about her because it's none of your business, see.'

‘Hey, hey, let's stop all the argy-bargy. We're all losing the plot here,' says Mr Roberts. ‘Settle down, all of you.'

He leans over me. ‘It's a beautiful jacket, Destiny,' he says very softly. ‘I can see why you're so worried about it. A
sensible
girl would never take such a clearly expensive jacket into school with her – but I can see why you long to wear it for the talent contest. A
sensible
teacher would send you all the way home with it – and a
really strict
teacher wouldn't let you take part in the contest for refusing to do as you're told. But I'm not always sensible and I don't seem to have it in me to be strict.
However
, I can't keep falling over that bag, and now the others have seen the jacket they'll be all over you to try it on, and before you know where you are it will be ripped to shreds. So how about running it along to the school secretary's office? Mrs Hazel keeps her room locked whenever she's
out of it. I'm sure she'll look after it for you until after lunch. Is that a deal?' He holds out his hand and I shake it very gratefully.

‘You're a very, very
kind
teacher, Mr Roberts,' I say.

I take the jacket in its bag to Mrs Hazel and tell her Mr Roberts said I had to leave it with her. She keeps all the money and the medication locked up. Her office is like Fort Knox.

She doesn't look too happy about it. ‘Tell Mr Roberts my room isn't a left-luggage office, Destiny. I don't want it cluttered up with any more bags, thank you very much.'

But I know my jacket is safe now.

I still can't manage to concentrate on school work, and eating lunch is an ordeal. I manage five baked beans and one chip and know I'll throw up if I have any more. Most of the boys still shovel stuff down, but outside in the playground, where both boy dance groups are rehearsing their somersaults and backflips, Rocky throws up all down himself like a disgusting fountain. Mr Roberts sends him off to be hosed down and shakes his head at all of us.

‘Why don't you all
relax
, guys. No more rehearsing. Just chill out until the bell goes – and then quietly collect your stuff from Mrs Avery, get
changed, and come backstage in the hall. There's no need to get so worked up. You're all going to do splendidly.'

They go off in little groups. I wander off by myself, walking round and round the playground. I pretend Sunset is walking round with me. We're linked arm in arm, and she's telling me I'm going to sing
Destiny
perfectly. ‘Better than Dad!' she says, and we both laugh.

Then the bell rings and – oh God – it's
time
! I whizz off to Mrs Hazel and collect my stuff, and then I change in the girls' toilets. The mirror by the wash basins is too high up to see all of me, but if I leap up I can see as far down as my waist. The jacket looks wonderful. I feel like I've got Sunset's arms round me, giving me a hug.

I rush off to the hall, and then force myself to stop and breathe deeply before joining the others. I mustn't show I'm nervous. I need to look
cool
!

It's pandemonium behind the stage, kids running around everywhere, boys doing backflips, girls step-shuffle-tapping, Fareed dropping all his cards, Mrs Avery frantically sewing up someone's skirt, Mr Roberts red in the face, great damp patches under his arms.

Lots of the kids nudge each other when they see me.

‘Look at Destiny!'

‘
Love
the jacket!'

‘Wow, doesn't she look different?'

Angel tugs my jacket. ‘What you wearing them silly mittens for? And why all black? You look like you're going to a funeral.'

‘It'll be yours if you don't take your clammy hands off my jacket,' I say, twitching away from her.