I hide my snigger as I place my water bottle in the side pocket of my bag.
“It has to be quick, Miss. James is picking us up tonight, and I don’t want to be late.” I pull the bag onto my shoulder and wince, the movement making my ribs hurt.
I try to hide my discomfort, but as I meet the teacher’s eyes, I know she’s seen it.
Shit.
Everyone leaves the classroom, leaving me with her. She comes over to me.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes,” I say, but inside my head screamsno.
“Have you hurt yourself?”
“Pulled a muscle playing football.” The lie comes out so easily. I can’t meet her eyes, so I stare at my shoes, which are filthy, and kick the brown, carpet tiled floor.
“You can talk to the teachers here Owen, and what you say will be kept in confidence.”
“As in, you won’t tell my foster parents?”
“As in, you are in a safe space and can tell us anything that is worrying you. That goes for your sister, too.”
“She’s not my sister,” I say quickly.
“Okay, well, Lucy can also talk to us if she wants, too.”
“Okay. Thank you,” I respond, because what else can I say? I can’t tell them anything. They will take us away and split us up.
I won’t be able to look after her.
No.
It’s not worth the risk. I made a promise.
And I hate that James has already made me break it. My hand balls in a tight fist, my fingers digging into the palm of my hand. I concentrate on that pain, not the wild beat of my heart, as panic and fear threatens me.
“I need to go, Miss. Lucy will wonder where I am.”
“Of course. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Have a good evening.” I smile and leave the classroom quickly, careful to not irritate my rib.
I glance over my shoulder as I reach the door. Miss Martins watches me with those clever eyes. She’s kind, Miss Martins.
She also doesn’t believe me when I say everything’s fine.
I swear, teachers have a sixth sense. Like when Billy shot a spitball at the back of Rebecca’s head. She was writing on the whiteboard at the time, and turned around and looked straight at Billy. I’ve never seen anyone go so red; I thought his whole head was going to explode right off.
So, I know, if she knew it was Billy who did a spit ball, she knows I’m lying.
I have to do better.
“Did the teacher talk to you?” I ask Lucy quietly as we walk to the school’s front gate.
I’m in Year 6 now, so I can walk home on my own. I don’t, but I do pick up Lucy and we walk to the front gates where Maria or James wait for us.
“No,” she says quietly. “Are your ribs okay?”
