Ashleigh got this way sometimes, a little snappy, a little mean.
She had learned it was best to ignore her until the storm passed.
‘You all need to be good today. I don’t want any naughtiness while I’m gone!’ Remy spoke sternly to her stuffies lined up on her pillow. Instantly she felt bad for raising her voice a little, and sat down, running her fingers over their soft faces. ‘What can we do to help Ashleigh? She seems a bit upset, don’t you think?’ As usual, they didn’t reply.
Ashleigh
Ashleigh pulled her school jumper over her head and took a seat at the square kitchen table, disliking the uncomfortable feeling of herthick, curly locks trapped inside the neck of her polyester sweater. It made her itch. Her mum stood behind her and gently eased her mop from its woolly confines. The touch of her fingertips to the back of Ashleigh’s neck made her shiver and jump, yet more irritation on this day that was already proving tricky.
‘I hate my hair!’
‘No, you don’t.’ Her mum did this, dismissed her views as if she could easily transform them with no more than a gentle steer. ‘Your hair is beautiful, everybody says so. Besides that’s the same as saying you hate Remy’s hair, and you don’t want to upset your sister, do you?’
Ashleigh shook her head. No, she didn’t want to upset her sister. But she also didn’t want to look exactly like her, finding nothing funny in the question,‘Now, which one are you?’that she was asked countless times a day, by their neighbours, her mum’s friends, parents at the school, teachers, even her dad, once or twice, although he did so quietly, as if wary of her mum hearing.
She also didn’t want to discuss it anymore, knowing that this morning it would take more energy than she had spare to explain that it was not how her hair looked that bothered her, but rather the way it felt, like there was too much of it, and she wanted it to be neater, flatter, less in the way.
Remy, she noticed, was already tucking into toast and jam and glugging from a tumbler full of milk. Ashleigh wished it were dinner time, wished it were possible to blink and the day be done, and they’d be back here eating their tea, instead of breakfast. No doubt they would be quizzed about the exam and what exactly they’d written, and asked numerous questions about what St. Jude’s had been like, but it’d be preferable, all of it, as it meant it would be over.
‘Brain food!’ her mum trilled. ‘You have to eat. And talking of eating, I’ve got you a treat of a tea, all your favourites: toad inthe hole, mash, onion gravy, and’ – she paused, letting the tension build – ‘a special pudding.’
‘Yes!’ Remy, who sported a large milk moustache, did a fist pump, and her mum’s face lit up.
The truth was, Ashleigh barely had an appetite, but knew better than to let on, as this would only encourage her mother to give a half-baked monologue on the importance of breakfast on a day like this. Everything, it seemed, was geared towards keeping her brain in tip-top condition so she could identify shapes and match them on a page, find missing words hidden in code, fill in the blanks of numeric sequences, and circle answers to a passage of writing to show she comprehended it.
Easy enough.
She had done tons of practice tests. All four pupils who were to sit the entrance exam had spent hours doing just this. And she had passed every single one, sometimes finishing with so much time to spare she’d been allowed to take out her book and read, getting lost in the world Noel Streatfeild had created, while the other three continued to scribble furiously.
This felt different. There were three scholarships available and kids from all over the county were vying for them.
But it was more than the exam itself, much more, and she wasn’t sure how she could explain it. It was a feeling of pressure, of something heavy on her shoulders and rocks in her stomach, a physical thing that was as new as it was scary. Supposing she didn’t pass, supposing she fainted, supposing she couldn’t remember a thing, or needed the loo, or her pencil broke, or she actually threw up.
‘Ashleigh!’ Her mother clapped, and again she jumped. ‘Where were you? I’ve been asking you for the last minute if you want milk or orange squash?’
‘I don’t mind,’ she whispered, trying to find a voice that was steady, trying to control the desire to vomit, as Remy chomped merrily on her toast, and even hummed. Ashleigh didn’t want to be the one who wavered, the one who let the side down. The weakest.
‘You have to mind!’ Her mum laughed loudly, a noise that was an irritation, an upset. ‘Milk or orange? Which one would you like best, which would youprefer?’
‘Orange.’
‘And while we are on the subject of fruit, can you name me three different varieties of apple?’ her mother asked as she topped up the vibrant cordial with tap water.
‘No.’ Ashleigh blinked and reached for the glass, knowing the woman wouldn’t be satisfied until she had sunk the lot. ‘I can’t.’
‘Oh dear!’ Her mum pulled a face that would have been more appropriate for the very worst kind of news. ‘What about you, Remy? Three varieties of apple?’
‘Nope.’ Her sister kept eye contact, letting her know that she was there, and that she understood. Remy offered a small smile telling Ashleigh that it would all be okay. ‘No clue.’
‘Well, that’s not very good, is it?’ Her mum tutted.
‘Maybe we should have spent more time on apple varieties and not worried about fractions and long multiplication,’ Remy whispered sweetly as she bit her toast.
And for the first time that day, Ashleigh felt a smile forming on her lips. It was her sister’s gift: she was funny.
‘What are you two smiling at?’ their mum asked, hands on hips.
‘Nothing.’
