My alarm failed. I was sure I set it. Certain.
Though late for school, I don't exceed the speed limit. My family's car crash is ingrained beneath my skin.
"Shit!"
I realise I haven't put deodorant on. I hate it when that happens. Already tension is building.
Rushing to avoid an 'L' in the register, I bowl through the classroom door into my hero. His hands steady me and my hands automatically grasp his arms. It's totally Jane Austen.
He's muscular; I feel the hardness through his soft mulberry sweater. He doesn't feel like a teacher. He feels flippin' amazin'. Scrambling to my seat, heatedly searching my rucksack for books, Priti nudges my arm. Her face is aglow and her eyes huge and bright. I smile madly.
"Our new teacher - Mr Jacobs," Priti whispers.
At last. Something good.
***
It takes barely a minute to check her belongings. One large, pink plastic box; on it rose gold adhesive letters spelling 'Phoenix'; the 'h' is peeling off. Inside: schoolbooks, dog eared Famous Five, old soft toy, a Peppa Pig writing set, chipped mug printed with 'Mum', a wooden box decorated with shells; inside, diamond engagement and wedding rings. I place the smiley face keyring between the pages of a book. I'm almost sorry for her.
***
In the school library I'm a solitary figure, at a computer, working on my first homework set by Mr Jacobs. I'm so into it. School is epic when it's empty.
"Phoenix dear, it's time to pack up, we are closing."
Ms Baxter is a genuinely caring person who welcomes all to the library. She even turns a blind eye to my cheese and pickle sandwiches. Tuna was pushing it, even I knew that.
"Night, Ms Baxter, have a lovely evening. Mr Baxter's a lucky man."
"Lucky woman," she replies.
"My bad," I apologise smiling.
It's dark and drizzling as I walk through the school gates into a damp, hazy mist. Above ominous, wispy clouds engulf a full moon. In geographical terms it's werewolf weather. I glance behind me; the school stands like an asylum, dingy and oppressive. The caretaker's keys jingle as he pushes the creaking gates closed behind me. I don't say goodnight; he's a creepy sort of man. Then I think of Eleanor Oliphant and turn my head.
"Have a good evening," I say.
"Same to you, love."
My car is ten minutes away - five if I run through the pathways between the park and the garages. Instead I walk towards Eastcote Road. The streetlights are unlit but the house lights from the large detached properties are proof of life. It's reassuring that help is a door knock away.
I walk quickly. The rainfall is heavy and I've the oddest sensation of being watched. I think of the science behind being scared; stress stimulates the brain to release adrenaline and stress hormones, resulting in goose bumps and raised hair. So, there's no boogie man shadowing me, I'm stressed. Of course, I'm stressed, look at my uncle! Yet a distinct uneasiness remains; the instinct that someone, somewhere is observing my every catastrophe. I think of Bradley. He and Luke were friends once. Maybe that's why Luke was so prickly with Cow on my last night.
SNAP!
I hear but ignore.
A pins and needles sensation creeps beneath my skin.
Speeding up, I wish my car keys were to hand.
Rummaging in my bag...
SNAP!
YOU ARE READING
The Rebirth of Henry Whittle
Teen FictionPhoenix Whittle, orphaned at 11, has been in and out of foster care. She's systematically bullied at school and facing homelessness. Until she's offered a home by an estranged uncle, Henry Whittle. But that was the old Henry. Now a killer and id...
