Well then, you’ll have to take them with you.”
I stare hard at my book, but I stumble over the words as if I’m back in reception class.
“It’s not fair,” says Leanne. “Why do I always have to drag them around?”
“Because I can’t get anything done with the pair of them under my feet all day,” says Mummy.
There ought to be a way of measuring how big an argument is getting. Like Fahrenheit and Centigrade for temperature. Or the Richter scale for earthquakes.
Until someone invents something similar for quarrelling, I use the imaginary ruler inside my head. Mummy’s response gets a rating of twelve centimetres out of thirty. The marks on the page form themselves into parts of a story again: ‘Never mind; little girls shouldn’t ask questions,’ returned Jo, sharply.
“That’s not my problem,” says Leanne. “I’m not your unpaid childminder. Why did you have kids if you can’t be bothered to look after them?”
Mummy’s face goes blotchy like a bruised knee. The number doubles up to twenty-four. Anything above twenty and I might start laughing, which gets Mummy really mad. You’ll be laughing on the other side of your face by the time I’m finished with you. I frown so hard my eyes are mere slits and I wouldn’t be able to read if the rating slid right down to zero.
“Don’t be so bloody cheeky,” says Mummy. “You’re not too big to put across my knee.”
I wipe the sweat from the palms of my hands onto my jeans. If Leanne carries on like this she’ll give Mummy one of her migraines.
“Okay,” says Leanne, “don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’ll take Angelica with me.”
Angelica sits cross-legged on the floor, a Barbie in each hand, staring at the television. Five centimetres: the solution all lined up for Mummy’s rubberstamp. Leanne can still hang out with the boys: a dimpled five-year-old is good for her image and Angelica loves them fussing. Mummy can have a lie down, knowing I won’t bother her while I’ve got my library book. And I’ll be able to lose myself in the story of the March sisters in faraway and long ago America.
But Mummy hasn’t got it. “You’ll take both of them and that’s final! Shannon,” her voice whips out to me, “get your nose out of that bloody book and go and get ready. And Angelica,” like she’s stroking a pet with her tongue, “fetch your brush and I’ll do your hair. Leanne’s taking you to the park.”
Leanne and I slouch down the street. Angelica skips along ahead. She’s wearing her second-best dress: pink, and horribly girly with a bow at the neck and a lace frill round the skirt.
“Little Women,” says Leanne. “Why can’t you read Harry Potter like normal people?”
Fisting my hands in the pockets of my jeans, I concentrate on avoiding the cracks in the pavement.
Leanne softens as we turn into Bethany’s cul-de-sac: “Wait till you see Benji. He’s the cutest thing.”
I almost step on a crack. “Benji?” This isn’t one of my sister’s boyfriends.
“Bethany’s got a dog. Don’t pretend you don’t remember me telling you.”
Angelica is waiting at the edge of Bethany’s front lawn. Smiling. I look at my big sister’s face, but she hasn’t turned into the wicked witch from Hansel and Gretel. Perhaps she just hasn’t thought it through, like Mummy didn’t think about letting me stay at home.
“But Angelica doesn’t like dogs.” Surely Leanne remembers about Uncle Mike’s Great Dane slobbering all over her face when she was in her buggy.
