Sat at the table was a girl with short, straight, black-dyed hair framing a pale broad face, the obligatory ring in one nostril and thick black eye make-up. She sat elbows on table her head tilted up, a small rounded chin thrust aggressively forward. She looked at me with angry eyes. Her tailored black top, like a kind of padded waistcoat with sleeves, accentuated skinny arms and small shoulders making her head seem big in proportion, like a Manga drawing. God another wannabe Goth, I thought. All depression and doom. She didn't reply. Mum piped up:
"Katyia's staying for a few days until things get sorted out at home. I hope you like spaghetti, Katyia? You look like you need building up."
"What, like that fat cow of a social worker? No thanks," she spat. The words didn't quite fit her accent.
Not clever, posh girl. I sniggered to myself, looking at the floor. Katyia saw me.
"What you..." she began, but Mum cut in.
"A few ground rules Katyia, will be made clear to you. We will talk about your stay here tomorrow. But first let me make it plain that you don't talk like that here. You behave. You can stay here or go back to Rochester House. Jean is a good person, she is doing her best by you."
"Whatever. Where's my room?"
"What's it to be? Here or Rochester House?" said Mum. Katyia looked momentarily panicked.
"Here."
"Good." Mum set down huge plates of spaghetti Bolognese in front of us.
"But I'm a vegetarian," said Katyia, a little too smugly.
"That's good, too," said Mum, "Because that's a vegetarian dish, it's made with Quorn mince."
"What? Ugh," I said poking at my plate. It was Katyia's turn to snigger. Very clever, Mum.
"Eat what you can," continued Mum, "and I'll show you your room and leave you to settle in." The promise of being left alone did it. Katyia ate. A little. Mum made a point of chatting to me (Dad was away working, he was a shopfitter and often stayed overnight, sleeping in the shop he was working on until it was finished) with just the occasional word thrown at Katyia, leaving her in peace, not pressuring her, but not alienating her either. Mum was good at fostering difficult kids. I could do without it.
"Can I go to my room now?" asked Katyia in a small voice, and even managed a fleeting smile. About as genuine as your hair colour, Katyia. Normally Mum would have got a newbie to help clear up, but this time she took her up to her room as soon as she had finished her tea.
"Do the pans, love," Mum said when she came down.
"Well if your latest isn't I'm not." I stomped off up to my loft. Well, it's not fair is it? My plan was definitely to stay out of the way until Katyia was gone to wherever she was headed.
Back in my room I pulled out the new batch of slides. No. Better get on with my course work, that old butterflies-in-the belly feeling rising up inside me at the realization of how much I still had to do. I stuck in the ear buds and tried to get on with it.
There was a heavy thump, a wallop and a couple of bumps followed by muted sobbing. It took a couple of seconds for me to patch back into the real world. The sounds had come from Katyia's room, which was below me. Mum and Dad's room was another floor below and over the landing, on the other side of the house. Mum probably wouldn't have heard anything. I turned on to my side and shut my eyes. The sobbing continued. It was starting to make me feel miserable. Another bump reverberated up through the floor.
YOU ARE READING
Phoenix and the Bag Man
Teen Fiction"The Bag Man did it," said Phoenix gently, "and we want revenge." I was staring into a face that I loved, tears streaming down my face, and in Katyia's eyes there was sorrow and pain too, she was feeling for me, matching my grief every step of the w...
