A MILLION ANGELS

I keep my eyes fixed on the floor, on the little blob of bubblegum that’s greyed out with mud. I will my face to cool down.

“You’re such a loveable freak, Jemima,” she grins.

Sameena sends me a little smile. Hayley and Beth crowd round, squawking like bright parrots. Pecking for crumbs. They all want to be close to her. They all want to be her. Tory salutes me again and leads the fluttering birds towards the back of the bus. Jess bobs up and slides closer to Tory.

“I’m thinking of having a sleepover,” she says. “Would you all like to come?”

When you’re an army brat like Jess and me you have one of two choices. You choose to fit in or you choose to fit out. Jess took the fitting-in route. I took the fitting out. She likes her life to keep changing. I like mine to stay the same. She likes sucking up to people to get friends. I don’t. She gives them things like sweets and treats and sleepovers and does all sorts of stuff she doesn’t really want to do, and I won’t. Some days I spy on her and sometimes I see her cry. She pretends that she’s OK with her life and her dad being away and everything, but I know she’s not, not really. I can tell she’s hurting behind her big brave smile, just like the rest of us. The problem with Jess is she tries too hard to be liked.

I made my choice years ago when I’d already lived in five different houses, in three different countries and been to four different schools. At my first school I did used to try. I was really young then. I’d stand in the playground and hover on the fringes of the little gangs of girls. Smiling. Hoping. Wondering how to knit myself in. But when I got to my third school and discovered the truth, I gave up. I discovered trying was a pointless waste of time because the army can treat my family like carrots. They can uproot us any time they like and ship us off to the other side of the world. I discovered that fighting wars is more important to the army than caring about girls like me making friends.

I’d wish I could stand on a chair with a megaphone and say to my family, LOOK AT MY LIFE! IT’S NO WONDER I’M FEELING UNHINGED!

What makes matters worse is that I should be at boarding school because some bossy body said that boarding school is what happens when you’re the daughter of a Lieutenant Colonel. It’s supposed to be more settling for army kids. But how can you ever get settled and learn stuff like equations and be interested in Shakespeare or William Blake when your dad is on the other side of the planet with bombs going off around his head? How can you get settled when you’re worrying your dad might be lying hurt somewhere? Or that he might even be dead?

I did try boarding once, but I ran away three times and said I would never stop running. And I meant it. When my dad looked into my eyes, he knew I was telling the truth. He said I could stay home until it’s time for GCSEs. Then I’ll have to board. No choice.

I would like to stand on a chair with a megaphone and say, WE’LL SEE ABOUT THAT! But I never want to upset my dad so I swallow down my words.

If my dad didn’t have a job that moves us around the world every five minutes and leads him to the edge of death every day, things might be a bit better. I might be able to screw myself back on my hinge.

I hate school lunchtime more than I hate the bus. The toilets are torture chambers full of bitchy girls like Tory Halligan and the cooks and supervisors are worse. They’re the school’s sergeant majors. You can see their tonsils dangling when they shout out their commands, and little bubbles of spit that gather in the corners of their mouths when they speak.

“Jemima Taylor-Jones!” shouts Mrs Currie, the head cook. “Uniform!”

I look at her, then down at my boots and smile.

“My dog ate my shoes, miss,” I lie. “It was these or my trainers. Mummy thought black was best.”

She flaps her bingo wings.

“I was referring to the beret, Jemima,” she spits. “This isn’t French week, you know! Take it off now, please, before I’m forced to send you to Mrs Bostock’s office. And she will confiscate it! Rules are put in place to be adhered to.”

“Rules are made to be broken,” sniggers Jess, sliding on to the seat next to me. “Have you heard?” she says.

“What?”

“The news?” She pulls out her phone and opens a text from her mum. “There’s been another bomb,” she says. “Really bad! Soldiers have been killed. My mum’s at home, just waiting for more news. You never know… but then the lines are probably down – we might not find out who’s dead for days. It feels weird, knowing it might be my dad. The thought kind of bubbles in my tummy.”

She dips a chip in ketchup.