Wishbones

But he doesn’t turn round.

Maybe I can get Mitch to talk to Dad. Or Nurse Heidi. He needs facts and statistics, hard evidence. Like the fact that when people as big as Mum don’t get to a healthy weight, they could die.

As I walk past the vicarage, I notice that the suitcase has disappeared from Rev Cootes’s front steps. I go and stand by the school minibus stop; it’s next to the row of graves where the little kids are buried. Rev Cootes fusses more over the flowers on those graves than over the old people ones. In the summer, they’re so full of roses and pansies and dahlias that you can hardly read the inscriptions any more.

Looming over the children’s graves stands the stone statue of an angel with droopy wings and an inscription that reads:

Our Little Angels. You’ll always be with us.

A few of the gravestones have photographs of the children tucked behind glass frames, but mostly, there are just names and dates, especially on the really old ones. Some of the graves date back hundreds of years. Miss Pierce, my History teacher, explained that in the old days kids got more diseases than they do now and that it was harder to save them because medical science wasn’t as advanced.

Although I’ve stood next to those small graves a million times waiting for the school minibus, the tight feeling across my chest never goes away. There’s something wrong about kids dying before they’ve had the chance to do anything with their lives. Plus, looking at the graves makes me think about Mum and how she nearly died, and that makes me even more determined to get her better – and to make sure Dad stops feeding her rubbish.

‘Morning, Feather!’

I look up. It’s Mrs Zas standing on the doorstep of her fancy-dress shop, waving at me.

I wave back.

‘Morning, Reverend Cootes!’ Mrs Zas says. She rolls her Rs like she’s about to burst into song.

Reverend Cootes bows his head over one of the kids’ graves, pretending he hasn’t heard. I bet he disapproves of Mrs Zas, because she’s the exact opposite of him in her bright colours and noisy high heels and loud voice, but also because of the costumes in her shop. Mum told me that religious people believe witches and ghosts and monsters and werewolves are evil.

The funny thing is that Rev Cootes ignoring Mrs Zas never stops Mrs Zas from being nice to him.

‘I think I might have a job for you, Feather,’ she calls over. ‘Come and see me soon.’

‘Thank you!’ I call back.

A moment later, Jake’s at my side. He puts down his school bag and punches me on the arm. ‘Hey, Feather!’

I give him a massive hug and hold onto him for a bit longer than usual. Jake’s the one constant, happy thing in my life right now.

‘I need you to help me get your mum and my mum back together,’ I whisper, still holding on.

He stands back and holds up his hands.

‘I don’t get involved in girl stuff.’

‘It’s not girl stuff. It’s Mum needing her best friend because getting better’s going to be really hard.’

The school minibus rattles down the road. It’s white and rusty and the N from NEWTON ACADEMY has faded away.

‘You have to find out what they rowed about and then we have to sort it out.’

‘You can’t solve the world’s problems, Feather.’

‘I’m not trying to solve the world’s problems. I’m trying to help my mum. And I need some support from you.’

‘Okay, okay. I’ll see what I can find out.’

Jake looks past me – his eyes are so wide, I wonder whether a UFO has just landed in the middle of St Mary’s Cemetery.

‘Who’s that?’ Jake asks.

I spin round.

There’s a guy stomping through the cemetery. He’s got headphones, which makes him look like he’s lost in some other world, and his hair’s really light and even at this distance he looks so thin you wonder how his body stays pinned to the ground.

Jake and I are the only teenagers in Willingdon: the school bus does a detour especially for us. Whoever this guy is, he’s not from around here. But this is the really weird thing: he looks as though he’s meant to be here; when I look at him I feel like I’m meant to know him.

Just as the bus pulls in, the guy jumps on, gives the driver a note, then goes to sit at the back and takes out an old battered paperback. No one’s ever read a book on the school bus before, not unless it’s cramming before an exam.

Everyone else on the bus fixes their eyes on him, like Jake and I did, but he doesn’t seem to notice – or to care. He just sinks into his seat and stares at his paperback.

I keep wondering whether maybe he came here one summer with his parents, whether maybe they’re one of the rich families from London who bought a cottage on The Green and now leave it empty for most of the year.

The guy looks a couple of years older than Jake and me. He’s so thin that his collarbones stick out. In fact, the whole of him looks hollow, like there’s something missing. I’m almost grateful that Mum’s the weight she is, it would be worse to have her look like this – like a ghost.

‘Weird, hey?’ I whisper. ‘Do you think he’s sick?’

Jake shrugs.

‘He looks interesting though,’ I add.

‘Interesting?’ Jake pokes me in the ribs.

I blush. ‘Not like that, I just mean that there’s something about him – he looks kind of familiar, don’t you think?’

‘I hope you’re not going to feed him that line,’ Jake grins.

‘What line?’

‘Haven’t we met before?’ Jake says in a voice that’s obviously meant to be mine but that sounds totally lame.

‘Just forget it.’

Jake leans over and gives me a loud kiss on the cheek. ‘Just teasing, Feather.’

Sometimes it totally feels like Jake’s my brother.

There’s another thing that’s different between me and Jake: I can’t ever remember him not being in a relationship; I’ve never even been out on a date. Or kissed anyone. Or received a Valentine’s card. On my birthday a year ago I asked Jake whether he would kiss me just so that I could stop worrying about it, but he got all embarrassed and then refused and said, It’s meant to be special. He paused. Plus, I’d be cheating on Amy. And I know he’s right, but it would still make me feel like less of freak to know that I’ve at least kissed one boy before I die.

We have made a pact though: if we’re still living in Willingdon when we’re fifty (and if Jake hasn’t been an idiot and married someone like Amy), we’re going to buy a house and live there together and get old and wrinkly together. It’s kind of a relief to know that when Mum and Dad aren’t around any more, I’ll always have Jake.

Jake looks back at the guy. ‘I know what you mean. He’s cool.’

By which, Jake means that the guy’s way too cool to be seen hanging around with us. Or rather me. Which kind of sucks, because he does look interesting – more interesting than any other guy that’s stepped onto the Newton Academy minibus.