My Name Was Julia

She felt like a Ganeitilt - a non-flyer.

What it is, is humiliating, Fenella said under her breath when Mom left the room to collect more of my sister’s freshly laundered clothes.

She stood at the window, staring out. I doubt she was admiring the view. Our garden hadn’t changed much over the years and certainly not in the last hour. "Truly humiliating."

I sat on the floor with my back against the wall, legs crossed, envying her. My sister plonked down on her bed and waited. What if I can’t do it, Mom? Fenella asked her as she walked back into the room, a pile of clothing and toiletries in her hands. What if I blow someone up or destroy her house?

A pair of rolled up stockings fell on the floor, bouncing in my direction. I held them, waiting for my mom to catch my eye before handing them back. I didn’t want to draw too much attention, worried I’d be sent on an errand and I wanted to be a part of this - the closest I would ever get to packing up and moving.

What are you talking about, sweetie? She spoke to Fenella as she smiled at me in thanks, distracted by the packing.

She placed the toiletries neatly in the gaps, between all the clothing she had already washed, ironed, and folded into the old brown suitcase.

What if I can’t do the spells or make the potions? Fenella looked down at her bitten thumbnail. "What if I’m not magical enough?" She nibbled again, pulled her thumb from her mouth and wiped it on her leggings. I looked down at my own hands clenched together, resting on my ankles.

Oh, honey. Mom moved the suitcase up a bit to make space and sat down next to my sister. Of course you are, and you’ll be able to do it all with training. She put her arm around Fenella – Nella, or simply Nell to us - and drew her close, resting her chin on Nell’s head.

You’re my eldest daughter and you were born with the ability. That’s how magic is passed down in our family. My Aunt Salina was born a witch. She was the eldest daughter, and you know my older sister, Evanore, became a witch. This is how it’s always been since it... well, since forever. There’s nothing to be concerned about, Nell. I think I was more relieved than my big sister, hearing the assurance. She still looked queasy, even as Mom hugged her and kissed her dark hair. Don’t be nervous. You’re a clever child and you’ve always done well. You’ll excel at this too because it’s your destiny.

I could see the anxiety Fenella felt as she glanced up at our mother, their eyes so alike, so dark. Planting another kiss on Fenella’s soft cheek, Mom smiled. I’m proud of you and we’ll miss having you home, but we’ll still see each other often. She smiled at me too, including me even though I’d tried to stay unobtrusive. Griselda will guide you every step of the way. You’re going to become a powerful witch, one of the best. I’m sure of it.

We both loved Griselda, even though Nella found her a little intimidating which I’d always found strange. My sister had once confided in me that she’d been dreading this moment since she’d been old enough to understand her future. Fenella didn’t feel like a witch herself. She felt like a Ganeitilt - a non-flyer like me - someone unable to perform magic.

The word was a leftover of everyday speech in the days when most witches still travelled on the proverbial broom. I hadn’t given her insecurity much thought, presuming apparently incorrectly, she’d gotten over it. I felt a twinge of sympathy, but to me this was the best possible future to have and I couldn’t fully understand her reluctance.

*****

I’d been awake for a while, simply thinking and enjoying the cool breeze coming through the window as I lay under my warm blankets when I heard Fenella moving about in her bedroom next door to my own. I heard the passage floorboards creak, and sat up to open the drawer next to my bed where I’d hidden her birthday present. Crossing my legs, I leaned back against my pillows. I couldn’t wait to see her reaction to the gift I’d bought for her.

Happy Birthday, Nella, I called to her as she pushed open my door, the well-oiled hinges not making a sound. Grinning, Fenella flopped on my bed as I handed her the present.

You’re awake! She leaned over to kiss my cheek before accepting the small box. Thanks, Jules. I’d saved for months to buy her a silver charm bracelet and had been so proud to spend the money I’d made working in Griselda’s garden on the weekends.

The sunlight caught the sparkling pendants and for a brief moment reflected into Fenella’s eyes, making them water. I wasn’t sure only the light was at fault - Fenella had been uncharacteristically weepy for the past few months. Mom said hormones were to blame, but it seemed more like hysteria to me. The first time I’d said those words out loud was the last. Apparently, I was being insensitive and I got an earful.

It’s beautiful. Fenella took the bracelet out of the box and held it gently in her hand, avoiding eye contact. She admired the charms - a tiny broom, perfect in its detail and the miniature cauldron, my personal favourite.

You can add more charms when you find ones you like. I found the bracelet at the market a few weeks ago, I babbled, unable to contain my pride and trying to fill the silence. At the time, I’d thought I’d found the perfect gift for a fledgling witch, but was left wondering if my choice had been a good one. She was so quiet.

Without a word Fenella hugged me tight and held out her wrist for me to fasten the delicate clasp. The tension in my shoulders relaxed. She did like it.

Our parents were already up and preparing the celebratory breakfast. I hadn’t heard them moving about downstairs, although they were always up at dawn, except on Sundays. On Sunday mornings they had a strict ‘closed door’ policy. Unless one of us had lost a finger or was bleeding from an eyeball, we were not allowed to disturb. I’d once mentioned to Fenella that it seemed only right they have one morning to catch up on sleep and she’d rolled her eyes at me as if I were some kind of idiot.

Happy sixteen birthday, they sang as I followed my sister into the kitchen.

Dad grabbed Nella in a bear hug and spun her around the kitchen, her small feet flying out and hitting a vase of flowers off the counter.

Neither of us had inherited his fair skin and the blond hair so typical of the population from the far north. Our mom’s family had originated from the islands far to the south, well past the equator, and her skin was the colour of bitter chocolate. My sister and I were, as my father often remarked, an equal blend of both our parents, although to different degrees.

Fenella’s eyes were dark brown, almost black unless the light caught them at an angle. She’d also inherited Mom’s high cheekbones and full lips. At sixteen, she was starting to mature into a young woman as regal looking as our mother and if you didn’t know her, you could mistake her for being haughty. She was just shy and took longer than I did to feel comfortable with people she didn’t know.

I’d inherited Dad’s freckles, although mine were slightly more prominent because of all the time I spent in the sun. Mocha is the best way to describe my skin, the same as Nella’s, but it also depends on the season. At thirteen (nearly fourteen) I was still flat-chested and admittedly on the gangly side. I was nearly as tall as Fenella though, and if I’d inherited my dad’s height as well as his green eyes and freckles, I’d soon be taller than her.

I bent down to pick up the vase and flowers they’d knocked over, putting them back on the counter and wiped up the water on the floor. Mom held Fenella’s shoulders for a few seconds to steady her.

Sixteen years old today, she sighed. It seems like yesterday...

Mom, my sister groaned, cutting her off with a laugh, you do this every year!

Open your presents. Mom reluctantly forewent her musings and gave Fenella’s long braid a gentle tug. I threw the damp towel in the general direction of the sink, not wanting to miss out on seeing her open the gifts.

Fenella’s first present was a large bark-bound notebook and a fountain pen. Griselda suggested you’d need your own book for writing down spells and potions, Mom said, flipping open the front cover. Potions in the front the right way up and spells written upside down at the back. She turned the bulky book over to show her. Griselda will teach you how to make magical ink. My stomach clenched with excitement. It always did when I thought of the fun my sister would have learning magic.

Fenella didn’t say a word as she ran her hand over the rough bark cover. I admired the beautiful book, handmade and bound with her name on the brown, leather spine. This was a book she’d use throughout her life - her Book of Shadows, and her greatest treasure. She turned to our parents and thanked each of them with a tight hug and a kiss.

The book and pen are the practical gifts. Dad handed Fenella a pillow sized package he produced from behind his back. This one is purely for fun. Her face lit up, knowing immediately what he’d given her – the satchel she’d been admiring for weeks. Ripping the paper off, Nella placed the long strap over her head to lie diagonally across her body. She adjusted the buckle until the woven bag lay perfectly against her hip.

When she opened the flap I saw the inside pockets were ideal for holding and organising all her paraphernalia. Nice enough, but had it been me, I’d have been focused on the book, blank pages and all. It’s perfect, she said, looping an arm over each parent’s shoulder and hugging them again. She slid her new book and pen in the satchel, hanging the strap over the back of her chair.

Time for breakfast! Dad said, placing a beautifully iced carrot cake in the centre of the table. Julia, grab some forks, love. And some plates, please. Lucy, come and sit, I’ll see to the tea, he offered, pulling out a chair for my mom. I was glad to see Fenella looking happier. Her smile came easily as we celebrated, as if she was finally letting go of her concerns.

Fifteen was the age most young witches left their family homes to live with their mentors and while my sister had asked for a year’s extension, Griselda was due to collect her after breakfast. Five years of training ahead of her. Only five short years to learn the magic needed to be a licensed witch, though I think she saw it as five long years to potentially mess it up.

Mom, the sentimental one in the family, was lost in thought, probably thinking back to the fond memory of Nell’s naming day celebration. Apart from being born into the position of a witch, Fenella was also born on Samhain – a day of great significance in the Wiccan calendar.

We’d heard many times how witches, mages and wizards had travelled from far and wide to celebrate and bestow blessings upon my newborn sister. Griselda was there of course, even more proud than my parents, if possible. The little bundle of magical joy had been born in her village and the old predictions held hints that Griselda’s next apprentice would grow into a powerful force. My own birth, two years later, on a magically insignificant day in July, was thankfully ignored by the witching community. Mom always made sure I knew I was as much of a blessing, and one they enjoyed quietly.

I missed my sister for the first few days after she left and looked forward to seeing her when I was due to work in Griselda’s garden again that Sunday morning. The house seemed far too big and much too empty without her. Fenella wasn’t loud, but she was company when our parents were at work – not far away as their showroom and workshop, where they manufactured all the clothes, was right next door to our house, accessible through an inter-leading door.

As I brushed my teeth, I wrinkled my nose at my reflection admitting my mistake when I’d first thought I’d enjoy having the bathroom to myself. At least we’d get to spend time together on the weekends and Fenella would come home now and again to see us when she had time off. I rinsed my mouth, and felt even more miserable when I reached for my towel hanging all alone on the rail.

CHAPTER TWO

It’s the same reason witches rhyme their incantations.

Approaching Griselda’s home by a shortcut through the forest, I saw Fenella collecting thyme in the garden. The old witch had created borders and walkways to separate the varieties of plants and labelled them all on large, bespelled signs which didn’t run in the rain. It was just one of her more obvious magical innovations.

From the outside her cottage looked like an average trapper’s house - four stone walls, tiny cottage-pane windows and a crumbling chimney which needed a mason to replace the fallen stones. An extended slate roof blocked the harsh summer sun and rain, or snow in winter. All pretty ordinary. I wasn’t sure whether Griselda had spelled the outside of her cottage to look truly humble or whether she’d enlarged and transformed the inside area with magic to make it spacious and airy... spacial manipulation as it were.

The interior was vastly different to what anyone would expect - majestic windows and French doors opened up at the back, picture windows overlooked the massive herb and flower garden at the front, and the open plan lounge and kitchen allowed the energy to flow from the front into the forest behind. Griselda hardly ever closed her curtains. She had privacy without pulling them and she’d accepted the cottage when she’d been hired by our village eons ago, because of the seclusion as well as the fact that she was living almost within the surrounding nature itself.

The floors were polished concrete, inlaid with mosaic and covered here and there with large woven rugs. Her well-appointed kitchen on the right hosted two battered wooden tables - one used for eating and the other for magical work, with enough counter space along the walls to delight any gastronome. Wooden seating and floor-cushions in the lounge on the left were colourful, comfortable and mismatched. A stone hearth, which took up most of the wall, was used for much of the year. The home was deep in the forest and could be cold, even in summer. Griselda kept a good supply of logs at hand, rather than keeping the cold out by pulling the drapes.

It used to be my job to restock the firewood inside, which was fine, until the time I’d picked up a log and uncovered a spider’s nest. I screamed like a girl, dropped the wood, smacked at my arms, flicked my hair, (convinced the disgusting creatures were crawling all over me) and kept screeching. I loathe and detest spiders and avoided the woodpile ever after. No, I’m not proud.

If I had to choose what I liked best about Griselda’s home, I’d say the shelves on either side of the fireplace. They were crammed with books, spines facing out, in alphabetical order and organised by subject. I could never keep my own bookshelf as orderly, and even though Griselda read her books, she was far more meticulous about returning them to their correct position. Where there weren’t books, she’d arranged shells, feather, stones and beads - odds and ends from all over the world that she’d collected throughout her long life - an eclectic assortment that kept me entertained for as long as I could get away with it.

On the right, at the back of the kitchen, a staircase led up to the loft where my sister, the magical student, now slept. Griselda’s own bedroom and bathroom were directly beneath it and although I’d never been into Griselda’s private suite when she lived there, I presumed she’d decorated it with the same eclectic style as the rest of the house.

You look so witchified, I said, impressed with Fenella outfit as she stood to greet me. I pulled her flowing skirt out to one side to get a better look at the fabric. It was thin, but voluminous enough to still be bulky. And look at your shawl!

Griselda says it’s more appropriate to wear a skirt and that I need to get used to looking the part. Witches don’t wear trousers apparently, Fenella smirked, adjusting the shawl across her shoulders and looking less than thrilled at the idea of wearing a skirt for the rest of her life. I’m wearing the uniform of a witch, but I still don’t feel like one.

Give it time. You’ve only just started here.

The long fabric managed to wrap itself around her ankles as she took a step and she ended up tripping a lot. Resorting to kicking her feet out as she went, I had to laugh at her unintentional impression of a marching band member. I relieved her of the wicker basket full of herbs, letting her use both hands to lift her skirt and we walked side by side until we reached the house.

Morning, Adam, I greeted my best friend’s brother who also worked in Griselda’s garden on the weekends. (He’d been given the firewood chore after my meltdown.) Ruffling his hair, I managed a quick sidestep as he swiped for my ankle. We’d always been good friends, although I spent more time with his sister, who was my age. Is Claire here yet? I asked, placing the basket at the feet of the rickety bench on the patio.

Not yet. She was still showering when I left. He continued digging over the patch of soil. She should be here soon.

After popping my head into the cottage to greet Griselda with a cheerful ‘I’m here’ wave, I returned to the garden, bobbing my head up to butt the wind chimes as I went, something I’d done ever since I was tall enough to reach them. I grabbed the same garden fork I used every weekend and got stuck into weeding a patch of seedlings choosing to work close to Adam so that we could talk.

Fenella started sorting the herbs into smaller bunches as Griselda had taught her. When the weather was warm, the old witch hung them under the wide eaves to dry in the breeze and only in the dead of winter did she hang them in the kitchen. My sister had a pretty voice and sang to herself, making up the words as she worked. I hoped Griselda wouldn’t ask her to identify the already dried herbs dangling neatly in rows. Nella had enough trouble identifying plants when they were fresh, and to her, dried herbs all looked the same – brown and crumbly (her words), and their scent made her sneeze.

Looking up at the fresh bunches already hung when she came out the house, Griselda sighed. You have to separate the herbs, Child. If you mix them up, the stronger smelling plants will contaminate the more delicate ones and they’ll be of little use to us.

The old witch washed her hands in a bowl of water and started rearranging the bundles. Herbs are grouped according to species, we group flowers according to type and leaves in genus, she said, pointing to each grouping under the eaves. Bulbs go on the shelves. All the spots are labelled clearly to help you. I kept my head down feeling bad for my sister, although I understood Griselda’s reasoning.

I’m sorry, Griselda, Fenella said and I could see she was frustrated by her inability to tell them apart. I can’t remember which are which yet. I’ll get it right.

Perhaps if you draw them, it will help you to remember, I suggested, hoping she wouldn’t think I was interfering. I’d been working there a lot longer and knew the herbs well enough. Fenella had previously helped out at my parents’ shop on the weekends, preferring fabric to fronds. I use this little book. Pulling an A6 spiral bound notebook from my pocket, I handed it to Fenella.

When did you start doing this? Adam asked, dusting off his hands and peering over my shoulder.

A year or so ago, a few weeks after starting here. I was battling to identify them too. The sketches help the names stick in my head. It had taken me a long time to draw and label the plants and it was the closest I’d ever get to having a Book of Shadows. I accepted the book back from my sister and put it into my pocket deep enough to protect it from dirt. Adding to it regularly, whenever I learnt about a new plant, I only had a few blank pages left.

I’ll help you as well, Adam offered, wiping some mud off his trousers. It’s easy to remember the Latin names if you make up rhymes and keep practising them. It’s the same reason witches rhyme their incantations.

Looking happier, Fenella continued with her chores. She’d seemed grateful for our offers to help and was determined to become proficient in all aspect of being a witch. Fenella tried her best at everything; I only tried hard if I enjoyed something.

Although she was trying not to be obvious about it, Griselda watched me as she rearranged the last of the herbs. I could feel her eyes on me. How old are you now, Julia? she asked, removing the unused hooks from the eaves.

Turning fourteen in July. I looked up from where I was working and smiled at the old witch. Strange question, I thought, she’d known me all my life and put it down to the fact that she wasn’t a spring chicken any more.

Are you looking forward to learning more about the world of fashion and design? Griselda asked, glancing over at me with an odd look I couldn’t interpret as she rewrapped the ball of string they’d used to tie the herbs.

Squinting a little, I shaded my eyes from the sun. Uh, sure. I heard the distinct lack of excitement in my own voice and hoped it wasn’t as obvious to the others. I had no interest whatsoever in fashion or textiles.

That’s wonderful, Child, she said, but I could tell from her tone that she was distracted and not listening to my answer.

I ‘sposse, I agreed, more for my own sake than for hers, and yanked out a weed to toss onto the mound I’d started next to me. Plunging the fork into the soil I wiped my forehead on the back of my arm, streaking both with mud. My own future held as much excitement for me as Fenella’s had held for her. She seemed to be adjusting to her new life and was making an effort, so I was hoping my own reluctance to throw myself into a life of being a tailor was just a phase.

Claire, panting and crashing through the forest, stopped me from delving any further into the thoughts I preferred to ignore. The sight of her cheered me up and I couldn’t help smiling. Forever the prankster, she ruffled Adam’s black hair and kneed her brother’s shoulder, knocking him as she danced past. She had a loud laugh and didn’t hold back when he couldn’t maintain the balance on the balls of his feet, sprawling into the beds.

Hey! he said, throwing a couple of wilted weeds at her. Do you and Julia pre-plan these hair attacks?

No, but we obviously both agree you need to trim those luscious locks, I said with a chuckle, despite the fact that I actually thought the longer, messy hair suited him. Grabbing another handful of weeds he threw it at me with a smirk, but I’d seen the payback coming and dodged the muddy clump. Not terribly difficult due to his awkward angle and wide throw.

Claire hadn’t been as fast. Small clods of soil stuck in her freshly washed hair. Running her hands down the length she shook her hair out, trying to dislodge the dirt. Truce? she offered, sticking out her tongue at her brother. It wouldn’t last long between those two.

Speaking of siblings, we didn’t see much more of Fenella that morning. She was kept busy inside while Claire, Adam and I tended the garden, picked the ripe apples and when we were finished, washed the garden tools to stop them from rusting. Griselda had kept Fenella inside, instructing her on how to prepare a batch of a simple blemish cream. I would have loved to watch, but it would’ve made Fenella nervous and there was more than enough work to keep me busy outside.

Feeling my stomach rumble with hunger as I packed away the last gardening tools, I was relieved to see the old witch bring out a tray of tea and roast beef sandwiches. We ate at the patio table in the shade, the smell of herbs mingling with the mouth-watering aroma of Griselda’s rich dipping gravy.

Touching my shoulders, I felt the tenderness of sunburn – entirely my own fault for not wearing long sleeves and a hat as Claire always did. Her fair skin tended to blister, but Adam, who spent most of his spare time in the ocean, didn’t burn as quickly and in summer had skin almost as brown as my own.

Sitting back in her creaky rocking chair as the three of us chatted, Griselda didn’t join in the conversation and although we could often persuade her to tell stories from her own childhood, that Sunday she was unusually quiet. I hoped nothing was wrong. She didn’t seem upset, simply lost in thought and it’s not as if I could ask an adult to tell me what was on her mind.

CHAPTER THREE

It was probably the greatest understatement she’d ever uttered.

The weeks and months trickled by with not many changes apart from the weather. Winter arrived late and in a particularly brutal mood that year, making up for the delay by keeping its talons deep in the earth. It was colder than a witch’s teat.

Fenella worked hard at her studies, there was no faulting her in that regard. She did everything Griselda told her to do and yet my sister still showed no inclination towards feeling the flow of magic. The old witch was concerned. Nell should at the very least have started sprouting warts and yet, her skin was as smooth as a river stone. Her nose hadn’t hooked in the least and her chin remained round. She told me Griselda stared and sighed. Often.

Pack a small bag, Child. We’re going to visit a friend of mine, she told Fenella without preamble one cold evening.

Fenella looked up from Griselda’s Book of Shadows which she’d been using to update her own. When are we leaving? she asked, screwing the lid back onto her fountain pen to place it down gently on the table.

We’ll leave this weekend. Griselda cut up a loaf of chunky bread and stirred the vegetable soup. She was lost in thought and didn’t hear Fenella’s next question. Adding a little pepper to the pot, Griselda stirred again in a clockwise direction. An old habit.

Griselda, she spoke a little louder, is this because I can’t do magic yet? Fenella looked down at the desk and straightened the already tidy items. The problem had been nagging at her constantly and was foremost in her mind. She picked up her pen, unscrewing and tightening the lid again and again.

Griselda looked across the table at Fenella and felt her many years weigh heavily on her shoulders. She could skirt around the issue or she could be honest. Honesty was more painful, but kinder in the long run, of course and Fenella had always shown maturity. She was nobody’s fool. She’d deduced her training was not going according to plan, deserved to be treated with respect, and wanted candour, not false coddling. They needed to figure out the problem and fast. We’re going to see a witch I’ve known for many years, Child. A dear friend. Khanya is a seer, amongst other things, and if anything can be done, she’ll do it. Griselda cleared her throat, aware she’d opened the can of worms in a tactless manner by using the word ‘if’.

Perhaps there is something we can do to open the channels of magic. We won’t jump to conclusions yet. She comes from a land further south than even your own mother’s family. They do things a little... differently, Griselda knew it was probably the greatest understatement she’d ever uttered. Often with great success, she admitted it to herself as much as to her apprentice.

The old witch walked across to her young ward and gently pulled the bitten thumb from Fenella’s mouth. Biting your nails is not going to help.

Fenella sighed and held her hand in her lap, absentmindedly smoothing down the ragged flap of skin. I don’t think my channels will open, Griselda, Fenella said, looking up at the old lady. If Griselda could be honest, Fenella needed to do the same and face the facts. "I have never felt any magical stirrings. I’ve never heard an animal talk to me. I cannot predict the weather and I can’t brew a simple potion. I’ve tried incantation after incantation and nothing happens. There is no energy I can feel."

Griselda placed her hand on Fenella’s shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. We’ll head out to Khanya and if nothing comes of it, at least we’ll have had a lovely week away. Perhaps we both need a bit of a holiday somewhere warmer. She’s a little unusual, and has a kind heart. I’m sure you’ll like her. Now, let’s eat some supper and get to bed. We’ve a lot to do before leaving, Child, and hopefully we’ll leave the depth of winter behind us.

Fenella felt a great deal better having admitted her anxiety aloud to Griselda, and having her come up with a solution. This problem had been worrying her and she knew her lack of magic was going to be a disappointment to many people. She was supposed to be a powerful witch for goodness sake.

Wallowing in self-pity darkened her mood considerably and she wondered what her parents would say when they found out that she might be unable to fulfil their expectations and her destiny. What would the villagers think if it became common knowledge that she possibly wouldn’t be their next witch when Griselda retired? They would have to give the position to someone from outside the village, trusting a stranger with their problems. She wanted to cry, but crying had never solved a problem either.

Lying in bed that night, Fenella pulled her blanket up to her chin, turned on her side and closed her eyes tight. Tomorrow was another day and there was no point worrying. Griselda and her friend Khanya would both help if they could. So many ‘if’s’.

Opening her eyes one last time, Fenella looked at the full moon visible through the loft’s skylight. The thin branches of the closest trees danced around the edges of the orb in the wind, as if paying homage and keeping the moon company in the quiet night.

"If anything can be done... please, let it be," she whispered up into the night sky. Falling asleep she let go, trusting her problem was in good hands.

*****

I wiggled on my hard chair and moaned to Claire about the boring math lesson and wondered aloud if time really did slow down during certain subjects. My whisper, not quite as low as I’d intended, managed to float to the front of the classroom and get on our teacher’s last nerve.

Enough talking. I’m separating you two now. Julia, move next to Susan, and Samantha, come and sit with Claire. Mrs Dubois turned from the board and pointed to our new seats.

I felt guilty that I’d been moved next to another of our friends when I was the one who had caused the trouble, while Claire had gotten the short straw. I decided not to push my luck any further. I really didn’t want a detention on a Friday and looked back to catch Claire’s eye and apologise. She looked less than thrilled to have Samantha, who was incredibly condescending and nasty, next to her. A year older than the rest of the class, she thought her age gave her the right to tell us what to do. We all wished she would move up a year or spontaneously combust.

We didn’t know where Samantha Drummond and her family had come from, but the stories she’d told us were riddled with inconsistencies. None of our classmates could get the full story, so we’d stopped asking and we certainly didn’t seek out Samantha’s company. She was unpleasant to everyone, but seemed to take particular delight in targeting Claire and me with her nasty comments. She asked us where we got our clothes, if it bothered me when the boys said I was ugly, or if Claire felt neglected because her mom was always working. She was that girl.

I saw Claire glance at Samantha, trying to force a ‘let’s keep this pleasant in front of the teacher’ smile and failing miserably. It looked like a death grimace, only because Claire didn’t hide her feelings. She might have been good at it if she tried, but she never did. The supercilious sneer on the older girl’s face told her there was no point.

I’m not making weekend plans with you now, Claire, Samantha said in a voice loud enough to carry to the teacher and everyone in the class. "Mrs Dubois trusts me to keep you quiet and