in a fold of satin lining. It slides into my palm like a talisman: a small silver locket shaped like a heart, tarnished grey with age but still beautiful with its intricate tracery of pattern curling and curving beneath my touch.
The catch springs open at the first attempt, and I bite my lip. Inside the locket is a photograph, a small sepia picture of a man in old-fashioned evening dress, with serious eyes and a neat moustache.
Harry looks like someone’s stern uncle, not the boyfriend of a seventeen-year-old girl. And not one single bit like the dark-haired gypsy boy from my dream.
11
Summer comes home full of smiles because not only has she has been given a good role in the dance school’s Christmas production but also a job as student helper to one of the younger classes.
‘It’s usually the older girls who get to do that,’ she says, eyes shining. ‘It’s quite a big thing to be asked, and of course, it means extra dances and routines to learn. It’s only six weeks until the show. Hardly any time at all!’
‘What did I say?’ I grin. ‘My sister, the superstar!’
‘Hardly,’ she says. ‘Not yet, anyhow!’
Summer doesn’t mention Clara again and I don’t remind her, and that is a very good thing because my twin can still see right into my heart, my soul, if she really wants to. She would definitely suss out a promise just waiting to be broken.
Right now, I’d rather she didn’t.
The dreams wrap themselves around my heart, my mind, a secret I’m not willing to let go of.
Lately, school has become a game of hide-and-seek with me hiding and Alfie seeking. Even though I know he has the hots for some mystery girl, everyone else seems to think he is crushing on me. I am teased endlessly, which is no fun at all.
‘He likes you,’ Millie sighs. ‘Definitely. You could go out with him, Skye, because he is not actually ugly or anything, and you might not have a better offer for ages …’
When your best friend says something like that, you know you are in trouble.
We are in the school canteen. Alfie is at a nearby table, juggling satsumas and flicking chips at his mates, and we are sitting in a corner, half hidden behind a pillar and hoping he won’t spot us. I’m hoping, anyhow.
‘I just don’t fancy him, Millie,’ I say patiently.
‘It doesn’t have to be true love,’ she shrugs. ‘But you will be thirteen in February, and face it, you have never had a boyfriend –’
‘Neither have you!’ I protest.
‘I know,’ Millie says. ‘It’s depressing. I would go out with Alfie Anderson in a heartbeat, if he asked me.’
‘You would?’ I ask, incredulous. ‘Last week on the bus you were making pukey faces behind his back!’
Millie shrugs. ‘Things change. We have to be realistic. I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve decided he would make a very good starter boyfriend.’
‘Starter boyfriend?’ I echo. ‘You’re kidding me, right? Alfie Anderson has the haircut of a deranged lunatic and the personality of an over-excited puppy. He means well, but he’s not house-trained, and that’s kind of exhausting.’
Millie frowns. ‘You don’t get this, do you?’ she says. ‘I don’t fancy him either. That’s not the point. I’m just saying, he is a boy, and not totally disgusting, and we need to think about boyfriends soon, Skye, or we will be left on the shelf. Old and shrivelled and past our sell-by date.’
‘You make us sound like a couple of mouldy old prunes,’ I say.
‘That’s what we’ll be, if we don’t do something,’ Millie insists. ‘We need to get out there, get dating. Otherwise, how will we know what to do when the boy of our dreams comes along?’
I bite my lip. The boy of my dreams is taking up a little too much of my thoughts lately, but the chances of me bumping into Finch on Kitnor High Street are pretty slim. The only explanation I have for him so far is that he’s a kind of dream version of the gyspy boy Clara Travers fell for,
The catch springs open at the first attempt, and I bite my lip. Inside the locket is a photograph, a small sepia picture of a man in old-fashioned evening dress, with serious eyes and a neat moustache.
Harry looks like someone’s stern uncle, not the boyfriend of a seventeen-year-old girl. And not one single bit like the dark-haired gypsy boy from my dream.
11
Summer comes home full of smiles because not only has she has been given a good role in the dance school’s Christmas production but also a job as student helper to one of the younger classes.
‘It’s usually the older girls who get to do that,’ she says, eyes shining. ‘It’s quite a big thing to be asked, and of course, it means extra dances and routines to learn. It’s only six weeks until the show. Hardly any time at all!’
‘What did I say?’ I grin. ‘My sister, the superstar!’
‘Hardly,’ she says. ‘Not yet, anyhow!’
Summer doesn’t mention Clara again and I don’t remind her, and that is a very good thing because my twin can still see right into my heart, my soul, if she really wants to. She would definitely suss out a promise just waiting to be broken.
Right now, I’d rather she didn’t.
The dreams wrap themselves around my heart, my mind, a secret I’m not willing to let go of.
Lately, school has become a game of hide-and-seek with me hiding and Alfie seeking. Even though I know he has the hots for some mystery girl, everyone else seems to think he is crushing on me. I am teased endlessly, which is no fun at all.
‘He likes you,’ Millie sighs. ‘Definitely. You could go out with him, Skye, because he is not actually ugly or anything, and you might not have a better offer for ages …’
When your best friend says something like that, you know you are in trouble.
We are in the school canteen. Alfie is at a nearby table, juggling satsumas and flicking chips at his mates, and we are sitting in a corner, half hidden behind a pillar and hoping he won’t spot us. I’m hoping, anyhow.
‘I just don’t fancy him, Millie,’ I say patiently.
‘It doesn’t have to be true love,’ she shrugs. ‘But you will be thirteen in February, and face it, you have never had a boyfriend –’
‘Neither have you!’ I protest.
‘I know,’ Millie says. ‘It’s depressing. I would go out with Alfie Anderson in a heartbeat, if he asked me.’
‘You would?’ I ask, incredulous. ‘Last week on the bus you were making pukey faces behind his back!’
Millie shrugs. ‘Things change. We have to be realistic. I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve decided he would make a very good starter boyfriend.’
‘Starter boyfriend?’ I echo. ‘You’re kidding me, right? Alfie Anderson has the haircut of a deranged lunatic and the personality of an over-excited puppy. He means well, but he’s not house-trained, and that’s kind of exhausting.’
Millie frowns. ‘You don’t get this, do you?’ she says. ‘I don’t fancy him either. That’s not the point. I’m just saying, he is a boy, and not totally disgusting, and we need to think about boyfriends soon, Skye, or we will be left on the shelf. Old and shrivelled and past our sell-by date.’
‘You make us sound like a couple of mouldy old prunes,’ I say.
‘That’s what we’ll be, if we don’t do something,’ Millie insists. ‘We need to get out there, get dating. Otherwise, how will we know what to do when the boy of our dreams comes along?’
I bite my lip. The boy of my dreams is taking up a little too much of my thoughts lately, but the chances of me bumping into Finch on Kitnor High Street are pretty slim. The only explanation I have for him so far is that he’s a kind of dream version of the gyspy boy Clara Travers fell for,
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