Second Fiddle by Siobhan Parkinson

didn’t have to look Gillian in the eyes.
    â€œDo you…?”
    â€œYes,” I said. “Of course I do.”
    â€œHow did you know what I was going to say?”
    I shrugged. What else was there to ask, except whether I missed him?
    â€œI think we should get out,” I said. “I’m starting to hyperventilate in here.”
    â€œOK,” said Gillian, “only you have to go first. Last in, first out. Seeing as it’s a cul-de-sac.”
    She pronounced the last three words in a French accent.
    â€œ Cul-de-sac is not the French for ‘cul-de-sac,’” I said.
    â€œOf course it is,” said Gillian. She has this very adamant way of going on sometimes, just because she’s older.
    â€œNo, it’s not, it’s ‘blind alley.’”
    â€œIt can’t be,” said Gillian. “‘Blind alley’ is English.”
    â€œI mean, the French for ‘blind alley’ is what the French call a ‘cul-de-sac,’” I said. “They never say ‘ cul-de-sac. ’ My father told me.”
    That was true, but I said it to finish the argument. I knew Gillian wouldn’t contradict a dead parent. Not even she would be that insensitive. I suppose I shouldn’t use my dead dad like that, to score points, but you have to have some compensation.
    I crawled backward out of the tunnel. There were bits of greenery in my hair and it felt as if there were ants running down under my collar. I scratched my scalp as I stood up.
    Gillian came out bottom first. She was wearing more suitable clothes for the woods today: jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. She didn’t look quite so peculiar in them. She scratched her scalp too as she stood up.
    â€œFeels as if you’re being eaten alive by very tiny creatures, doesn’t it?” I said.
    â€œYeah,” said Gillian, plonking herself on the smooth rock that I used as a table.
    â€œWhere’s the violin?”
    â€œAt home.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you bring it?”
    â€œI couldn’t. It might have gotten damaged.”
    â€œPity,” I said. “Would you like some lunch?” I asked with sudden generosity. I am actually a very generous person, in spite of the small episode with the Kit Kat earlier, which may have given you the wrong impression.
    Gillian looked at me curiously and nodded.
    â€œIt’s squashed,” I warned, fishing my usual tuna sandwich out of my pocket, “because of crawling into the tunnel, but it’ll taste the same.”
    Gillian nodded again and held her hand out, palm upward, for her half of the damp sandwich.
    â€œIf we ran away from home together, they’d put us on the news, like those girls who got murdered,” I said as we munched. “There’d be reconstructions with young actresses and people ringing up with false sightings. And all the time we could be in a B and B in Bundoran, watching it on the telly and eating icepops.”
    â€œThat’s horrible!” said Gillian.
    â€œYes, but we have to face these things, my mother says. She always expects me to be murdered; it’s her big fear. She has the guards’ phone number written down by the phone for when it happens.”
    â€œWhy does she let you out on your own, then?”
    â€œShe can’t keep me locked up, can she?” I said. “I’m not allowed to talk to strangers, though.”
    â€œYou talked to me, ” Gillian said.
    â€œI don’t think girls my own age count,” I said.
    â€œYou talked to Tim,” Gillian said. She didn’t mention that she is older than me, which she is, but only by a year or two, I would say, though maybe I mentioned that already.
    â€œIs he a murderer?” I asked.
    Then old porridge-faced Gillian really surprised me. She made a joke. I didn’t think she knew how.
    â€œYes!” she hissed, and made her eyes bulge. “I can’t keep it a secret any longer.