Secrets by Nick Sharratt

you.’
    â€˜I know,’ I mumbled, sniffing.
    â€˜Haven’t you got a hanky, dear? India . . . things are all right at home, aren’t they?’
    I jumped.
    â€˜You know you can always talk to me, don’t you? Is there anything really worrying you?’
    I clicked on various images in my mind: Dad, Mum, Wanda. I scrolled down each long list of worries. I couldn’t decide which to highlight. The Dad Dilemma was in the boldest font but I didn’t want to tell Mrs Gibbs about him. He’s still the most special person in all the world to me (apart from Anne). It would seem horribly disloyal if I started whining about him.
    I didn’t mind whining about
Mum
but this is a nonstarter. Mrs Gibbs reveres her. She’s always going on about her success and her stupid, simpering appearances on breakfast television. (Mum was even on
Blue Peter
once – with Phoebe.) I wondered about telling Mrs Gibbs what Mum’s
really
like, but it’s hard to put into words, even if you’re ‘extremely articulate, perhaps a little precociously so’. That was Mrs Gibbs’s comment on my school report at Christmas.
    Mum doesn’t do anything bad to me. She doesn’t
say
anything either. It’s the way she says it. The way she sighs. The way she raises her eyebrows. The way she rushes straight past me, talking over her shoulder. The way she never wants to sit down and talk to me. If I try to grab hold of her and start gabbling she always goes, ‘Oh darling, I’m in such a tearing rush. Can’t you ask Wanda?’
    Wanda’s no use whatever. Especially recently. She just stays in her room most of the time. She doesn’t even go out with Suzi any more. I don’t think they’re friends now. Wanda hasn’t got any other friends.
I’d
be her friend but she barely takes any notice of me.
    I wondered about having a good moan to Mrs Gibbs about Wanda but I couldn’t be bothered. Besides, Mrs Gibbs might have a word with Mum and then Wanda would get into trouble. Then
I’d
be for it. Wanda’s got these pointy long nails and it really hurts when she pinches.
    â€˜No, everything’s fine at home, really,’ I said, sighing.
    Mrs Gibbs sighed too and told me to perk up then, as if I was a jug of coffee. The cloakroom was empty when I got my coat. Everyone had gone home already. I trailed out across the playground, expecting Wanda to nag at me for keeping her waiting. But Wanda wasn’t there. She wasn’t standing by the gate, leaning on the wall, wandering up and down the pavement. I looked for the car but it wasn’t parked anywhere.
    I wondered if Wanda had nipped along to the corner shop for some chocolate. I went to have a look. She wasn’t there either. I bought myself a Mars bar – king size – and ate it in five gollops while I wondered what to do.
    I could go back to school and tell Mrs Gibbs.
    I could find a phone box and ring home.
    I could ring for a taxi.
    I could stand outside the school waiting and waiting and waiting.
    I could walk home by myself. I thought about it. I knew the way. It wasn’t
that
far. It would only take twenty minutes, half an hour at the most. So I set off, my school bag bumping on my back. It felt as if I was starting out on an adventure. I enjoyed the feeling. Maybe I wouldn’t go home. Maybe I’d walk off into the wide world and seek my fortune. No, I didn’t want to sound like a fairy tale. I wanted to be part of a stark modern drama. I played a tragic runaway picked up by a wicked man who kept me captive and forced me to submit to his evil intentions . . .
    â€˜Wait a minute, little girl!’ A fat man suddenly grabbed hold of me. I gave a little squeak of terror.
    â€˜You nearly walked right out into the road!’ he puffed, his sausage fingers still splayed on my shoulders. ‘You could have stepped straight under a lorry. You were in a