â¦
Dad has a bit of a routine when he gets in from work. He doesnât like anyone to speak to him while he changes and pours himself a drink. Then he and Mum have dinner before Dad falls asleep watching TV.
Theyâre always nagging me to eat with them. Mostly itâs the last thing I want to do, but it shuts Mum up. And it massively annoys Rory, who has to go to bed before we eat.
That night, Rory appeared in the doorway just as Mum was putting a big casserole dish down on the table.
âMum, Iâm still hungry,â he whined.
Dad rolled his eyes. He gets well narked with Roryâs attention-seeking ways. I could see him building up to saying something. (He doesnât exactly operate at the speed of light, my dad.)
But Mum â so strict when it comes to
my
bedtimes â had already taken Roryâs side.
âI canât let him go to sleep hungry, Dave.â
And before Dad could say anything, sheâd grabbed the fruit bowl and was shushing Rory out the door.
Dad stared at the casserole dish as if he was hoping the stew inside would somehow leap out onto his plate.
âShe spoils that boy,â he muttered under his breath.
I grinned to myself. Dadâs the supreme master of the blindingly obvious comment. Heâs an accountant â good with Maths homework but a bit slow when it comes to words.
Which is what made his next sentence so jaw-droppingly, outstandingly incredible.
âMum tells me you were asking about your ⦠about when you were little,â he said.
I nearly choked on the slice of bread and butter Iâd been stuffing into my mouth.
âWell?â Dad had his serious face on. Not an easy one for him to pull off as heâs short and bald with round, pink cheeks.
I could feel the heat creeping up round my neck. I looked away and nodded.
Dad cleared his throat. âI think â¦â he said. Long pause.
Come on, Dad. Before we both die of old age. Please
.
âI think ⦠that if youâre old enough to askââ
At that moment Mum reappeared. She took one look at my red face and I knew she knew what was going on.
âOld enough to ask what?â she said.
Dad mumbled something totally incoherent. Mum put her hands on her hips.
âI thought we agreed, Dave?â she said in a threatening voice.
The atmosphere in the room stretched out tight, like a Croydon facelift.
I pushed back my chair and stood up, my hands balled at my sides. If she was going to stop Dad from talking to me, she could forget about me eating her stupid stew.
âSit down, Lauren,â Mum snapped.
Anger surged up from my stomach. âNo,â I shouted. âWho put you in charge? Why dâyou always, always think you know whatâs best for everyone else?â
Mumâs face clenched up.
âSit down and eat. Now.â
Tears of rage and frustration welled in my eyes. How dare she order me about like that â like a little kid. âI wonât sit down,â I shouted. âYou canât tell me what to do. Youâre not even my real mother.â
I ran out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind me. Tears streamed down my face as I raced through the hall, heading for the stairs and the small privacy of my own room.
Rory was sitting on the top step, munching on an apple.
âWhyâs everyone shouting?â he said.
I stopped just below him and took a deep breath. My hands shook as I wiped my face. âGet out of my way,â I muttered.
âWanna see a Martian train wreck?â Rory opened his mouth and stuck out a tongue full of pale-green mush.
I closed my eyes. What had I done to deserve such an uncool family? I bet Martha Lauren Purdittâs family werenât like this. I could just imagine them: understanding, glamorous mother; sensitive, fun-loving father; and not a brother or sister in sight.
The sound of Mum and Dadâs angry voices drifted towards the stairs.
Rory shuffled