The Mixed-Up Summer of Lily McLean Read Free Page A

Summer might be wailing, because nobody is paying her any attention. If she is, I will go and pick her up and play with her for a wee while. Somebody has to and it isn’t going to be Mum or Jenna at this rate. I put my book down, take my earphones out and listen intently.
    The television is blaring, the boys are silent and I can hear Mum clattering about, obviously having given up on attempting to talk Jenna out of her room.
    “Right, Summer,” she says, sounding a bit grumpy and impatient. “Let’s get that smelly nappy off.”
    “Not here, Mum!” yells Bronx. “Take her somewhere else! She stinks!”
    “Don’t say that,” tuts Mum. “She can’t help having a dirty nappy. You’ll hurt her feelings.”
    “Summer hasn’t got feelings, silly, she’s only a baby! An ugly, buggly, stinky-poo baby!”
    That’s really mean, Bronx. Admittedly, Summer may have a permanently runny nose and stained hand-me-downs, but I think she’s pretty cute. She has curly ginger hair, a freckly face and a snub nose, like Little Orphan Annie in the musical, if Orphan Annie had been shrunk in the wash. And had a permanently runny nose. But I am very fond of her. She smiles at me sunnily every time I pick her up and we’ve got to do something to make up for the fact that she’s got the dad from hell.
    I keep my earphones out, since it’s quite peaceful now in the house, and make myself comfortable on my cushion. I lean back against the wall, pick up my book again and am trying to enjoy the quiet, when my cupboard door is flung open and daylight streams in. Can a person not get any peace? I poke my head out, but there’s nobody in the hall. I can hear the television, and Mum clattering in the kitchen, and Summer banging a rattle against the wall of her playpen, happy to finally be wearing a clean nappy. Silence from Jenna. She has probably barricaded herself in her bedroom and is now messaging her friends, threatening to run away from home.
    If only.
    I pull the door shut and sit back down on that hideous cushion.
    “I wish you were here, Lily.”
    I shoot into the air and bang my head on the electricity meter. Crumple back down on the floor, head throbbing and heart racing. Glance around, eyes wide. But there’s definitely nobody there.
    Then the light bulb pops. The cupboard instantly goes pitch black. I’m sitting in total darkness, my hand fumbling for the door handle, numb with fear, when I hear it again, right next to my ear.
    “And I wish you could hear me, Lily,” the voice whispers.
    My hand finds the handle and I roll, Ninja-like, out of the cupboard and faceplant onto our garishly patterned hall carpet. I lie there for a moment, staring at the weird squiggly design, and waiting for my heart to stop leaping about in my chest. I’m scared that I’m having a heart attack, like old Mrs McInnes over the road.
    When we visited her afterwards in the hospital, Mrs McInnes told Mum that it had felt like her heart was being squeezed in a vice. I’m not sure what that feels like, but it sounds sore, and as I calm down a bit, I realise I’m not actually in pain at all. It must just be a panic attack, brought on by extreme terror. A disembodied voice will do that to a person, especially when the disembodied voice knows your name.
    I roll over on to my back and gaze up at the ceiling with its swirly loops of plaster. This house does not have restful décor. I try and gather my thoughts.
    I’m hearing voices , is my first thought.
    Well, just one voice, but that’s quite crazy enough, thanks, is my second.
    “Um, Lily, what are you doing?” asks Mum. She’s standing at the kitchen door, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “Why on earth are you lying on the floor?”
    “No reason,” I reply, trying to look nonchalant while lying on my back on the hall carpet. I haul myself upright and smile cheerfully. Hiding my real feelings is my area of expertise – I’ve had years of practice. “I was just checking for holes in the