To Lottie Erratt-Rose

CONTENTS

TITLE PAGE

DEDICATION

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

ALSO BY JEAN URE

COPYRIGHT

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

I never knew until recently that it is a criminal offence to shout “Fire!” in a crowded theatre. Well, or a crowded anywhere, I suppose, if it comes to that. Unless of course there actually is a fire, in which case you should probably shout just as loudly as you possibly can, at the top of your lungs, like, “FIRE!” It’s just if there isn’t one that it’s criminal, I guess because you could cause panic and start a stampede, and people could get trampled on or even crushed to death, and then it would be all your fault and you could be sent to prison.

I was at the dentist when I made this discovery. Sitting there with Mum, reading a magazine and trying to take my mind off the horrors to come. I am a bit of a wimp about the dentist. Mum knows this, so I think she was quite surprised when I gave this little bark of bitter laughter, like, “Huh!”

She said, “And what have you found that’s so amusing?”

Well, obviously it wasn’t the idea of people being crushed to death. But all the same it did strike me as funny, cos quite honestly, with my family, you could bawl through a megaphone at a thousand decibels and it wouldn’t cause panic. Nobody would stampede. They wouldn’t even bother to look up.

I know this, cos I have tried it. Last year, in the Star of Bengal, which is Dad’s favourite Indian restaurant. Saturday evening it was, and we’d all gone out to have a meal. Mum and Dad, my sister Charlotte, my brother Cooper, me and the twins. I was eleven at the time. Charlie was thirteen, Coop fourteen and Fergus and Flora had just had their ninth birthday. They were all sitting there, airing their views and shouting at one another across the table, making a lot of noise, same as they always do. It’s something they can’t seem to help; it is just the way they are.

“Naturally exuberant,” Mum says, with a touch of pride.

They all have these massive great personalities, the sort that come roaring at you like tidal waves, and they all have opinions. Opinions about anything and everything. Sometimes quite violent ones. Even the twins.

“We’re just a very lively bunch,” chortles Mum.

Except for me, who is probably a bit of a disappointment. I do have opinions, but I find I don’t voice them all that often. Not, at any rate, when I’m with the rest of the family. When I’m with the family I mostly just sit quite quietly, like a mouse.

It was what I was doing that evening while the conversation rocketed to and fro, with Dad yelling at Coop, Charlie yelling at Mum, the twins yelling at each other. I expect to outsiders it might have sounded like they were fighting, but they never fight. They are all very good-natured. It is just that yelling happens to be the everyday mode of expression in my family. If there is anything you want to say, you have to join in and start yelling yourself to get their attention.

Which, in the end, is what I did. I would far rather just have gone on quietly sitting there, doing my mouse act, keeping myself to myself, but I knew that the time had come. I had to take action. I had to rise up and shout “Fire!”

Well, to be honest I didn’t actually shout, cos I mean we were sitting in a crowded restaurant and it would have been rude. Unlike the rest of my family, I do try to have some manners. And I didn’t actually use the word fire, for the same reason: crowded restaurant. I wouldn’t have wanted to frighten people. (Or to commit a criminal offence, though I didn’t realise then that it was one.) But the thing that I said – that I tried to say – in this very firm, clear voice, was something Mum and Dad would have found every bit as startling. If they’d stopped yelling long enough to listen.

I got as far as, “Actually—”

And then Mum came crashing in over the top.

“Darling,” she shrieked, “that’s wonderful!”

Needless to say, she wasn’t talking to me. She was talking to Charlie.

“It’s one of the main parts,” yelled Charlie.

“Darling, I know!” Mum reached out and squeezed her hand. “I’m so proud of you!”

I sank back on my chair. Obviously not the right moment for an earth-shattering announcement.

“Alastair, did you hear that?” cried Mum, leaning forward to rap Dad on the back of the hand with a menu.

“What’s that?” said Dad.

“Your clever daughter’s playing Gwendolen!”

“And your clever son,” said Coop, “is writing the music.”

“Music?” Dad seemed puzzled. “I thought it was a play?”

Mum and Charlie exchanged pitying glances. Coop rolled his eyes.

“Dad,” wailed Charlie, “we already told you… it’s being turned into a musical!”

“By none other than yours truly,” added Coop.

“Is that so? In that case—” Dad thumped triumphantly on the table, causing all the cutlery to bounce. Being on the radio, he is very into the whole showbiz thing – “this calls for a celebration!”

Definitely not the moment.

“Such a talented family,” beamed Dad.

“Yes, and that’s not all,” said Mum. “Tell him, you two!”

“Me and Flora’s gonna be in our play too,” said Fergus. “Dunno what parts we’re doing, but we’re def’nitely gonna be in it. Miss Marshall said so.”

“Course you’re going to be in it,” said Dad. “Course you are! Can’t put on a play without a McBride in the cast!”

Mum smiled fondly. “Imagine,” she said, “when the twins get to Summerfield that will make four of them! Well, five, of course, with Peachy.” She hastily patted me on the shoulder. Mum doesn’t like me to feel left out. She does her best to include me whenever she remembers. “But four in the limelight!” She giggled. “A clutch of McBrides!”

I wouldn’t actually mind being in the limelight. Being on stage. Having my name in the programme. Not that I exactly hanker after it. I’m just saying that I wouldn’t mind. I don’t have stage fright or anything. But I’ve come to the conclusion that there are backstage people and there are onstage people, and I’m just one of the backstage ones. Least, that’s what my family would say.

“Hey! Will I still be around?” said Coop.

“What, when the twins go there? Of course you will! It’s only two years away.”

Two years for the twins, just a few months for me. I was supposed to be starting next term. They’d had all our names down for Summerfield practically ever since we were born. It’s like a sort of family tradition. On Dad’s side, that is.

I took a breath. It was time I dropped my bombshell.

“Actually—”

“You never know,” said Coop, “I might be at music college by then.”

“Not at the age of sixteen,” said Mum.

“Not even if I’m a genius?”

“You are a genius, darling, but you’re still staying on at school. I cannot possibly have you leaving till the twins are there. Imagine,” exulted Mum, “a whole dynasty. A McBride takeover!”

I cleared my throat. Noisily.

“ACTUALLY…” I said. I leaned forward. “I d—”

“Five, all at once!”

“I don’t—”

“Five’s not the record,” said Dad. “When I was a boy, there were six of us at one time. Your Uncle Daniel – ” he nodded at us as he ticked names off on his fingers – “your Aunt Helen, me, plus three cousins: Will, Shula, Rory. All there at the same time!”

Mum said, “Yes, but this will be five from just one family. I bet that’s never happened before! We ought to ask for reduced rates.”

My heart began hammering. This was it! I had to get it out. Now. Before they went rushing off to demand reductions.

I took another breath. Deeper this time.

“As a matter of fact,” I said, “I don’t really—”

“Bubbly!” Dad thumped again, on the table. “A bottle of bubbly. That’s what we need!”

“Don’t really w—”

“McBrides United!”

“—really want to go to Summerfield!”

I might just as well not have bothered. Nobody was listening.

“What a team, eh?” Dad winked at Mum.

“We are doing rather well,” agreed Mum.

“Yeah, cos me and Flora – ” Fergus bounced boastfully on his chair – “we didn’t even have to take auditions! Everybody else did, but not us.”

“That’s right.” Flora nodded. “Miss Marshall said she knew what we were capable of.”

“Well, of course she did,” said Dad. “Chips off the old block, the pair of you!”

I think what he meant was, they took after him. Well, and after Mum too, if it comes to that. Mum might not be on the radio, but she is every bit as theatrical as Dad. So are all the others. They are all chips off the old block. Except for me. I am like the cuckoo in the nest. The odd one out. It wouldn’t ever have occurred to Miss Marshall to say she knew what I was capable of. She didn’t even suggest I took the audition, even though I can sing in tune. Of course I could have asked her, if I’d really wanted. But I kept thinking how she’d look at me, with this air of doubt.

“You, Peaches? I thought you’d be helping out backstage?”

What I would have liked was for her to ask me. But even if she had I probably wouldn’t have been given anything, and then the twins would have told Mum, and Mum would have made a big fuss and hugged me and cried, “Oh, darling, don’t think you have to compete! You have your own thing.”

It was like a sort of family myth, me having my own thing. Nobody ever said what it was, and I never quite liked to ask. It was just something Mum used to say to try and make me feel good.

“I’ll tell you what!” Mum’s voice rang out, very clear and bell-like. Heads at the next table turned to stare. “If I hadn’t had you lot, I might have gone onstage myself.”

Dad at once started to sing. He has a deep dark baritone. Very loud.

“Don’t put your daughter on the stage, Mrs Worthington—”

Mum slapped at him. “I could have done!”

“Of course you could, my angel.” Dad blew her a kiss across the table. “You could have done anything you wanted.”

“Instead of which, I had this lot.”

“Ah, but think how proud they’re going to make you!”

“What I should like to think,” said Mum, “is that we could get a reduction in school fees. Dog breeders get reductions. Why can’t we? I mean, let’s face it, sending five of them…”

I think at this point I must have made a little squeak of protest without realising it. Mum broke off and looked at me.

“Did you say something, darling?”

I opened my mouth. I don’t want to go to Summerfield! I’d been trying to say it for the last fifteen minutes. And now, just as I was on the point of actually doing so, Dad gave a joyful cry – “Here’s Raj!” – and Mum snatched up a menu and instructed everyone to order. The moment had passed.

“What’ll we have? Who wants what?”

“Poppadoms, anyone? Who’s for poppadoms?”

And then they all started shouting at once.

“Chicken tikka!”

“Prawn masala!”

“Lamb biryani!”

Raj, who was used to us, stood calmly in the midst of it all writing things down.

“Everyone ordered?” said Mum brightly.

“Yes, yes.” Dad, impatient, gathered up the menus. “Don’t forget the bubbly!”

It was Raj who noticed I hadn’t ordered anything.

“And for the young lady?” he said.

“Young lady?” said Mum. “Which young lady?”

“Just Peachy,” said Coop.

“What? She hasn’t ordered?”

I’m not absolutely positive, but I think Raj may have winked at me. Sort of like showing sympathy. My family!

“So what are you going to have?” said Mum. “If you had the chicken korma, we could mix and match.”

“Yes, all right,” I said.

“You’re sure?”

I nodded. Raj stood gravely, his pen poised.

“She’ll have the chicken korma,” said Mum. “Honestly, darling, you really must learn to speak up!”

“Like on stage,” said Flora. “If you don’t SPEAK UP – ” her voice rose to a shriek – “no one’ll be able to hear you.”

“Well, they’ll certainly be able to hear you, all right,” said Mum.

Flora gave this little complacent smirk. “That’s why Miss Marshall chose us, cos we have these really BIG voices. There’s this one girl in our class – Alisha Briggs? She really fancies herself, she thinks she’s going to get to play the lead, but she won’t cos she has this silly little squeaky voice like an ant. Squeaky squeaky!”

“Ants don’t squeak,” I said.

“They do so,” said Flora. “You just can’t hear them. Like you can’t hear Alisha. Plus she can’t even sing in tune. She goes like this: doh, re, mi-i-i-…”

Flora’s voice rose, shrill and quavery. One of the ladies at the next table placed a hand over her ear.

“I’m going to be singing,” said Charlie. “Coop’s already written one of my songs for me. Haven’t you?”

“Right,” said Coop. “Wanna give them a taste of it?”

Charlie never needs a second invitation. To be fair she does actually have a good voice. Very high and silvery. Not always quite in tune, but who cares?

“Lovely, lovely!” cried Mum, when we’d listened to three full verses plus the chorus. Everyone clapped, madly. Dad even shouted, “Bravo!” I was a bit embarrassed so I just tapped my hands together without making any sound, but some people in the restaurant actually turned in their seats and joined in. Even the lady at the next table, the one who’d put her hand over her ear.

I’m always surprised that people don’t get angry and ask us to be quiet, but they never seem to. I suspect it’s cos of Dad being on the radio, and sometimes on TV, which makes him a sort of mini celeb. Celebs can get away with anything. I bet if ordinary people were to start singing and shouting and making a noise, Raj would say something quickly enough, but he was smiling happily as he brought the champagne. Of course, Dad spends a lot of money in his restaurant. I expect that helps.

“Someone’s birthday?” said Raj, as he popped the cork.

“Celebration,” said Dad. “Double whammy.”

Mum explained about Charlie and Coop and the twins.

“All reaching for the stars!”

This time, Raj really did wink at me. It gave me this little glow of happiness. It made me feel that he was on my side. Everybody, but everybody, loves Mum and Dad, cos they are funny and warm and they make people laugh. But maybe Raj understood how it was, being me. Just Peachy, the mouse in the middle.

“Righty-o!” Dad raised his glass. “Let us have a toast… the McBrides!”

When we’d toasted the whole family together we toasted Charlie and Coop, and after that we toasted the twins. And then Mum said, “To Peachy!” and they all drank a toast to me. And then the food came and everyone immediately fell on it in a kind of mad feeding frenzy, like in those wildlife films where they show bunches of jackals tearing some poor dead thing to shreds. You have to eat really, really fast if you want to keep up. Sometimes I manage it OK, but sometimes I am a bit slow. What made me slow that particular evening was worrying about how and when I was going to break my earth-shattering news to Mum and Dad and how they were going to react. They were not going to be happy.

“Peachy,” said Mum, “stop messing your food about.”

“What’s the matter?” said Dad. “Don’t you want it?” He leaned across and dug his fork into a piece of chicken. The very piece I’d been about to dig my fork into.

“Oh, well, if she’s not going to eat it,” said Mum, and she leaned across and dug her fork in too.

“Really,” said Dad, “I don’t know why you order things if you don’t like them.”

“If you’d have preferred something else,” said Mum, “you only had to say.”

“No need to be scared.” Dad helped himself to more chicken. “Just sing right out!”

“She can’t sing,” said Flora.

I said, “I can so! Shows how much you know.”

Complacently, chewing chicken, Dad said, “All the McBrides can sing. Even Peachy.”

Tomorrow I would definitely tell them.

Usually on a Sunday morning I stay curled up under the duvet for as long as I possibly can. All the family does, except for Mum. Mum is always the first up. She says she likes to have the house to herself for half an hour before the rest of us appear and start banging and clattering.

“A little bit of peace and quiet, that’s all I ask.”

Hah! That is a joke. Even when she does have the house to herself Mum isn’t quiet. Or peaceful. I could hear her, that Sunday, down in the kitchen bawling at the radio. I knew I had to make an effort. Catch her on her own.

Blearily, I forced my eyes open and with one hand threw off the duvet. The hand immediately fell back with a heavy flump on to the bed. It felt like a bag of wet cement. My eyes started to close again. It was a great temptation just to let them. I so didn’t want to have to drop my bombshell!

An angry bellow from the kitchen jerked me back into wakefulness. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, groped my way into jeans and T-shirt, wobbled out on to the landing and staggered downstairs and along the hall.

Mum was sitting with her feet on the kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee and shouting at the radio. Everyone in my family always shouts at the radio. They can’t ever listen to anything without joining in. What Mum was listening to were the Sunday-morning highlights of Dad’s weekday breakfast show, when Dad gives his opinion about what is happening in the world and the public call in and give theirs, and they have a conversation about it. Well, sometimes they do. Sometimes Dad decides that people are idiots and cuts them off. Sometimes they decide that Dad is an idiot and cut themselves off. Sometimes some of them are bonkers. Like this one woman, Monica, that calls in practically every day. She was on there now, her words splattering round the kitchen like machine-gun fire.

“If-you-ask-me-they-should-all-be-made-to-run-naked-through-the-streets-and-have-raw-sewage-thrown-at-them.”

I giggled. I loved Monica! “What’s she talking about?”

“Politicians,” said Mum. “Oh, listen to her, listen to her! That is too much. She is completely mad! JUST BE QUIET, WOMAN, AND GO AWAY! Honestly, I don’t know why your dad puts up with it.”

“He probably agrees with her,” I said. “He probably thinks it’s a good idea.”

“What? Naked politicians running through the streets?” Mum rolled her eyes. “Heaven forbid! They’re quite bad enough with their clothes on, thank you very much. What are you doing up so bright and early?”

This was it. The moment I was dreading. I sank down on to a chair opposite her.

“Mum,” I said, “there’s something I w—”

“Omigod, there she goes again! Get rid of her, get rid of her!”

“OK.” I leaned over and switched the radio off. Mum gave a shriek.

“What are you doing?”

“You said to get rid of her.”

“I was talking to your dad! I didn’t mean – oh, never mind, it doesn’t matter. I lose all patience with that woman. Did you want to say something?”

She’d noticed. At last! I braced myself against the table.

“You know last night,” I said, “when you were saying how there’d be five of us at Summerfield?”

“Yes! Great fun. But I definitely intend to ask about a reduction.”

“The thing is,” I said, “I—” I stopped. I couldn’t get it out!

“You what?” said Mum.

I gulped. “I don’t want to go there!”

My voice came out in a pathetic squeak. Mum stared, like I had suddenly gone green or turned into some weird kind of thing from outer space.

“You don’t want to go to Summerfield?”

I hung my head.

“You’re not serious?” said Mum. “Please! Tell me you’re not serious?”

I took a deep, trembling breath.

“Omigod,” cried Mum, “you are!”

There was a silence. Long, and awkward. Mum ran a despairing hand through her hair. Mum’s hair is very thick and springy. It was already sticking up from where she’d been sleeping on it. Now she’d made it look like a bird’s nest.

“I’m really sorry,” I whispered.

This was turning out even worse than I’d thought. I had never, ever known Mum be at a loss for words before. She was shaking her head, like she had earwigs crawling in her ears. She seemed totally bewildered.

“Darling,” she said, “what on earth are you talking about? Of course you’re going there! The McBrides always go to Summerfield. It’s all arranged!”

“Yes,” I said. “I know.”

“Coop and Charlie couldn’t be happier. They love it!”

“Yes,” I said. “I know they do.”

“It’s not like you’ll be on your own. They’ll be there to keep an eye on you.”

I stared down at the table.

“And the twins,” said Mum. “They can’t wait to get there!”

I mumbled again that I was sorry.

“Is it something someone’s said? Something that’s put you off?”

I assured her that it wasn’t.

“So… what is it?” said Mum. “I don’t understand! Why all of a sudden don’t you want to go?”

“I just don’t!”

The squeak had turned into a kind of desperate wail. Please don’t keep asking me! Because how could I explain? How could I tell Mum the reason I didn’t want to go to Summerfield was that I needed to be on my own? To be somewhere I could just be me, safely anonymous, without everyone knowing my dad was on the radio and who my brothers and sisters were. I loved my family, I truly did, but sometimes they made me wonder whether I actually really existed or whether I was just this empty space in their midst.

“Darling?” A new idea had obviously struck Mum. She studied me anxiously. “It’s not because of them, is it? Charlie and Coop? Because they’re both doing so well? It’s not that that’s bothering you? Because it really shouldn’t! I mean, Coop and his music… we can’t any of us compete with Coop. Not even your dad. As for Charlie – well! She’s just being Charlie. Centre of attention. That’s her thing, it’s what she does. Not everyone can be like Charlie. We’re all different! And just as well, if you ask me. The world would be a very boring place if we were all the same, don’t you think?”

Mum gave me this bright, hopeful smile, like begging me to agree with her. I smiled rather tremulously back, but was saved from having to say anything by the whirlwind arrival of Dad, who came crashing noisily through the door. Dad is quite a large person; he does a lot of crashing.

Mum said, “Alastair, we need to t—”

She never got to finish the sentence. With a howl, Dad lunged at the radio.

“Why isn’t this on? Why aren’t we listening to my highlights?”

“I was,” said Mum. “Peachy turned it off. We n—”

But Dad had already switched the radio back on. His rich fruity tones came booming out across the kitchen.

“Hah!” he said. “I knew they’d play this bit!”

Mum pulled a face. I sort of sympathised with her. Dad does tend to drown people out. But then Mum does a fair bit of drowning herself.

“This next guy was a right plonker,” said Dad. “How about mad Monica? Did they play her?”

“Never mind mad Monica,” said Mum rather grimly. “We have a problem on our hands.”

“Really?” Dad helped himself to a cup of coffee. “What’s that?”

“Just Peachy,” said Mum. “She doesn’t want to go to Summerfield.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” said Mum. “She doesn’t want to go to—”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” yelled Dad, “kill that damn radio!”

For the second time, I leaned across and turned it off.

“What do you mean, she doesn’t want to go to Summerfield?”

“What I said. She doesn’t want to go there.”

If I’d thought Mum’s reaction was bad, Dad’s was a thousand times worse. It was like his mouth opened and a bomb exploded, shooting words all over the kitchen. They bounced off the walls, banged against the windows. Mum waited patiently, drinking her coffee. I sat hunched on my chair, feet on the rung, elbows on table, chin propped in hands, my face covered. You can’t interrupt Dad when he is in full flow; you just have to take shelter until the storm has passed. As soon as it has, Dad becomes calm again. His temper is massive, but it usually dies down as quickly as it flares up.

Mum said, “Right! Can we talk now?”

“We’d better,” said Dad.

“If you’ll just stop moving about and sit yourself down.”

“I am sitting down,” said Dad. He pulled out a chair. “I’m in a state of shock. What is all this nonsense?”

Mum said that unfortunately she didn’t think it was nonsense. “I think she’s serious… she doesn’t want to go there.”

“I got that bit,” said Dad. “What I want to know is why?”

“I think,” said Mum, “it’s because she feels scared of being overshadowed by Charlie and Coop. What with Charlie hogging all the limelight and Coop being some kind of prodigy – and then, of course, there’s the twins, when they come along. They’re not exactly shrinking violets, bless them!”

Dad said, “You can say that again.” He gave one of his throaty chuckles. “Talk about a double act!”

“Exactly,” said Mum. “You can understand if she feels a bit overwhelmed.”

They were going on about me like I was deaf, or in another room. They did that sometimes. Just stopped noticing that I was there.

“I don’t think we should push her, if she really doesn’t want to. I would hate her to end up with some kind of complex.”

“It is the curse of coming from a gifted family,” agreed Dad. “There’s bound to be a bit of…” He waved a hand. “Well! A bit of… you know. Difficulty.”

“Although she does have her own thing. Just because it’s not showy doesn’t mean it’s not as valid.”

“All the same.” Dad slurped his coffee. “Hard act to follow.”

“Very hard,” said Mum.

“So! What do we do?”

There was a pause. I waited for Mum to say something but she just sat there, munching her top lip.

“Well?” Dad was getting worked up again. He slapped his hand on the table. “Say something!”

Since it seemed that Mum wasn’t going to, I thought that perhaps I should.

“You could always send me somewhere else,” I said.

Their heads snapped round, like, Ooh, she’s there! She’s been there all the time!

“We could.” Mum said it slowly, considering the idea. “But where would we send you?”

“That,” said Dad, “is the question.”

Eagerly I leaned forward. I’d been doing a lot of thinking about where I’d like to go. “What about Winterbourne?” I said.

“Oh, darling, no!” Mum gave a little shudder. “Not Winterbourne! You’d be completely lost. You’d never survive! It’s far too big. And anyway, it doesn’t have a good reputation at all.”

I didn’t care that it was big. I didn’t care about its reputation. All that interested me was that Winterbourne High was just about as far as you could possibly get from somewhere like Summerfield. Nobody would know me. Nobody would know my family. I could just be me.

“It’s only down the road,” I pleaded. “I could walk there!”

“But why would you want to?” said Dad. He seemed genuinely puzzled. Why would anyone in their right senses choose Winterbourne High over Summerfield? “Give me one good reason!”

“You wouldn’t have to pay for me?” I suggested.

Dad gave an angry roar. “Don’t you try pulling that one, my girl! There’s a little thing called equality in this house, yes? If we pay for the others, we pay for you. You’ll have to come up with something a bit better than that!”

“I like the uniform?” I said.

“Darling, it’s grey,” said Mum. Summerfield’s is bright red. Far more to Mum’s taste.

I said, “I like grey.”

“Nonsense!” said Mum.

“Rubbish!” said Dad.

“It wouldn’t suit you at all,” said Mum. “You need a bit of colour. Something bright. Put you in grey, you’d just fade into the background.”

“Not,” said Dad, “that one chooses a school by its uniform.”

“Well, no, of course. Absolutely not! But I don’t think it helps if it makes one look a total fright. And you know, darling, you do need all the help you can get. You don’t want to fade. How about Sacred Heart? That’s a nice school!”

“They wear kilts,” I said.

“I know. So sweet! That blue would really suit you. Bring out the colour of your eyes. Of course – ” a note of doubt crept into Mum’s voice – “it is all girls. I’m never too sure about that. On the other hand, you do have brothers, so maybe it wouldn’t matter too much.” Mum turned enthusiastically to Dad. “Do you know, I really think Sacred Heart would be a good choice!”

“Bring out the colour of her eyes,” said Dad sarcastically.

“Oh, don’t be silly! That’s neither here nor there,” said Mum. “I was just thinking how it was exactly the sort of school that would suit her… small classes, no pressure… no one to compete with. And all those lovely nuns! Let’s check out their website.”

It seemed that my fate was sealed.

“We are assuming,” said Dad, “that they can take her.”

“Oh, I’m sure they will,” said Mum.

Mum is always sure about everything, and it has to be said, she is usually right. She has this gift of bending people to her will.

“Just leave it to me,” she said.

She broke the news to the others later that day when we all went up the road for Sunday lunch.

“Everybody! A little bit of hush,” she said. “Hot news!”

“About what?” said Coop. “Dad’s won another radio award?”

“I wish!” said Dad.

“Right,” said Charlie, “cos you’ve only got about a dozen of them.”

“Can’t have too many.”

“Will you please HUSH?” said Mum. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

“Ooh!” Coop gave a little shiver. “Sounds important!”

“Not desperately,” said Dad. “It’s just Peachy.”

Dad was still quite cross. And nobody else cared all that much. There wasn’t any reason they should. Like Dad said, it wasn’t really important. Not like Dad getting a radio award, or Charlie getting a lead in the school play. Just Peachy, being silly and awkward.

Mum patted my hand. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Your dad will get over it. And I do actually think you’ll be far better off on your own. There won’t be all that stress of trying to keep up; you can just quietly concentrate on doing your own thing. I’m so glad I thought of it!”

“…just a bit insecure, which isn’t really surprising, I suppose, when you come to think about it.”

The voice was Mum’s. She was speaking to someone on the phone. Who? I wondered. And who was she talking about?

“The others are doing almost frighteningly well.”

I froze, in the hall on the other side of the door. I hadn’t meant to eavesdrop but I couldn’t help hearing. Mum’s voice is very clear and penetrating.

“All that high-flying. Enough to make anyone insecure.” She gave a little tinkle of laughter. “Even me!”

Who? Who? Who was she talking about? I hovered guiltily, unable to tear myself away.

“I don’t think I’d say she was jealous,” said Mum. “A bit envious perhaps – which is only to be expected. More a sense of… not being able to compete? Which you can perfectly understand. It all just comes so easily to the rest of them.”

She was talking about me. I knew she was. But who was she talking to?

“Oh, yes, much better,” said Mum. “Far happier now she’s at Sacred Heart. I always felt that Summerfield wouldn’t be quite right for her. An excellent school – the others just love it – but—” Mum broke off as I pushed open the door. “Ah, Peachy!” she said. “Do you want a word with Big Gran?”

Big Gran is Dad’s mum. She is quite a large person, like Dad, but unlike Dad she is not a bully. Dad is known for being a bully. He was once called the rudest man on the radio. Big Gran is quite sweet. She has always tried really hard to make me feel good about myself. Sometimes she tries a bit too hard, and then it is embarrassing. But I know she means well.

I said, “Hi, Gran.”

Gran said, “Hello, sweetheart! I’m so glad to hear you’re getting on all right at your new school. It’s a pity about Summerfield, but don’t let it bother you. I mean, your dad being upset and all that. He’ll get over it. What’s important is that you should never be made to feel you have to do things simply because your brothers and sisters do them. You just concentrate on being your own person.”

It was what Gran was always telling me to do. I promised her that I was concentrating like mad.

“Good,” said Gran. “That’s good. Always remember that simply because something’s right for the others doesn’t necessarily mean it’s right for you. You mustn’t let yourself be put under any pressure.”

I assured her that I wouldn’t.

“Well, I certainly hope not,” said Gran. “It’s not as if you’re in competition. I know it can be difficult at times. I’ve been there! I’ll never forget the day your dad’s Auntie Esther got into the Royal Ballet School.”

Auntie Esther is Gran’s sister. She was a famous ballet dancer in her time.

“Oh, such a to-do!” said Gran. “Big, big celebration! WELL DONE, ESTHER! Huge great banner, special cake in the shape of a ballet shoe, all over the local paper, called up on stage in morning assembly… Oh, dear, I was so jealous I can’t tell you! Not that I had any ambitions in that direction. At my size?” Gran laughed. A rich, fruity laugh like Dad’s. “Forget it! But I wouldn’t have minded some of the attention, I don’t mind admitting. It was a bit of a rough time. Dear little Esther, so dainty and talented, and great lumping Elinor who couldn’t even walk into a room without tripping over her size-seven feet. But then, you see, we both grew up and I did my own thing and couldn’t have been happier. So it just goes to show, doesn’t it?”

I made a vague mumbling sound of agreement.

“That’s the spirit!” said Gran. “Now—” she settled down for a cosy chat. “Tell me a bit more about this new school. Sacred Heart. I don’t know it. What is it like?”

“It’s all right,” I said.

“You mean, really all right? Or just all right, not bad?”

I said, “Really all right. Really!”

I’d been at Sacred Heart for over a fortnight now. I hadn’t been too sure at first. I’d wanted to go to Winterbourne because Winterbourne was huge. Nearly 1,500 pupils. Enough to swallow me up and keep me safely anonymous. Sacred Heart was hardly any bigger than primary school, where I hadn’t been anonymous at all. Everybody had known who my dad was. Everybody could remember Charlie and Coop. Everybody knew the twins. And everybody, but everybody, was always expecting me to be just as high-powered and talented as they were. Until they discovered that I wasn’t, and then it was like, “Oh, that’s just Peachy. She’s not a bit like her sister.”

So just at the beginning, when I started at Sacred Heart, I was really anxious, because suppose someone discovered about Dad, or knew someone who knew Charlie or Coop? In the whole of Year 7 there were only thirty people. Once one person found out, everybody would know, and I might just as well have gone to Summerfield and not caused Dad all that grief. Cos he was still a bit cross about it, even now.

On our very first day, Mrs Bradbeer, our class teacher, said she wanted us all to introduce ourselves.

“Most of you have come up from the junior school together, but some of you are new, so I’d like everybody to say a few words about themselves, and about their family, just to break the ice. All right?”

No! I cringed, trying to hide behind the person in front. This was like my worst nightmare come true.

Mrs Bradbeer obviously saw the panic on my face. She said, “Try not to look so worried, Peaches!”

Peaches? Heads snapped round. The whole class stared. I felt like digging a hole and burying myself. Trust Mum! Peaches had been her choice. She couldn’t just pick something ordinary and unremarkable like Amy or Emma. Oh, no! She had to go for something that would make everyone turn and stare.

Mrs Bradbeer smiled reassuringly. “You don’t have to say more than you feel comfortable with. Just a few words will do. Zoe, why don’t you get us started?”

Zoe was one of the ones that had come up from Juniors. Full of self-importance, she pushed back her chair and bounced to her feet. You could tell she was someone that just loved the sound of her own voice. In loud, ringing tones she announced that she was Zoe Kingman and that her big ambition was to be successful and make a lot of money. She said she had a dad that was an architect and a mum that was “in the City”.

“Like she’s really high up in one of the big banks, only I’d better not say which one cos of people getting jealous and thinking she’s probably making too much money, which Mum says is just the politics of envy. I personally think that if you work hard you deserve to make lots of money; I don’t see anything wrong in it. At any rate,” said Zoe, “that is what I am going to do.”

She sat back down with a self-satisfied flump. I noticed that the girl next to me was pulling a face. I felt a bit like pulling one myself but I wasn’t quite brave enough. Several people were nodding, and one girl even started to clap.

Mrs Bradbeer said, “Thank you, Zoe. That’s got the ball rolling. Lola? You next?”

One by one, everybody got up and told us about themselves. They all seemed to have mums and dads that were doctors, or solicitors, or bank managers. I waited for someone to say her dad was a butcher, or her mum was a cleaning lady, but it didn’t happen. I sat glumly, hunched at my desk, wishing I was at Winterbourne instead of having to sit here listening as people went gabbing on about themselves and their hugely important parents. I didn’t think anyone at Winterbourne would really care what other people’s mums and dads did. I certainly wasn’t going to tell them anything about mine!

Mrs Bradbeer was going round the class at random. She seemed to be leaving me till last. Maybe, with any luck, the bell would ring and I wouldn’t have to do it.

“Millie?” said Mrs Bradbeer. “Shall we hear from you?”

The girl next to me sprang up.

“Millie O’Dowd,” she said. “One mum, one dad, three annoying little sisters. My mum’s called Sinead, my dad’s called Kevin, and my sisters are the Diddy People. Well, that’s what I call them. Dunno what else to say, really. Oh, except my mum’s a school dinner lady and my dad’s on the buses, only I’d better not say which one cos of people getting jealous and thinking bus drivers are greedy when they want more money.”

Someone gave a little titter. Mrs Bradbeer put a warning finger to her lips.

“That’s about it really,” said Millie. “I haven’t yet decided what my big ambition is, but hopefully I’ll end up a millionaire.”

This time lots of people tittered. Mrs Bradbeer said, “Thank you very much, Millie. Short and sweet and very pointed.”

Millie grinned at me again as she sat down. It was an impish sort of grin, like, ‘I enjoyed that!’ An uncertain silence had settled over the room. I could almost see people wrestling with the idea that someone should have a mum that was a dinner lady and a dad that was on the buses. I felt suddenly bold, and gave Millie a big grin in return. She mouthed at me: “You in a minute!”

I was still praying that the bell would ring and let me off, but no such luck.

“Peaches?” said Mrs Bradbeer with a kindly smile.

I dragged myself to my feet.

“Peaches McBride,” I said. Well, I mumbled it actually, hoping that maybe people wouldn’t hear. Stupid, really. They were obviously going to find out what my surname was as soon as the register was taken, though maybe if it was just read out along with a whole load of other names, no one would notice. No one would put two and two together and go, “Hey! That’s the name of that radio person’s daughter.” Cos Dad is quite well known, and just last year they’d done a thing about him in one of the newspapers. An article, with photographs. I’d done my best to hide behind Coop, but you could still see that I had blonde hair.

Fortunately it didn’t seem likely that anyone would have read the article, because after all, why should they? Probably none of them ever listened to the radio. It might be like some kind of god in my house, but I bet to most people it is ancient technology. And even if they did listen, they wouldn’t be listening to Dad. He is not at all cool.

Zoe, on the far side of the room, called across to me. “Speak louder!”

“Cheek,” muttered Millie.

Mrs Bradbeer nodded at me encouragingly. “Just a little bit more volume?”

For a moment I had wild thoughts of claiming to be an orphan, but that was a bit too mad even for me, so instead I gabbled really fast.

“I live with my mum and dad plus two brothers and two sisters with me being in the middle. We used to have some stick insects but they died and we never got any more. I have only one big ambition and that is to concentrate on just being me.” And then I said, “Thank you,” and sat down.

“Thank you,” said Mrs Bradbeer.

I could feel my cheeks pulsating. Zoe sniggered, and so did one or two others. I don’t think they’d have done it if she hadn’t. It was like they all followed her.

“That was OK,” whispered Millie.

I smiled weakly. I didn’t think it was OK. I thought it was just stupid. What had I gone and said thank you for? What was that all about?

There was only one person left, a girl called Janine who looked like a garden gnome. She was tiny and stubby with a completely round face like an apple and little black buttons for eyes. She bounced up as if she were on springs. She said, “I’m Mouse,” and everybody laughed. Well, everybody that had been at Juniors. Mouse was obviously popular. I wondered if I would ever be, but I thought probably not. You can’t really be popular if you are anonymous.

As Mouse finished telling us about herself – one brother, two cats, and her dad was a dentist – the bell rang, which meant we had to move on to our next lesson. I took out my timetable. Science, with Miss Jackman. As we left the classroom, Millie said, “Can I ask you something?”

I said, “Of course,” and at once became all tensed up, waiting for her to say, “Your dad isn’t that man on the radio, is he?”

“I don’t mean to be rude,” said Millie, “but who are you when you’re not being you?”

I was relieved she hadn’t asked about Dad, but didn’t quite understand what she meant. She was looking at me expectantly, her head cocked to one side. She had this very vivid face, all scrunched up and eager, with bright eyes that sparkled wickedly.

“You said you wanted to concentrate on being you?”

“Oh! Yes.” I was embarrassed. Of all the pathetic things to say! It had just slipped out, probably as a result of nerves. Shamefaced, I said, “It’s just sometimes I can’t quite decide who I really am?”

If that made any sense, which it almost certainly didn’t. This was not a good start! I’d only been at the school for about three hours and already I’d made a complete idiot of myself.

“What I mean,” I said lamely, “is it’s like I’m one person in my head and another person when I’m, like, with people, sort of thing.”

Like that made it any better. Probably just made me sound like a total lunatic. But Millie was nodding enthusiastically.

“Same here! It’s like sometimes when you hear yourself talking and you think, is this really me saying all that stuff? Or is this other one really me? This one that’s sitting back listening? And then you think, who is the real me? Who is the real anybody? How are you supposed to know?”

I thought that some people seemed to know OK. I couldn’t imagine any of my family stopping to ask themselves who they were.

“Sometimes,” I said, “I can’t make up my mind whether I’m just Peachy or whether there’s something more.”

Millie skipped out of the way as two huge Year 10s went lumbering past.

“Why just Peachy?” she said.

I’ve always been Just Peachy. Almost ever since I can remember.

“It’s what my family call me,” I said. “Well, it’s not what they actually call me. It’s not like a nickname or anything. It’s more what they say, like, ‘Oh, it’s just Peachy.’ Like there was this one time, when I was little, we’d gone to visit my gran…” Big Gran, it was. “I was clambering round the room on the furniture and I went and fell off and clonked my head and started howling, and Gran came rushing in wanting to know what had happened, and Mum said, ‘It’s all right, you don’t have to worry, it’s just Peachy.’”

“What did she say that for?” said Millie. “It seems a bit mean.”

“I suppose – ” I wanted to be fair to Mum, even though it was Gran who had picked me up and cuddled me – “I suppose cos I was the sort of child that was always doing that sort of thing.”

“Even so,” said Millie. And then she screwed up her face and said, “Families!”

I wondered what hers was like, with all those annoying little sisters. The twins were a bit annoying, always showing off and doing their special twin thing, like finishing each other’s sentences or collapsing into secretive peals of laughter. They would giggle away for minutes on end, without anyone ever knowing why.

“Know what?” said Millie. “I was having this huge big argument with my dad the other day and he was getting really mad. I could see him getting all bright red. And in the end he said, ‘You have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. You are a mere child.’”

“Like that means you’re not entitled to have opinions?” I said.

“I guess not,” said Millie. “Not according to my dad.”

“Honestly,” I said. “Families!”

The second bell was ringing as we reached the science lab. We had been dawdling rather; all the others had raced ahead. Guiltily we made our way down to the front, to the last two empty places. Miss Jackman stood watching us, starched and crackly in her white coat.

“Just get a move on, you two! You should have been here five minutes ago.”

You two. I liked that! I think Millie did too, cos she gave another of her impish grins as we slid on to our stools. Seconds later, she pushed a scribbled note along the bench:

“Hi, Just Peachy! This is your friend Merely Millie. LOL!”

I think that was the moment when I began to feel that maybe Sacred Heart would not be so bad. When Gran asked me if I had made any friends yet, I was able to tell her very proudly that I had.

“Excellent,” said Gran. “I’m sure that must be a great relief to your mum. I know she was a bit worried.”

Mum has this belief that I am shy. But I really am not! So long as I can just be me. The reason I’d found it so difficult to make friends at primary school was because of everyone always expecting me to be someone else. All the really cool kids lost interest once they discovered I wasn’t like Charlie. And all the others were too busy trying to get into the smart set to bother with a non-entity who’d been dismissed as boring. That only left a few nerdy ones, which made me think I must be pretty nerdy myself, only how can you tell? I wasn’t nerdy like Ginetta Derby, who used to keep whining at me to get autographs for her. It was all she was interested in: autographs.

“Your dad must know hundreds of stars! He must meet them all the time. Please, Peachy… I really need him to get some for me!”

And then there was Emily Ashton, who trailed round with me at break time and did nothing but moan.

“Everyone is so mean! They are all so mean. I really hate them!”

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