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kitchen chairs and flings it at her.
    You’d never know Mum was in the middle of an argument. She seems to be smirking. ‘You have a think about it, Apple, OK? Decide for yourself.’
    I nod dumbly.
    ‘Get out!’ Dad shouts.
    ‘And remember that I love you,’ Mum adds.
    A marble rises in my throat.
    ‘I know you do,’ I say. But until today, I had no idea.

10
    Nana and Dad sit downstairs whispering. It’s obvious they are plotting against Mum. I don’t even try to overhear – I don’t want to know what they’re saying. To distract myself from having to think about it, I root in my school bag for my English homework. I find the poem Mr Gaydon gave me this morning and read through it.
    It’s a poem called ‘ Stevie Scared’ about a boy who is scared of everything, and it’s sort of funny because he’s even scared of things like ladders and trees. But my favourite part of the poem is the last bit where we find out that Stevie is so afraid of the world that he hurts people to prove how tough he is; he acts mean so no one will ever know he’s a scaredy-cat.
    I wonder how the poem could relate to my life. But Stevie is not me. When I’m scared, I don’t fight with people – I shrivel up.
    I start typing.
     
    ‘Apple Afraid’ by Apple Apostolopoulou
     
    Apple Afraid, afraid of fights,
    Afraid of Christmas, of thundery nights,
    Afraid of butterflies, afraid of slugs,
    Afraid of Nana’s kisses, afraid of Dad’s hugs,
    Afraid of circuses, afraid of clowns,
    Afraid of Dad’s moods, afraid of Nana’s frowns,
    Afraid of speaking in front of the class,
    Afraid of being made to look like an ass,
    Afraid of having no friends at school,
    Afraid of all the girls who are easily cool,
    Afraid to be honest, afraid to be true,
    Afraid of Mum turning up out of the blue,
    Afraid of drowning, swallowing water,
    Afraid of being a lousy daughter.
     
    I check the word count: one hundred words exactly. I cup my chin in my hand and think about printing it and handing it in. I haven’t the energy to write another fake answer. But then there’s the problem of Mr Gaydon asking us to read aloud and edit one another’s work. If he let us work with our friends and I knew Pilar would read it, that would be OK. But he could pair me with anyone. I could get Jim Joyce, for God’s sake.
    I sigh and open a new document.
     
    ‘Derry’ by Apple Apostolopoulou
     
    My dog Derry is usually very sweet and obedient. But when I take him for a walk on the lead, he gets all excited and tries to break my arm. And the scariest part is when he sees another dog, especially a big one like a Rottweiler, because Derry doesn’t realise he’s only a soppy Labrador. He starts by sniffing the Rottweiler’s bum. Then they do this dance where they go around and around in circles until Derry barks angrily and so does the other dog and there’s chaos. I worry Derry will get killed in a dogfight some day.
     
    I press Print . The paper stammers out of the printer. I need to make a bigger effort with my English homework but not tonight. I have other things to think about, and doing well at school isn’t one of them.

11
    ‘I like your Nana,’ Pilar says. ‘I’d stay with her.’ We’ve eaten lunch and are sitting on the tennis court behind the gym, sharing a bag of liquorice laces. It’s drizzling. No one else is about.
    ‘Nana’s so strict all the time.’
    ‘But why was your mum in America anyway?’ Pilar asks.
    ‘She’s an actress,’ I say. I puff with pride.
    ‘Couldn’t she come back for holidays?’
    ‘She was always busy.’
    ‘My uncle lives in California and he said that in America you don’t get any holidays. I mean, he gets Christmas Day off, but there’s not even any such thing as Boxing Day. He works on Saturdays too.’
    ‘I don’t know how much she worked,’ I admit.
    Pilar’s phone vibrates, and she checks it.
    ‘Who’s that?’ I ask.
    ‘No one.’
    Is she trying to keep secrets from me? I poke her. ‘What