photos.â
Mumâs used to weird questions from me, depending on what Iâm reading. But you could tell that this one baffled her.
âWhat do you mean?â
âWell,â I explained. âSuppose each time I touched a book, I knew exactly what was in it.â
She gave a little snort of amusement. âNow wouldnât your teachers all be pleased with that!â
âBut it felt real. And sometimes it upset me.â
âLike when you read that ghastly book about that badger?â
âMuch worse than that.â
Mum gave me a look. We both remembered what I was like, reading that badger book. She kept on trying to tug it away, but I kept snatching it back because, once Iâd got started, I had to know what happened. But I couldnât stop crying, right through to the horrible end. And the minute Iâd finished, Mum stuffed it in the dustbin.
âAnd every leaf that rustled seemed to shriek âDanger!ââ
âWell,â she said thoughtfully. âIf it was going to be worse than that, I couldnât be doing with it.â
âWhat about the photos? Suppose I could tell how everyone in a photo was going to end up?â
âYou mean, look at a school photograph, and be able to tell whoâd end up in jail, and whoâd end up prime minister?â
âThat sort of thing.â
She shuddered. âI canât imagine anything worse than being able to see into the future.â
âYou wouldnât call it a gift, then?â
âNo, I certainly wouldnât. It sounds terrible.â
âAnd you wouldnât encourage it?â
â Encourage it? I think Iâd forbid it!â
âYou canât forbid magic,â I reminded her.
âOh, canât you?â said my mum, in such a determined â I couldâ tone of voice that I was practically assured on the spot that, if Iâd been unlucky enough to be born with a gift like Imogenâs, my mother would have splatted it flat in my cradle.
And wasnât I glad about that!
CHAPTER NINE
I was called up to the desk about my homework. Mr Hooper swung round in his chair till we both had our backs to everyone.
âIs this your idea of being a friend ?â he asked me crossly, flapping my âCompare and Contrastâ work under my nose.
âI told you it was private,â I said stubbornly. âAnd I put on a giant P .â
âMelly, this piece is horrible .â
âItâs true ,â I argued.
âBut you canât write things just because theyâre true .â
âThatâs the whole point of writing,â I explained. âBooks say theyâre made up, but theyâre actually a lot more truthful than real life.â
âWhat do you mean?â
âWell, look,â I said. âPeople feel safer if itâs in a book. You can read about the most terrible people, and hardly think twice about it. But if you hear something even a quarter as bad about someone you know in real life, everyone goes bananas.â I pointed at my homework. âSee?â
That shut him up.
â And ,â I went on, âyou know whatâs going on better in books.â I pointed over at Imogen. âIâd have a whole lot better idea of what was going on in her house, and inside her head, if she were in a book. At least the person who wrote it wouldnât be too polite to tell me. As it is, I just have to guess .â
âMelly,â he told me sternly, âI didnât try and help you make a friend just so you could start being nosy about her private life.â
âI thought people were supposed to be interested in their friends.â
âInterested, yes. Nosy, certainly not.â
âI donât see any difference.â
He couldnât explain it, that was obvious. He flicked the pages Iâd written between his fingers once or twice, staring at me anxiously, while I thought how