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photos.’
    Mum’s used to weird questions from me, depending on what I’m reading. But you could tell that this one baffled her.
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    â€˜Well,’ I explained. ‘Suppose each time I touched a book, I knew exactly what was in it.’
    She gave a little snort of amusement. ‘Now wouldn’t your teachers all be pleased with that!’
    â€˜But it felt real. And sometimes it upset me.’
    â€˜Like when you read that ghastly book about that badger?’
    â€˜Much worse than that.’
    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 I’d got started, I had to know what happened. But I couldn’t stop crying, right through to the horrible end. And the minute I’d finished, Mum stuffed it in the dustbin.

    â€œAnd every leaf that rustled seemed to shriek ‘Danger!’”
    â€˜Well,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘If it was going to be worse than that, I couldn’t be doing with it.’
    â€˜What about the photos? Suppose I could tell how everyone in a photo was going to end up?’
    â€˜You mean, look at a school photograph, and be able to tell who’d end up in jail, and who’d end up prime minister?’
    â€˜That sort of thing.’
    She shuddered. ‘I can’t imagine anything worse than being able to see into the future.’
    â€˜You wouldn’t call it a gift, then?’
    â€˜No, I certainly wouldn’t. It sounds terrible.’
    â€˜And you wouldn’t encourage it?’
    â€˜ Encourage it? I think I’d forbid it!’
    â€˜You can’t forbid magic,’ I reminded her.
    â€˜Oh, can’t you?’ said my mum, in such a determined ‘ I could’ tone of voice that I was practically assured on the spot that, if I’d been unlucky enough to be born with a gift like Imogen’s, my mother would have splatted it flat in my cradle.
    And wasn’t 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.
    â€˜Is this your idea of being a friend ?’ he asked me crossly, flapping my ‘Compare and Contrast’ work under my nose.
    â€˜I told you it was private,’ I said stubbornly. ‘And I put on a giant P .’
    â€˜Melly, this piece is horrible .’
    â€˜It’s true ,’ I argued.
    â€˜But you can’t write things just because they’re true .’
    â€˜That’s the whole point of writing,’ I explained. ‘Books say they’re made up, but they’re actually a lot more truthful than real life.’
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    â€˜Well, look,’ I said. ‘People feel safer if it’s 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.’ I pointed at my homework. ‘See?’

    That shut him up.
    â€˜ And ,’ I went on, ‘you know what’s going on better in books.’ I pointed over at Imogen. ‘I’d 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 wouldn’t be too polite to tell me. As it is, I just have to guess .’
    â€˜Melly,’ he told me sternly, ‘I didn’t try and help you make a friend just so you could start being nosy about her private life.’
    â€˜I thought people were supposed to be interested in their friends.’
    â€˜Interested, yes. Nosy, certainly not.’
    â€˜I don’t see any difference.’
    He couldn’t explain it, that was obvious. He flicked the pages I’d written between his fingers once or twice, staring at me anxiously, while I thought how