useful it would be to have an author around all the time to explain people properly, without all that stuff that everyone knows is not true really but feels they ought to say to be polite, like, âOh, Iâm sure she didnât mean itâ, or, âI expect she just forgot, dearâ, or, âNo, she likes you really â. Authors are braver, and more honest. They would explain why Imogenâs mother was too wrapped up in planting silly joke gardens and thinking everything was fun and jolly, even to notice her daughter was being driven crazy because sheâd had such a horrible gift passed on to her.
A gift passed on . . .
âMel?â Mr Hooper was still staring at me.
âSorry,â I said hastily. But still the words snagged in my brain. âA gift passed on . . .â They were reminding me of something, but I couldnât think what.
Now Mr Hooper was sighing. âYou just donât get it, do you, Mel?â
âNo.â I was getting irritable myself now. âAnd I donât think itâs fair, you ticking me off like this. You said, âCompare and Contrastâ. You said we could do anything. And you agreed it could be private. I havenât shown my work to Imogen. I havenât hurt her feelings. I just chose something interesting, thought about it hard, and wrote it properly.â
âBut, really, Mel! To write a piece about how your two mums are so different!â He peered at the top page in his hand. ââ My mum might be horribly ratty, but at least she has a grip. You can depend on her .â And fancy writingââ Again, he searched the page for the bit that had upset him. ââ It must be awful having Mrs Tate as a mother. She might be the sort of person who can make a rainy picnic fun, or giggle about anything. But you couldnât come to her with a problem. Sheâd just pretend it wasnât there, or didnât matter. ââ
âShe would, too,â I insisted. âMaybe you havenât met her, but I have.â
He slid the paper-clip off my pages, and folded them over and over till they were small enough to fit in his trouser pocket.
âThis isnât going in your folder,â he said. âIâm burning it. Iâm not going to run the risk of Imogen ever seeing it.â
âFine by me.â
âAnd youâre to promise me youâll never mention it.â
âI promise.â
âCross your heart?â
âCross my heart.â
He gave me a good long look, and you could tell that what he really wanted to say was, âMel, youâre so weird .â But he controlled himself.
âRight,â he said, swivelling back to face the rest of the class. âThis discussion is over.â
âExceptââ I reminded him.
âExcept?â
âMy mark,â I said. âYou havenât told me what I got for it.â
Back came the stern look. âMelly,â he said, âI wouldnât mark this if you paid me my weight in gold.â
âBut, if you did  . . .?â I persisted.
He rolled his eyes. âMel, youâre incorrigible .â
âJust tell me,â I begged. âAfter all, I spent a good long time on it, and did it as well as I could.â
âOh, very well!â he snapped. âSince you have promised youâll never mention it again, Iâll tell you what you would have got for it.â
I waited, knowing. And I was dead right.
Ten out of ten. Perfect A . Excellent!
Goody.
CHAPTER TEN
T hat afternoon, Imogen ended up in tears again. Our class was picking teams for indoor games. Arinda and Luke were calling.
âTom.â
âMatty.â
âPats. No! Sorry, Iâve changed my mind. Louay!â
âThen Iâll have Pats.â
As I expected, Imogen was left even till after me. But, at the end, when he was still one person down, Luke turned away and