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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, ‘Oh, I’m sure she didn’t mean it’, or, ‘I expect she just forgot, dear’, or, ‘No, she likes you really ’. Authors are braver, and more honest. They would explain why Imogen’s 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 she’d had such a horrible gift passed on to her.
    A gift passed on . . .
    â€˜Mel?’ Mr Hooper was still staring at me.
    â€˜Sorry,’ I said hastily. But still the words snagged in my brain. ‘A gift passed on . . .’ They were reminding me of something, but I couldn’t think what.
    Now Mr Hooper was sighing. ‘You just don’t get it, do you, Mel?’
    â€˜No.’ I was getting irritable myself now. ‘And I don’t think it’s fair, you ticking me off like this. You said, “Compare and Contrast”. You said we could do anything. And you agreed it could be private. I haven’t shown my work to Imogen. I haven’t hurt her feelings. I just chose something interesting, thought about it hard, and wrote it properly.’
    â€˜But, really, Mel! To write a piece about how your two mums are so different!’ He peered at the top page in his hand. ‘“ My mum might be horribly ratty, but at least she has a grip. You can depend on her .” And fancy writing—’ Again, he searched the page for the bit that had upset him. ‘“ 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 couldn’t come to her with a problem. She’d just pretend it wasn’t there, or didn’t matter. ”’
    â€˜She would, too,’ I insisted. ‘Maybe you haven’t met her, but I have.’
    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.
    â€˜This isn’t going in your folder,’ he said. ‘I’m burning it. I’m not going to run the risk of Imogen ever seeing it.’
    â€˜Fine by me.’
    â€˜And you’re to promise me you’ll never mention it.’
    â€˜I promise.’
    â€˜Cross your heart?’
    â€˜Cross my heart.’
    He gave me a good long look, and you could tell that what he really wanted to say was, ‘Mel, you’re so weird .’ But he controlled himself.
    â€˜Right,’ he said, swivelling back to face the rest of the class. ‘This discussion is over.’
    â€˜Except—’ I reminded him.
    â€˜Except?’
    â€˜My mark,’ I said. ‘You haven’t told me what I got for it.’
    Back came the stern look. ‘Melly,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t mark this if you paid me my weight in gold.’
    â€˜But, if you did  . . .?’ I persisted.
    He rolled his eyes. ‘Mel, you’re incorrigible .’
    â€˜Just tell me,’ I begged. ‘After all, I spent a good long time on it, and did it as well as I could.’
    â€˜Oh, very well!’ he snapped. ‘Since you have promised you’ll never mention it again, I’ll tell you what you would have got for it.’
    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.
    â€˜Tom.’
    â€˜Matty.’
    â€˜Pats. No! Sorry, I’ve changed my mind. Louay!’
    â€˜Then I’ll have Pats.’
    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