and the glare from it danced off the tin roofs of the houses ahead of them.
âFeels good,â said Peri. âShould be going for a swim.â
âLike where?â
âJust a thought.â
They ducked under the police tape and headed back the way they had come the day before.
âYou think someone is going to have written on our photo, donât you,â said Peri.
âMaybe.â Red stared down the road ahead of her. She couldnât tell him that she had a picture in her mind, a firm picture that on that photo would be words written by her mum or her dad. They would say they were looking for her. They were so relieved to have found her. It was a miracle. They were there in the building, maybe standing right next to the photo, waiting for her to come back in to check the board.
They would see her coming and they would run to her with arms outstretched. There would be tears. They were her family, they knew her name and they recognised her and she would know them.
She didnât look at the front yards where people were stacking the smashed-up garden furniture, bits of fence railing, bricks and concrete. She followed Peri, stepping around the holes in the footpath, moving aside for an old man in a wheelchair who wheezed and hissed past them.
⢠⢠⢠⢠â¢
It was just as the day before. Children were playing with hoops and balls on the grass while there were huge crowds of people, some heading for the building, others just standing around waiting for something to happen. There was a hum, a buzz of background noise. Red couldnât hear individual words but it was as if everyone was talking, questioning, filling the air with their voices.
They joined the queue that snaked towards the doors. Red clenched her fists so tightly that her nails dug into her palms. Pain ripped through the cuts and torn sections of skin. She forced her hands to spread open. Someone would have written on her photo. They must have. Peri was at the door first. He shouldered his way past those who were ahead of him and got to the boards. Red was through the door. The crowd drew her past the first board and then she heard Periâs voice.
âRed, Red. Quick. Look!â
She stumbled past a couple to reach him. There must be something. Her mum? Her dad? Beneath the words they had written was scrawled:
Ruby Martin? You look like my friend Ginger from Year Five.
Jazz
0464819556
And I didnât know you had a brother.
CHAPTER FIVE
JAZZ. JAZZ AND GINGER.
She is the girl sitting next to me. The broken arm. It wasnât the monkey bars, it was racing on rollerblades. Across the playground we went, holding hands, the fastest twins in the Universe. Then Jazz hit a crack in the concrete and over she went, both of us sprawled at the feet of half our class and Mr Tomkin. He went off his brain. Jazz was screaming. I was all right. The ambulance. Hospital. Plaster.
Peri was shaking her. âWhatâs going on? Whoâs this Jazz?â
âI think I remember her. She was my best friend.
The girl in the photo. The one with the broken arm.â
âLetâs phone her, then. Sheâll know who you are. Where your parents are. She can tell you why you arenât in the Year Six photo.â
Red tore the message from the bottom of the page.
Ruby Martin? You look like my friend Ginger from Year Five.
Jazz
0464819556
And I didnât know you had a brother.
She folded it over and over into a tiny square and slipped the paper into her pocket. Jazz could tell her who she was. Jazz could fill the huge empty space in her head. She could answer all the questions, tick all the boxes.
What happened after the accident? After the broken arm? Red pushed her way through the crowd, out onto the grass. Nothing. No pictures in her head of parents. No pictures of Jazz beyond the sprawling and the school photo. What had happened next?
They sat in the sunshine and broke open another packet of
âFeels good,â said Peri. âShould be going for a swim.â
âLike where?â
âJust a thought.â
They ducked under the police tape and headed back the way they had come the day before.
âYou think someone is going to have written on our photo, donât you,â said Peri.
âMaybe.â Red stared down the road ahead of her. She couldnât tell him that she had a picture in her mind, a firm picture that on that photo would be words written by her mum or her dad. They would say they were looking for her. They were so relieved to have found her. It was a miracle. They were there in the building, maybe standing right next to the photo, waiting for her to come back in to check the board.
They would see her coming and they would run to her with arms outstretched. There would be tears. They were her family, they knew her name and they recognised her and she would know them.
She didnât look at the front yards where people were stacking the smashed-up garden furniture, bits of fence railing, bricks and concrete. She followed Peri, stepping around the holes in the footpath, moving aside for an old man in a wheelchair who wheezed and hissed past them.
⢠⢠⢠⢠â¢
It was just as the day before. Children were playing with hoops and balls on the grass while there were huge crowds of people, some heading for the building, others just standing around waiting for something to happen. There was a hum, a buzz of background noise. Red couldnât hear individual words but it was as if everyone was talking, questioning, filling the air with their voices.
They joined the queue that snaked towards the doors. Red clenched her fists so tightly that her nails dug into her palms. Pain ripped through the cuts and torn sections of skin. She forced her hands to spread open. Someone would have written on her photo. They must have. Peri was at the door first. He shouldered his way past those who were ahead of him and got to the boards. Red was through the door. The crowd drew her past the first board and then she heard Periâs voice.
âRed, Red. Quick. Look!â
She stumbled past a couple to reach him. There must be something. Her mum? Her dad? Beneath the words they had written was scrawled:
Ruby Martin? You look like my friend Ginger from Year Five.
Jazz
0464819556
And I didnât know you had a brother.
CHAPTER FIVE
JAZZ. JAZZ AND GINGER.
She is the girl sitting next to me. The broken arm. It wasnât the monkey bars, it was racing on rollerblades. Across the playground we went, holding hands, the fastest twins in the Universe. Then Jazz hit a crack in the concrete and over she went, both of us sprawled at the feet of half our class and Mr Tomkin. He went off his brain. Jazz was screaming. I was all right. The ambulance. Hospital. Plaster.
Peri was shaking her. âWhatâs going on? Whoâs this Jazz?â
âI think I remember her. She was my best friend.
The girl in the photo. The one with the broken arm.â
âLetâs phone her, then. Sheâll know who you are. Where your parents are. She can tell you why you arenât in the Year Six photo.â
Red tore the message from the bottom of the page.
Ruby Martin? You look like my friend Ginger from Year Five.
Jazz
0464819556
And I didnât know you had a brother.
She folded it over and over into a tiny square and slipped the paper into her pocket. Jazz could tell her who she was. Jazz could fill the huge empty space in her head. She could answer all the questions, tick all the boxes.
What happened after the accident? After the broken arm? Red pushed her way through the crowd, out onto the grass. Nothing. No pictures in her head of parents. No pictures of Jazz beyond the sprawling and the school photo. What had happened next?
They sat in the sunshine and broke open another packet of