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much longer than they should have needed. I was kind of stressed out that they would be burnt. But when we took them out, they were nice and golden brown on the bottom. To me, they tasted perfect.
    They looked perfect too – Violet even snapped a few pics of them on her phone.
    She and I each ate two, and Violet’s aunt ate one. I wrapped the rest up and stored them in a plastic container – they’re still downstairs in my bag, fourteen of them. I feel a little bit mean for not sharing them with Kelsie and Mum, but I don’t want to explain where they came from.
    When I hear Mum’s bedroom door close, I tiptoe downstairs, unwrap the scones and leave two ofthem out on a plate on the kitchen table. Let Mum and her followers try to figure out who made them. She’ll never guess in a million years that it was her boring old daughter. I climb back in my bed and drift off to sleep, still breathing in the phantom smell of cinnamon.

A DOLLOP OF TEARS
    T he next morning the scones are gone (with a plate of crumbs left behind on the table) and the door to the Mum Cave is shut.
    The day goes slowly – the usual sort of Sunday: Mum working, me playing with Kelsie until Mum comes out and zaps dinner in the microwave, then falls asleep on the sofa . . . I creep into Mrs Simpson’s house just before teatime to feed her cat, but I feel uneasy there by myself. What if her nephew comes round today after Violet’s aunt talks to him? I sneak out again, wondering if I’ll ever have the courage to go back there and use the kitchen. Or will the scones be our first andlast attempt?
    The next morning, Mum is up and in her office by the time I come downstairs. I can hear Mum’s voice, talking animatedly to someone on her mobile. By the time I’m ready to leave for school, and have got Kelsie ready too, Mum still hasn’t come out. I feel kind of sad that she hasn’t even bothered to come out to say goodbye to us. But when I pick up my bag (filled with a dozen scones) and leave the house, I feel better.
    As class is about to begin, Violet comes up to me in the hall. ‘Do you have them?’ she whispers behind her hand. I feel a little flicker of pride when I see that, behind her, Gretchen and Alison are looking in our direction.
    â€˜Yeah,’ I say. ‘I gave one – well, two, actually – to Mum. But I’ve got the rest with me. Do you want one?’
    â€˜Later.’ Violet smiles conspiratorially. ‘In fact, I have an idea.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜You’ll see. Leave them with me. And come to the canteen at lunchtime, OK?’
    I ignore a tiny stab of alarm. ‘OK.’

    Worry knots in my chest later on as I walk into the canteen. On a table at the centre is a large pink and purple Easter basket. I watch as a few kids go up toit and peer inside. There’s a sign taped to the handle of the basket.
    FREE SAMPLES!
    My stomach clenches. I sit down at a table near the door and watch the steady stream of people going up to the basket and helping themselves. A moment later, Violet plunks down beside me.
    â€˜Do you like my surprise?’ she whispers.
    I stand up awkwardly. ‘Um . . . I’ll see you later, OK. I’ve got to see Ms Carver about an essay I wrote.’
    Violet stops smiling. ‘What’s up with you?’
    â€˜Nothing.’ My voice catches. ‘You didn’t tell anyone that I helped make the scones, did you?’
    â€˜No, I didn’t. But what’s the problem? Everybody loves them.’
    I look over to the central table. People are hovering around like wasps at a picnic. Some kids are talking to other kids that I know for sure aren’t their friends. The volume of chat in the room rises steadily. There were only twelve scones, but people seem to be sharing them out – even the crumbs.
    â€˜Yeah, great. It’s just . . . could you not mention my name? I mean – can