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know.” Aunt Kay speaks firmly, leaning forward. “The fact that your mother is seeing a psychiatrist is completely private. Maureen, I promise you, eventually this will end and the whole thing will be just a bad memory.”
    I nod slowly, take a deep breath. “People will find out. They always do.” The tears are trickling down my face now, no way can I stop them. “What about Aunt Grace? She always tells everything.”
    â€œI’ve already spoken to Grace and that won’t be a problem. Nobody in this family will be discussing your mother’s illness. We won’t be saying a word. We’ll just keep your mother here at home until she’s better and keep everyone else away. Hopefully, this psychiatrist can give her something to bring her around a bit.”
    I nod slowly, pick at a loose thread on the cuff of my cardigan. Keep everyone away? How long is that going to work? What about my friends? What will I tell them?
    â€œSo it’s actually a good thing she’s seeing this new doctor today. Hopefully, he’ll find a solution.”
    I yank the thread hard, pulling it free. “When will she be home?”
    â€œNot sure, really. To be honest, I thought they’d be back by now. It can’t be too much longer.”
    I nod woodenly.
    â€œNow, didn’t you say you wanted to go to ballet? Why don’t you give Debbie a call? How was school today, anyway? I didn’t even ask.” Aunt Kay is really trying hard here, but seriously, what’s the point? Does anyone actually care?
    Suddenly nothing else in my life seems important. Not ballet. Not school. Nothing. My foolishness in Miss Godwin’s class seems a million miles away, like it happened in another time and space. Maureen O’Neill, the funny girl, so stupid. Then a new dread hits me—what if that story finds its way home? That’s all my family needs right now, to discover I’ve been crucifying the music teacher. Dad would be furious. And Aunt Kay would be so disappointed.
    â€œI don’t think I want to go to ballet anymore.”
    â€œOf course you’re going to ballet!” announces Aunt Kay, standing up. It’s the school principal talking now, you don’t dare argue with this. “I don’t care if I have to call Debbie myself. Now have a quick snack and get yourself ready.” She bends down, kisses the top of my head, and her kindness starts up the tears again.
    â€œMaureen, trust me. In the end, this will be okay. Now call Debbie while I check on Billy and Bobby, see what chaos they’ve created in the last ten minutes.” She disappears through the kitchen door.

    * * * * *

    I stand listlessly on the sidewalk outside the house, my pink ballet bag slung over one shoulder, scanning the top of the street for the blue Austin Mini carrying Debbie and her mom. The sun is lower in the sky now and the dark shadow of our grey-shingled bungalow stretches across the road to the other side. A stiff breeze sails down the street. There’s an icy edge to it and I shiver and stamp my feet for warmth.
    A psychiatrist? What if Mom really is crazy? I feel empty, hollowed-out, sucked away. The scrappy terrier from next door bounces and yaps around my feet but I don’t really care, barely even notice.
    People will find out, they always do.
    If only we could just go back to how things used to be . . .

CHAPTER SIX

    THE RICH SMELL OF roasting turkey warms the whole house; in the living room a coal fire burns low and red in the grate. From the hi-fi, Bing Crosby sings White Christmas , his voice deep and hypnotic. Slouching lazily on the sofa, my eyes drift toward the Christmas tree, which shimmers in the dim afternoon light. Long silver icicles sparkle and turn like millions of tiny mirrors, reflecting shiny glass ornaments and glowing red and green lights. My thoughts drift peacefully away.
    In the armchair next to the fire, feet propped up on a round