Heartbeat Away Read online

  Downstairs in the kitchen, I make toast, but I’m too on edge to eat it. Danny wolfs it down as I make my packed lunch, checking the clock every couple of minutes, anxiously wishing I could prolong the moment until I have to leave. Joe pops his head round the door.

  ‘I’m off now,’ he says awkwardly. ‘Have a good day.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I mumble, lowering my head and avoiding his eye.

  I know that walking into my registration form is going to be the hardest part of the day, so when I get to school I hurry through the puddle-strewn playground and slip inside early, before the bell rings. I’m already seated in my usual place at the very back as the rest of the class file in. I lift up my desk, stash away my lunch bag then take out a notebook and start furiously doodling in it, desperately trying to take my mind off the looks I can feel burning into me. Somehow, just drawing the long curving neck and body of a swan calms me a little. I’ve drawn them so often, I’m getting really good at them now. I start to think about Callum again and wonder what all these swans have got to do with him.

  With my head firmly down, I sit on the edge of my seat, ready and waiting for Shannon to start. But nothing happens. Puzzled, I pluck up courage and cast a furtive glance around the room, slowly realising Shannon’s nowhere to be seen. Everyone else has arrived. Masher’s standing on a desk re-enacting level five of Death Tomb Aliens 4 to Wesley and Darren, and Leah, Alesha and Jodie sit in a huddle, chatting excitedly about Leah’s party in a few weeks’ time. The bell rings for the second time. Mr MacNamara bustles in and dumps his old tatty leather briefcase on his desk.

  ‘Settle down now,’ he calls amiably. ‘Crombie, you’ve got precisely three seconds to get yourself off that desk and onto your chair . . .’

  Masher gives a blood-curdling Death Tomb Alien roar and theatrically launches himself off the desk onto the floor as McNamara pointedly ignores him.

  Slowly, everyone settles into their seats and the business of registration begins. I breathe a deep sigh of relief as Shannon is marked down as absent. It’s stopped raining outside and shafts of sunlight are falling through the windows and brightening the whole room. I can’t help but smile. There is a God after all.

  38

  Fifteen minutes pass and MacNamara is just dismissing us for the first lesson, when Shannon slopes in.

  ‘You’re late, Miss Walters!’ announces Mr MacNamara.

  She ignores him but throws me a hostile look and my heart sinks like a stone. I don’t hang around, but hurry off to PE knowing that at least I can look forward to spending the next hour and a bit on my own in the library.

  Or so I think. Miss Baudelaire is off sick. A Miss Strout is waiting for us in the changing rooms.

  ‘Miss Baudelaire usually sends me to work in the library,’ I inform her politely.

  ‘Note?’ she snaps, barely looking at me.

  ‘Um, I . . . I don’t have one.’

  ‘No note – no skiving.’

  There are suppressed giggles from a couple of the other girls. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Shannon slink into the changing room, chuck someone else’s stuff off the slatted bench, then hang up her bag over the radiator.

  ‘Hurry up and get changed,’ Miss Strout orders, then, turning to the class, silences everyone with a single penetrating glare. ‘Anyone late on the pitch will make up the time after school.’

  I have no choice. I take my kit out of my locker then go over to the deepest, darkest corner of the changing room, as far away from Shannon as possible. I turn away so that no one will see my scar as I take off my school shirt. As quickly as I can, I pull on the pristine Aertex PE blouse and do the buttons right up to the very top. I change into the skimpy wrap-around skirt and pull on my trainers.

  Miss Strout starts handing out red and blue bibs. ‘You can play midfield,’ she announces, dropping a red one onto my lap.

  ‘Sorry?’ I ask, trying to work out where on the netball court she means. ‘Is that wing attack or defence?’

  More sniggers from the girls near me. Miss Strout glares at me, her face like half-set concrete.

  ‘Neither,’ she chastises. ‘We’re playing hockey.’ Disgusted by my total ignorance, she throws me a withering look, then continues handing out the bibs.

  For the last couple of weeks, while everyone else has been learning hockey, I’ve been in the library. Apart from knowing the game involves a curved stick and a ball, it’s a total mystery to me.

  It’s spitting with rain outside and everyone’s hanging around in the draughty changing room until the last possible moment. Even the sporty girls seem reluctant to head outside. Leah hangs back with Jodie and avoids looking in my direction.

  ‘Get a move on!’ calls Miss Strout, marching through the changing room door. ‘We haven’t got all day!’

  Reluctantly, girls start to follow her, each collecting a hockey stick and a pair of shin pads from the pile near the door. I notice most of them have also put mouth guards in. I rub my tongue protectively over my front teeth, trying not to think about how I’d look without them.

  ‘Out the way, Scar-Chest,’ mutters Shannon, pulling on a blue bib as she barges past me.

  ‘Don’t call me that,’ I say. The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. I stand rooted to the spot, trying to disguise the fear on my face.

  She stops abruptly in the doorway, turning to look me up and down through her mascaraed lashes.

  ‘Why not?’ she asks with a smile.

  Deep inside me a tiny flicker of anger suddenly ignites and it’s this small spark that makes me snap back, ‘Because my name’s Becky. And that’s Becky with a y. Not an i.’

  A brief look of surprise floods across Shannon’s face, but within a split second it vanishes, leaving her usual smug expression. ‘Whatever . . . Scar-Chest . . .’ She slowly turns and picks up a hockey stick and shin pads then, strolling outside, catches up with Sophie Morgan. Leah glances warily at me but when I meet her eye she quickly looks away.

  Still quietly seething, I follow everyone out onto the pitch. Miss Strout immediately directs me to Shannon’s side. To our mutual disgust, we’re pitched against one another. As I look down at the hockey stick I’m clumsily carrying, wondering how exactly the thing works, my heart begins to pound excitedly and, without thinking, I adjust my grip so naturally that the stick feels like it’s been moulded to my fingers.

  Miss Strout blows her whistle, the game starts and I instinctively know exactly what to do. It’s as if I’ve been playing hockey every week for the last five years of my life. I skilfully dribble the ball before whacking it to a red-bibbed team mate. A stunned Miss Strout eyes me curiously, trying to make out why someone who’s so obviously in her element tried to skive off the lesson in the first place.

  ‘Mark up, girl!’ she snaps at Shannon, who glares across the pitch at me and takes every opportunity to try to whack her stick across my legs when Miss Strout isn’t looking.

  To avoid her, I head for the shooting circle, as Leah and another red-bibbed attacker exchange passes, quickly gaining ground towards me.

  Suddenly, Sophie Morgan charges up, barging in front of me. ‘Leah! To me!’ she calls assertively, holding her stick poised, ready for the ball.

  Leah hesitates, looking from Sophie to me, but then suddenly taps me the ball. Surprised, I stop it, dribble it past the last two blue bibs into the ‘D’, then take aim, and drag- flick it straight into the net, where it hits the backboard with a loud and very satisfying clunk. A small cheer goes up from the red bibs. Shannon’s giving me the evils now as Leah passes me on her way back down the pitch. This time, she doesn’t look away but meets my eye with the faintest of smiles.

  ‘Great goal,’ she says quietly.

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply. My elation soars sky high until it suddenly hits me that I’m no natural-born hockey star, and my goal is no lucky fluke, either. I’m hot from running, but an icy shiver tingles through me as I realise my newfound skill has nothing to do with me, and ev
erything to do with Callum.

  39

  Conflicting thoughts of Callum prey on my mind as I struggle to make sense of what happened this morning on the hockey pitch. I can’t concentrate in lessons and I’m told off for daydreaming. Twice. When the bell finally goes for lunch I hurry back to my form room. Sophie and Shannon are there, deep in conversation, with their backs to the door. I decide I’m not going to hang around, so I slope in as quietly as I can, lift the lid of my desk and grab my lunch bag. In my haste, the lid slips from my fingers and crashes down with a bang. Sophie and Shannon immediately turn around and glare at me, daggers drawn. But then Sophie’s expression changes as she smiles knowingly at Shannon.

  ‘Enjoy your lunch,’ she says.

  I don’t hang around to hear any more but head straight out into the playground. I sit down on the furthest bench under the oak tree, take out my anti-bacterial wipes, carefully clean my hands, then open up my bag and reach inside. But instead of my usual peanut butter sandwich, my fingers touch something else. Something warm, squidgy . . . and alive. I scream and reel backwards, throwing the bag onto the grass. I stare in horror at my hand, coated with filthy, germ-ridden soil.

  A small brown lump emerges from my lunch bag. Slowly, the thing moves towards the bench.

  It’s a bumpy-skinned, dirty, slimy toad. And it’s been in my bag. I shudder helplessly as my stomach turns a somersault and I have the overwhelming urge to be sick. As I fight down the sour acid taste rising in my throat, I realise I know exactly who’s done this.

  This time Shannon Walters has gone one step too far. She’s pushed me over the edge and she isn’t going to get away with it.

  40

  Furiously, I march back inside, down the corridor towards my form room.

  ‘Ignore her,’ I try to tell myself. ‘Don’t let her see how upset you are.’

  But I can’t stop. I’m beyond upset. I’m livid. The teasing is upsetting, the online comments are nasty, but this is far, far worse and she knows it. I’m going to have it out with Shannon Walters once and for all.

  I push open our form room door and see her sitting with Sophie, behind Leah and Jodie.

  I stride straight up to her. ‘I suppose you think this is funny?’ I yell, flinging my lunch bag at her. It drops to the floor by her feet. A dirt-filled sandwich falls out and she eyes it curiously.

  ‘Well, it’s not, d’you understand? It’s not funny at all!’

  ‘What’s got into you, Scar-Chest?’ she says, leaning back on her chair and looking up at me.

  ‘I told you not to call me that!’

  She looks me squarely in the face and smirks. ‘Oh, so sorry . . . Scar-Chest,’ she murmurs sweetly.

  ‘Shannon, stop it!’ shouts Leah.

  But it’s too late.

  This is the moment I flip. The second I completely lose it. That small spark of anger I felt earlier ignites into flames. They burn so furiously around me that I no longer know or care what I am doing. Gathering all my strength, I push Shannon so hard, her chair flips backwards and she falls with a noisy crack onto the polished wooden floor.

  For a second, she doesn’t move. She just stares up at me in complete shock. I take a step backwards, staring down at her as Leah’s voice echoes in my ears.

  ‘Oh, Becky, what have you done?’

  Shannon gives a small tight groan but makes no attempt to get up. Leah rushes forward to help her up but, as she touches her hand, Shannon screams in pain. Darren pokes his head round the door.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asks.

  ‘Shannon’s hurt,’ I hear Leah call to him. ‘Go and get help.’

  Darren disappears off as Wesley saunters into the room. He looks down at Shannon lying helpless on the floor.

  ‘Oh gross, man . . .’ he mutters. Covering his mouth with his sleeve, his eyes fix on Shannon’s left arm, which lies unnaturally bent, with the bone poking through her skin.

  41

  The door of Mr Patterson’s office opens and Mrs Andrews emerges.

  ‘You can go in now,’ she says in a hushed tone, holding the heavy wooden door open for me. I have only been in the Head’s office once before, in Year Seven, when I won a big cross-county race in record time and was congratulated by Mr Patterson before he announced my triumph to the whole school the following day in assembly.

  Mr Patterson sits behind his huge desk, writing something on a sheet of paper in front of him. Perched uncomfortably on the edge of a nearby chair is Mum. Her face is pinched and pale and she’s frowning. I know that inwardly she’s fuming. She barely glances at me as I walk in, stand on the thick patterned rug in front of the desk and wait. Finally Mr Patterson looks up, his expression serious.

  ‘Well, Becky?’

  I shuffle from foot to foot and glance sideways at Mum, who’s staring straight ahead.

  ‘What exactly have you got to say for yourself?’ he demands sternly.

  I look down at the floor, totally ashamed. I’ve never deliberately hurt anyone before in my life. ‘I’m really sorry, sir. I don’t know what happened. I just lost my temper.’

  ‘That much I already know. Shannon Walters has a very badly broken wrist, thanks to your lack of self-control.’ He sucks in a deep breath. ‘I know you have had an enormous amount of stress to cope with over the past couple of years, Becky, being seriously ill and with your transplant. It’s only because of this that I am not going to suspend you from school.’

  From the corner of my eye I see Mum take a relieved breath.

  ‘It would seem that this incident is a one-off and completely out of character, but I’ve talked to some of your teachers and they’ve reported that they’ve noticed a definite change of attitude in you since your return to school this term.’

  I fidget uncomfortably as Mr Patterson continues his lecture.

  ‘Mr McNamara, for example, has repeatedly found you skulking in the cloakroom when you should be in assembly and Miss Devine reports that you’ve refused to join in many of the group exercises in her drama class. And apparently you’ve only attended one PE lesson since you returned.’

  ‘I didn’t like . . . I didn’t want to be . . .’ My voice trails off.

  ‘The point I am making, Becky, is that although you’ve certainly been through a very difficult, traumatic time, you’re recovering from this now, yet over the last few weeks you’ve become increasingly wilful and disobedient. You appear to be a changed girl. And, unlike your former self, a girl who is not a credit to this school. How do you explain this?’

  Mr Patterson and Mum stare accusingly at me, waiting for my reply. But how can I explain myself? How can I possibly tell them the truth: that I believe I am experiencing my heart donor’s memories, and this is why my behaviour has changed? How can I tell them my deepest and darkest fear: that I’m taking on his whole personality?

  So I bite my lip and stay silent.

  Mum and I leave Mr Patterson’s office and walk down the corridor in silence.

  ‘Becky,’ she asks anxiously as we reach the doors to the main entrance. ‘What’s happening to you?’

  I hang my head as I feel her eyes burning into me. ‘Nothing,’ I tell her. ‘I’m all right. Nothing’s happening to me.’

  She hesitates for a few seconds before she hurries through the doors, throwing me one last worried glance.

  42

  When Mum’s gone I have no choice but to head back to my afternoon lessons.

  Taking a deep breath, I turn the handle to the door of the science lab and walk reluctantly in.

  ‘Come on in, Becky,’ calls Mrs Williams from the front of the class as soon as she sees me. ‘You’re very late.’

  ‘Sorry, miss.’

  ‘Where have you been?’

  Glancing around the class, I can tell from everyone’s expressions that Mrs Williams is the only person in this room who doesn’t know exactly what happened this lunchtime.

  ‘Becky?’

  ‘Um. Mr Patterson’s office, miss.’ />
  ‘Oh, I see.’ Her voice alters. The sympathetic note vanishes. ‘Well, you’re here now. Hurry up and sit down.’

  The only empty seat is between Leah and Sophie Morgan. Trying to ignore all the hostile stares, I hurry over and sink down onto the chair, wishing the ground would open and swallow me up. Sophie Morgan immediately scrapes her chair away from mine in what I suppose is an unspoken protest, and Leah doesn’t look up.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Leah, I don’t know what came over me,’ I whisper.

  ‘It’s not me you should be apologising to,’ she hisses back.

  ‘Shannon just pushed me over the edge —’

  ‘It wasn’t anything to do with Shannon,’ she retorts.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask puzzled.

  ‘It was Masher.’

  ‘Masher?’

  ‘Shannon didn’t know anything about it.’ Leah pulls a face. ‘She’s already got enough on her plate. They moved her to another children’s home last night. Third one this year.’

  ‘What you did was totally out of order,’ snaps Sophie.

  Leah raises her hand.

  ‘Yes, Leah?’ asks Mrs Williams.

  ‘Can I move over there, please, miss?’ says Leah, turning away from me and indicating the other side of the classroom. ‘I can’t work here.’

  43

  There are only a few days left until half-term, and Shannon is off school for the rest of the week. Thankfully, there are no assemblies and the weather stays dry so I still eat my lunch outside, on my own. I keep my head down and away from everyone else, which isn’t hard because everyone, including Leah, stays well away from me. They’ve seen what happened to Shannon. No one wants to risk a confrontation with the Freak. I have nothing to do but focus on my schoolwork, so when Mum checks with McNamara on Friday, he gives me a glowing report.