It was too dark to see anything properly.  For all Sandy knew, there were a hundred thorns and ice patches up ahead, or a sharp bend in the branch that would send them both plummeting to the ground.  Anastasia was just a shadow up ahead.  Sandy couldn’t see whether or not her arm was still bleeding, but she could see her shiver.  But every time Sandy asked about it, she pretended nothing had happened.

Sandy was trailing behind her.  She didn’t know if there was enough room on the branch for them to walk side-by-side.  But as she walked on, an idea formed in her head, and she finally worked up the nerve to try and catch up.

“Listen,” she told Anastasia as soon as they were level, “Did I ever tell you how my mum died?”

Anastasia stopped.  “No?”  She turned to face her.  “I didn’t know she had.”

“Well, she did,” said Sandy, with a shrug.

For a moment, Anastasia didn’t say anything.  “I did always wonder why you lived with your grandparents.  I never really knew how to ask.”

“Oh.”  Now that Sandy thought about it, there were probably a lot of people at school who’d been wondering about it.  Sometimes people asked directly, but usually they were just too polite.  “Well, um, my dad actually died before I was born.  My mum when I was about eighteen months old, I think.”

“Do you remember her at all?”

Sandy had to think about it.  “I… maybe?  Sometimes I think I do, but it’s hard to know if I’m actually remembering something that happened or just the stories everyone’s told me for years.” 

“Does it…”  Anastasia shifted from one foot to the other.  “…um… make you sad?

“It’s more something that people are sad about at me.”  Sandy felt she’d probably rushed through the last few things she’d said, but that was because none of that was the important bit.  She needed to think carefully about what came next.  “But this is what my gran told me:  She was working at a café, and there was some heavy stuff she needed to take down to the cellar…  They had these really steep stone steps, and they had a rule saying that if you had to move something over a certain weight, you were meant to either ask someone else for help or take more than one trip.  But she tried to do the whole thing at once, and she tripped.”

Sandy couldn’t see the expression on Anastasia’s face.  That was probably just as well.  She’d have wanted to say something to reassure her, and then she might never have got back on track.  “They had an investigation, to see if anyone at the café was at fault, but my gran says she knew from the start that they weren’t.  She said, ‘It was sheer stubbornness that killed her.  And the worst thing of all is, where did she get it from if not from me?’”

If the light had been better, she might have looked pointedly at Anastasia’s bleeding arm.  Then again, maybe not.  She couldn’t think of any way to do it that wouldn’t have been stupid and obvious.

For a little while- probably only a few seconds, but it felt longer- all Sandy could hear was Anastasia’s breathing.  It was the kind of breath that made you sound like you were gearing up for something.  “Well,” said Anastasia, “my mum’s not that stubborn, but she’s been with this loser for the last year and she still thinks he’s going to turn into…”  She shook her head, and let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.  “Not even ‘turn into’!  She thinks he’s already sodding perfect!  She thinks he’s the only thing keeping us from starving to death!”  She held out her hands and shook them in frustration.  “Anything bad you say about him, it’s like she hasn’t even heard it!  I might as well…”

She broke off.  Sandy didn’t see if she looked at anything before that.  It was too dark.

“Is your arm still bleeding?” asked Sandy.

“No.”

Sandy took a deep breath.  “Really?”

Anastasia looked at her arm and moved it up and down.  “I don’t know.  It’s not stinging like it was, but…”

And then she shivered.  It was a deep, racking shiver that seemed to come right from the centre of her body, and for a moment it looked like it was going to shake her right off the branch.

The words came out before Sandy could even think about them.  “We need to go back.”

“What?  It’s not that bad…”

“It’s freezing!  And we can’t see where we’re going!”

“Yeah, but it can’t go that much further.”  Anastasia pointed upwards, towards the other end.  If there was an end.

“You don’t know that!”

“Like you said, there’s only so far you can go before you’re in space.”

“We don’t want to be in space!”

“Anywhere’s better than…”

“It’s not!”  Sandy hadn’t meant to scream.  It just came out that way.

She still couldn’t see the expression on Anastasia’s face, but she could see the way she stood, the way her shoulders went back and her back went stiff.   

“You don’t know anything about it,” she snapped, and strode off.

(To be continued)

As they went on, Sandy found herself talking just so Anastasia would look her way and she could check to see whether her lips were actually turning blue.  But no matter how many times she looked, the light wasn’t good enough to tell for sure.

“So…” she said this time, “At the carol concert…”

“Ugh.  Don’t ask.”  Anastasia pressed her (possibly-blue) lips together in a scowl.  “Him.”

Sandy stayed quiet for a moment, then asked.  “How long’s he been living with you?”

“Oh, he’s not living with us,” said Anastasia, falsely light-hearted, “We’re living with him.”

“What do you mean?”

Anastasia nodded to something behind her (definitely the wrong colour).  “Well, that’s his house back there.  Not ours.”

“OK.  How long have you been living with him?”

“A few months.  They’re supposed to…”

And then she slipped.  She seemed to disappear into the night.

Sandy ran ahead- stupid, she knew, but she was panicking- and didn’t see the icy patch until she’d already slipped on it herself.  Her foot went sideways and she grabbed at the branch, forgetting all about the thorns and what Keeley had said, seeing nothing but darkness above and below until she finally caught hold of something.

Sandy was gripping the underside of the branch.  Anastasia was a little way ahead of her, legs dangling over the side.  And if they fell, they’d be falling for miles.

Anastasia moved first.  She wriggled from side to side, and then, just as Sandy was about to yell at her to stop, she got hold of something (one of the thorns, most likely) and pulled herself up.  There were a few seconds of her getting her breath back, and then Sandy felt Anastasia’s hand on her arm, pulling her upwards.

It seemed to be going well for a moment, but something went wrong- maybe when Sandy tried to grab Anastasia’s arm with her free hand- and they both went down again.  Sandy was upside-down, her hair hanging down below her, and she was only attached to the branch by her legs, still clamped around it like a vice.

Something wrenched at her arm, and Sandy flew upwards.  Anastasia was kneeling on the branch, with both hands on Sandy’s arm, and she was pulling for dear life.  Sandy felt as if her shoulder was about to dislocate, but within seconds, she was laid out across the branch.  She was on solid ground again.  Or as close as you were going to get all the way up here.

Anastasia sat with her hands on her calves, breathing deeply like an Olympic athlete after the event was finished.  It took Sandy a moment to notice the blood on her arm.

As soon as she had enough breath to talk, Sandy asked, “Did you do that on one of the thorns?”

“Hm?”   Anastasia checked her arm.  “Oh, yeah.  I guess I must have.”

Prick your finger on one of them, your hand’ll swell up and explode.  “We should go back.”

Anastasia waved a hand.  “What?  No.  I’ve had worse than this.”

“Yeah, but we don’t know what’s on those thorns.  We just…”

“It’ll be fine.  If there was something dangerous about it, we’d know by now.”

“But…”

“It’ll be fine.  Come on.”  Anastasia stood up and walked on.  But before she did, Sandy got a good enough look at her to say for sure.  Her lips were definitely blue now.

(To be continued)

It was getting darker.  All the artificial lights were back down on the ground, so all they had was the moon and the stars.

“Do you think it’s leading us somewhere?” asked Anastasia.

Sandy was doubtful.  “Somewhere up in the air?”  The only thing she could think of was the giant’s castle from “Jack and the Beanstalk.”  Even as a little kid, she’d wondered how the castle stayed up on the cloud.  If anything, having giants there should have made that more difficult.

“Like, another dimension, or something,” explained Anastasia, “Not another planet, because then we’d have to walk through space and we can’t do that.  Another dimension, that you can reach through the sky.”

Sandy looked down.  They were definitely aeroplane-height now- the little they could actually see looked more like a patchwork of indistinct fields and towns than anything else.  She vaguely remembered that the air was supposed to be thin this far up, but so far they could breathe just fine.  Maybe Anastasia was onto something.  Maybe they were heading somewhere where the rules didn’t apply.

“What do you think it’d be like?” she asked, “In the other dimension?”

“Anywhere’s better than this place,” declared Anastasia.  She stopped in her tracks, then looked down and pointed at something.  “Hey, look at that!”

It was too small to be an aeroplane, but it was bigger than any bird Sandy had ever seen.  It was like a giant shadow passing under them, between the branch and the land below.  And in its wake was a cloud of yellow lights.

“They look like fireflies,” Anastasia murmured, “Do you think we could catch them?”

Don’t, thought Sandy, It’s too dangerous.  You don’t know what those lights are.  You don’t know what they’d do to you.  But Anastasia looked completely enraptured, so all she could say was, “Maybe, if they get close enough.”

They tried, but even with their arms stretched out full-length, they couldn’t get anywhere near the lights.  Instead, they just sat there for a while and watched the shadow pass by.

(To be continued)

After that, the branch really began to climb.  Sandy went from feeling like she was walking up a gentle slope to wondering how steep it would have to get before her legs started aching too much to go on.  Below them, the town shrunk from the streets and houses they recognised to a bunch of lights and patterns in the dark.  And they still weren’t anywhere near the end.

“You really don’t know who gave you it?” asked Anastasia.

“No.”  Sandy thought a little, then added, “Well, there was this old lady I met just before Halloween, but…”  If it was Mrs Jaeger who gave you this plant, then you’re an idiot for climbing it. “Well, I don’t know why she’d be giving me presents, but she’s the only one I can think of who’d have something like this.” 

“Something magic,” said Anastasia- quietly, as if she was worried somebody might overhear her.

“Well, yeah,” said Sandy, “I guess.”  There wasn’t anything else to add to that.  There was only one word for a plant that grew like this.

Anastasia squinted up at the plant ahead of her.  “How far up do you think it goes?”

“Dunno.”  Sandy thought of something.  “How far up do you have to go before it stops being sky and starts being space?”

“We’ll know when we stop breathing.”  Anastasia said it light-heartedly, but Sandy could really have done without having to think about that.  “What’s that up there?”

Sandy looked ahead.  There was a strange, shadowy thing about twenty yards up.  “Um…  An extra branch, I think?  Or maybe…”

They moved ahead, and she saw a few more details.  It was a thorn, Sandy was sure of it.  A red-cabbage-purple thorn with dark spots, so big that the branch had to swell in the middle to accommodate it. 

It looked about five foot tall, and it was right in the middle of the path.

“Is it safe to touch?” asked Anastasia.

“I don’t know.”  Keeley’s words suddenly came back:  You watch- prick your finger on one of them, your hand’ll swell up and explode.  “I hope so.  I don’t know how we’re going to get around it if we don’t.”

Anastasia paused for a moment, analysing the giant thorn ahead of them.  Then she skipped forward and went right up to it.

Sandy thought she was going to touch it.  She was positive- Anastasia would give it a playful tap, then announce that it was safe and Sandy could come up after her.  But that’s not what happened.  Instead, Anastasia leaned backwards as if she was doing the limbo, and moved around it.

She looked as if her whole upper body was hanging off the branch, and Sandy suddenly wondered why she hadn’t been more worried about them falling until now.  They had to be at least a few hundred feet up by now.  Nearly aeroplane height.  Sandy looked down at Anastasia’s shoes- little black ballet flats, not much grip at all.  One slip and slide of the soles, and she’d be falling through the air.  But there she was, dancing around the thorn as if she knew there was a safety net.

On the other side of the thorn, Anastasia straightened up and waved.

Sandy moved slowly, one foot in front of the other, one hand on the side of the thorn.  She still wasn’t sure if touching it was a great idea, but there was no stinging or tingling in her palm as she did it, which was probably a good sign. 

Anastasia caught her eye, and shook her head.  “Tch.  Where’s your sense of adventure?”  And she skipped ahead again.

(To be continued)

The branch was now as thick as a tree trunk.  Sandy walked along it, through air so cold that you expected to walk into a sheet of ice at any moment, and looked down at the empty streets below.  At the moment, the view was about the same as you’d get from the top of a double-decker bus, but Sandy knew it wasn’t going to stay that way. 

She’d only ever seen Anastasia’s house from the front, when a group of them had been to the cinema and someone’s mum had dropped them home one by one.  It didn’t look any better from the back.  It wasn’t a cheap or dirty-looking house (never mind what Mrs Fellowes and Mrs Crowther had said), but it was… bare.  A grey rectangle like a used, smudgy rubber with a roof on top.  There was about half a metre of front drive, with a six-foot spiked fence around it.  The curtains always seemed to be drawn, even when it was light out.  Which meant that Sandy had to take a wild guess as to which of the back windows was Anastasia’s bedroom, and knock on the glass, hoping desperately that she’d got it right.

The curtain went back, and Anastasia looked out at her.  Sandy waved.

Anastasia immediately opened the window.  She didn’t take a second to recover from the shock, and she didn’t hesitate and wonder if it was a good idea.  Whatever was going on, it looked like she wanted in.  And that was when Sandy began to wonder if the plant had taken her past Anastasia’s window on purpose.

The window opened.  Sandy couldn’t see much of Anastasia’s room behind her, but there was a faint smell of chocolate, like you got from a box of cocoa powder.  A very Christmassy kind of smell, Sandy thought. 

“What are you doing?” asked Anastasia.

Sandy waved her hand from one end of the branch to the other… or, at least, from the rightmost bit you could see to the leftmost bit.  “Remember I told you about the plant someone gave me?”

Anastasia leaned out of the window to get a better look at it.  “You said it was a little plant!”

“It was, until about twenty minutes ago.  Then I got upstairs, and it…”  She looked around herself, and wasn’t sure that there were any words that could properly describe what had happened.  “It wanted to go out of the window.”

Anastasia let out a short, surprised laugh.  “And you let it?”

Sandy shrugged.  “I don’t know where it leads.  Do you want to come?”

Anastasia didn’t even say anything.  She just hoisted herself onto the windowsill, and climbed through the open window onto the plant.

(To be continued)

By eight o’clock, everyone was lolled out all over the living room, watching the Porridge Christmas special for the eighth year in a row and dipping their hands in and out of the chocolate tins.  About an hour ago, Gran and Aunt Bernie had brought in sandwiches and cups of tea for dinner, and it seemed like that was the last time anyone had moved.  No-one was exactly asleep, but they’d all fallen into a doze, hypnotised by the warmth and the soft glow of the room.

Sandy decided that now was probably as good a time as any to start shifting her presents up to her room.  She made a neat pile of books and chocolate boxes, laid some folded-up clothes over it, and picked it up as carefully as she could.  Nothing fell off, so she carried it over to the living room door and went out into the hall.

As soon as you left the living room, you felt cooler.  Spending the whole day in the warm glow of the Christmas lights, the fire and the telly made the rest of the house seem almost… blue, by comparison.  Not in an unpleasant way, but definitely in a strange one.  It was as if the whole house was reminding you that it was Christmas Day, and everything was operating on different rules.

Sandy heard every creak of the staircase as she went up.  She carried her pile of presents through the cool, blue silence, and then she opened her bedroom door and saw what had happened to the plant.

When she thought back on it later, Sandy was quite impressed with herself for not dropping everything in shock.  She stood in the doorway, still and staring, for a minute or two, then carefully put the presents down on her bed before going to the window to see what was going on.

The plant had grown at least a metre since this morning, long enough that it had reached the window and buckled against it.  The long, purple branch was curled at the end, making it look as if it was scratching at the glass.  In fact, it had scratched the glass- there were two little white lines there that definitely hadn’t been there before.  Gran was not going to be pleased.

When Sandy opened the window, she wasn’t expecting anything amazing to happen.  She probably should have been, considering what had happened already, but in the moment, she was just thinking that it would be good for the plant to have a little more space.

She’d barely opened it a crack when the branch rushed past her, shooting out into the night.  Yards and yards and yards of it, as if the window had been the only thing restraining it for the last few hours.  Sandy took a step back to get out of its way, and saw that it was getting thicker as it went.  First it was the width of a bit of string, then the width of her index finger, and before long, the width of her arm.  It gained thorns and knotholes as it went, seeming to pull them out of itself.  And all the while, the flowerpot it had grown from stayed where it was, anchoring the whole thing in the middle of her desk.

It finally stopped growing, and Sandy went to the window to see how far it went.

She couldn’t see the end.  It went up at kind of an angle, leaning forward and looming over the houses across the road.  Looming over most of the town, probably.  Sandy couldn’t see anyone out on the street right now, but if somebody did look up, they’d have no idea what they were looking at.

If somebody did look up, they’d see Sandy walking across the branch, her arms out for balance, stepping carefully around the thorns as she climbed higher and higher.  She went up through the frosty air and into the night sky, waiting to see what the plant had planned for her.

(To be continued)

At seventeen, Roma was the oldest of Shirley and Arnold’s grandchildren, and she felt she had a duty to set an example for the younger ones at family events, because God knew the adults wouldn’t.  Over the last few years, Roma had started to notice that Christmas lunch went pretty much the same way every year, right down to the arguments.  Gran would always tell Granddad off for not helping with the cooking.  Grandad would always tell Uncle Nicky not to get too drunk, even though him and Gran had started on the Bucks Fizz at around nine in the morning.  Mum and Uncle Nicky would always needle Uncle Simon about being uptight (Roma had never seen much evidence of that, so she assumed it was one of those things that brothers and sisters decided about you one day and never, ever changed their minds.)  Then the crackers would come out, and there would be tantrums galore until Roma put on the paper hat, even though her hair was so thick and curly that it would split the thing in half before she’d had it on for five minutes, so really, what was the point?

And now Gran was telling stories about when Sandy was born.  Mainly the ones about how Sandy’s dad’s family had inconvenienced her.  “It’s caused no end of trouble, her having a different last name.  But it’s what her mother wanted.”  Gran let out a snort.  “And you can imagine the kind of fuss Caroline would have put up if we’d tried to change it.  Queen Caroline who washed her nose in turpentine.”

Sandy herself wasn’t paying much attention.  In fact, she’d been in a funny mood all morning.  Lost in her thoughts, or something.

Mum took a sip from her glass.  “I thought about going back to my maiden name after the divorce.  Then I remembered that my maiden name was ‘Copstick’.”  And she collapsed into giggles.  Gran (alias Mrs Shirley Copstick) gave her a dirty look.

When they’d been opening the presents, Sandy had smiled and thanked everyone, but she hadn’t seemed excited about anything.  Sparkly sequinned skirt, novelty fridge magnets from BHS, inappropriate video from Keeley… barely a flicker.  OK, maybe some of that was to do with getting older, but one of her presents had been a packet of chocolates in weird shapes, and she hadn’t eaten even one of them.  She’d just put it to the side and carried on thinking.

“Are we doing sambucas?” asked Uncle Nicky.

“Not after last time,” said Gran firmly.

Sandy was moving her fork mechanically, shovelling the turkey and veg into her mouth as if she wasn’t tasting any of it.  (“Come on, Gran’s cooking isn’t that bad!” was a joke you’d only make around here if you had a death wish.)  Her mind was somewhere else.  The only clue they had as to where it was involved something Gran had said earlier.  “Do me a favour and don’t mention the carol concert.”  If that even had anything to do with it, and wasn’t just Gran not having liked the songs.

Sandy?  Are you feeling OK?  The moment Roma thought about asking that, she realised that it wouldn’t make any difference.  If she’d wanted to talk about it, she’d have brought it up herself, and if she didn’t want to, then she definitely didn’t want to at a crowded dinner table where most of your words would be drowned out by someone starting an argument about what year “Stairway to Heaven” was released.  Sandy would probably just say she was fine and refuse to say anything else.  If anything, it would probably just embarrass her to know that it had been so obvious.

Roma decided to stay quiet.  It was probably about time somebody in this family did that.

(To be continued)

It was the last day of term, but there was no time for any celebrating.  Right at the end of lunch, the Year Eights were herded into the Music room to be registered and checked for uniform violations before walking in crocodile formation to a church three streets away.  One they were there, they launched into a rehearsal, which meant a lot of waiting around while you weren’t on stage and a lot of being yelled at for going the wrong way or standing up at the wrong time when you were.  The only interesting thing to do was start wondering about some of the song lyrics again.  Like why they were letting Mrs Fellowes sing, “What can I give Him, poor as I am?” when they’d all seen her husband’s new BMW.

The hours wore on, bringing crushing boredom and tiredness, until it was finally five o’clock and everyone’s parents began to show up.  By then, Sandy couldn’t stop yawning.

“Just as long as you don’t fall asleep before we get to Joy to the World,” said Anastasia, “Remember, you promised to sing the Simpsons version.”

“I don’t remember saying that.”

“Oh.  Well, in that case, I dare you to sing the Simpsons version.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Between the headteacher’s long, rambling introduction, the vicar’s long, rambling introduction, and all the students who’d been given Bible verses to read out, it was about a quarter of an hour before they even got to sing.  Sandy sat on the bench, letting herself be hypnotised by the Christmas lights, and listened to Mrs Crowther try to fit more syllables into words than belonged there.  Gloah-hoar-ee-ee too-oo thuh-huh new-hew boa-orn king…

Then, all of a sudden, she heard a different voice.

She couldn’t hear any of the individual words at first- it was just a series of aggressive sounds from the back of the church.  Sandy looked up just in time to see a big guy in a blue jacket elbow past the ushers on the doors and stride out into the aisle, looking from one pew to another.  After a few seconds, he spotted someone near the front, and ran forward towards them.

Sandy looked over at Anastasia, who’d gone pale and started biting her lip.

The music had stopped for the next Bible verse, which meant that some of what the man was saying came through to Sandy and her friends.  “…come home to an empty house…”

“I told you about this weeks ago!” said the woman whose elbow he’d grabbed.  She was tall and thin with short black hair, and, even though she’d never seen her before, Sandy suddenly knew who she was.  Anastasia looked exactly like her.

“I work hard all day, and you’re here sitting on your…”

Sandy saw some movement on the other side of the pew.  It was her gran, standing up and looking at the man as if she was going to leap over to his side and throw him out of the window.  It wasn’t going to be like that, though.  Sandy knew.  There were too many people in between them.  By the time Gran got to them, the man would have already done whatever he had planned and left.

He looked up at the stage, saw Anastasia, and pointed right at her.  “Go and get her,” he told her mother, “Now.”

As it turned out, she didn’t need to.  Anastasia had already stood up and started to make her way down the steps.

*

After Anastasia left, there were more songs- so many that Sandy lost count.  But in between, when somebody got up and spoke, she heard Mrs Crowther and Mrs Fellowes whispering.

“Well, he’s just the latest in a long line of them.  There’s always a sugar daddy somewhere.”

“I’d feel sorry for her, but she’s…  Oh, I don’t know.”

“Cheap.  That’s the word I’d use.”

“You know, my sister taught the daughter in primary, and apparently she had all the boys wrapped around her finger.  Played them off against each other, apparently.  Sly little thing.”

“She’s never very clean, have you noticed?”

Sandy stared at the floor and waited for the next song.  She wouldn’t be able to hear them when the music was playing.

*

On the drive home, every window was filled with warm, bright lights.  But Sandy didn’t even feel like looking at them.

(To be continued)

As soon as December started, Sandy got into the habit of counting all the Christmas trees she could see on her walk home from school.  For the first couple of days, there would only be one or two (“probably had theirs up since September,” Gran would say), but as the month wore on, they’d double and triple until you lost count.  Every house you passed would have at least one window full of glowing lights, red or gold or multicoloured.

When Sandy got to her own house, there was a set of warm, flashing lights in the living room window there, too.  But for the last few days, that hadn’t been the first thing she’d looked at.

The plant sat in her window, a striking purple against the yellow curtains.  When you looked up at it from street level, its branches almost looked as if they were waving.

(To be continued)

After the fourth time Sandy tried and failed to thread the sewing machine, Anastasia moved her chair sideways and did it herself.  “Thanks,” said Sandy gloomily.

“Well, it was starting to depress me,” she replied with a shrug, “Sandy versus Machines, coming soon to a cinema near you.”

“If it acts up again, I’m throwing it in the river.”  The sewing machines were all on tales around the edge of the room, which meant that, when you were using one, you had your back to the rest of the room.  This had its advantages and disadvantages.  On the one hand, it meant that you didn’t have to look at Mrs Ingram all lesson.  On the other, it meant that she could sneak up on you whenever you least expected it.

No-one in Year Eight knew exactly how old Mrs Ingram was.  She couldn’t have been much more than sixty (“otherwise she’d have retired by now, right?”), but she looked as if she’d been around for centuries, like a bog mummy preserved in the mud for future generations.  Her face had shrivelled into a permanent scowl, and she looked at every pupil in the class as if they’d just thrown litter into her garden.  Sandy glanced around, just in case, and saw her behind the desk, flicking through some paperwork.  They were safe for now.

Sandy looked up at the display on the walls, about a foot above the sewing machines.  They’d spent most of this term making tea towels with their own personal designs.  Actually, they’d spent most of this term writing about how they were going to make the tea towels, then writing about how they had made the tea towels, with the actual making bit kind of a rush job in between.  Anyway, Sandy could see hers from here, and she wasn’t totally satisfied with it.  “I don’t think you can tell that they’re supposed to be bananas,” she said, pointing at the yellow shapes sewn onto the material, “They look more like moons.”

Anastasia stretched up for a better look.  Sandy noticed that she was wearing a kind of glittery blue eyeliner today, and wondered if she’d deliberately picked it because it matched the jewels in her earrings, or if it had just been a coincidence.  “Nothing wrong with moons,” she told Sandy.

“Yeah, but if I’d been doing moons, I’d have picked a dark blue background, not a green one.”  Her eyes wandered over to some of the other projects.  “Yours is meant to be like a ladybird pattern, right?”

“Yeah.”  A genuine grin came to Anastasia’s face when she looked at it.  “The giant ladybird tea towel, that’s me.”

“It looks good.”

“Thanks.”

If they’d been listening to the sound of flickering paper from Mrs Ingram’s desk, then they might have heard the decisive thump as she dropped all of it onto the desk, all done with.  Then it might not have been such a surprise when Mrs Ingram called out, “Anastasia Dunn.  Come here.”

Anastasia came here.  Sandy turned around on her chair, so she could have one eye on her sewing and one eye on what was happening at the desk.  She couldn’t risk turning any further.  Mrs Ingram looked ready to skin someone alive.

She waited for Anastasia to walk all the way to her desk (about two and a half metres, give or take), before demanding, “Where is your evaluation essay?”

“Um…” mumbled Anastasia, “I handed it into the marking cupboard on Monday…”

“No.”  Mrs Ingram didn’t yell it, exactly, but she managed to stretch the word out so that it sounded like it had four or five extra vowels in it.  “If you had, it would have been in this pile with the others.”  She tapped the pile with her whole hand, as if she was smacking it on the nose for misbehaving.  She stared expectantly at Anastasia for a few seconds, then added, “Can’t believe a word that comes out of your mouth, can we?”

Anastasia didn’t seem sure of how to answer that.  Sandy wasn’t sure who “we” were.

All of a sudden, Mrs Ingram blinked, and said in a voice that could have shattered glass, “What on earth is that on your face?”

Anastasia touched her sparkly blue eyeliner, as if she’d forgotten that she had it on until right this second.  “It’s… um…”

“How dare you wear that to school?”

“Um…  I’m sorry…”

Mrs Ingram pointed to the door with a trembling hand.  “Go straight to the toilets and wash it off.  This minute.” 

She seemed to be wavering over the next bit, taking a breath and then thinking better of it, pressing her lips together as if her whole mouth was having an argument with itself.  But finally, just as Anastasia was halfway out the door, she added, “You can plaster yourself with as much makeup and you want, but we can all see what you are.”

Mrs Ingram was old, Sandy reminded herself.  She said strange things sometimes, and only she knew what they meant.  There was no reason to get upset.

(To be continued)