WritersShowcase

Dad swayed towards me with a stupid grin on his face, put his arm round my shoulders and planted a kiss on my cheek. "Like to dance with your old dad, Gem?"

I looked up into his happy, smiling face and sighed. I wanted to be happy too but it was just impossible. Life for me would never be the same again, not now the whole charade was over and I had Shelley as a stepmother!

I think I was in shock. It had been the worst day of my life and I wanted it to be over, but the wedding reception had only just started and, as Chief Bridesmaid, I had to act like my world hadn’t fallen apart. I almost wished I’d gone with Tyrone, Shelley’s low-life of a nephew. As soon as the ceremony was over he’d sneaked off to meet his mates on the playing fields at the back of the social club for a game of footie. No one missed him, not even his mum Jackie, Shelley’s sister, which wasn’t surprising really, considering she was totally plastered. Her mascara was running down her face in rivulets and her posh blue hat sat lopsided on her head. She didn’t seem to know what day it was, never mind if she had a son or not.

"No thanks, Dad." Yeah, I would much rather have played footie than have to watch him pawing over Shelley. I could have imagined the ball was her head! "I think I’ll sit this one out."

Dad’s grin faded and was replaced by a worried look. "You OK Gemma, love? You seem a bit quiet."

"I’m just tired, I suppose."

"Well, we were all up early this morning, and it’s a big responsibility, being Chief Bridesmaid."

My heart gave a jolt as Dad turned and waved to his new bride. He had just made the biggest mistake of his life and now it was too late to do anything about it. Both our lives were ruined. No going back.

I was fuming. How could he? Mum hadn’t been dead a year and Shelley Dixon was now officially Shelley Sutherland, my stepmother! I choked back the tears. I was determined not to start crying, not in front of everyone and especially not in front of her. Anyway I didn’t want my face going all blotchy.

Swaying drunkenly, Shelley waved back before taking another gulp of champagne. She looked like an overweight fairy in her white dress and veil, the sequins on her strapless bodice sparkling in the lights of the dance hall and the long flowing silk skirt swishing around as she boogied to a rock track with her father. She wasn’t exactly what you might call perfection in the figure department. She had this habit of wearing clothes at least two sizes too small and plastered her face in layers of make-up. I was waiting for her boobs to wobble out any minute and the image put me my off my slice of wedding cake.

I had to feel sorry for her really. She was the wrong side of thirty-five and was desperately trying to stay young. It was like my Gran always said though; you couldn’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. But Shelley tried. Too hard.

I loved my Gran, Dad’s mum. She had come to the wedding under protest with her mate Barbara and I could see them in a corner of the room, sipping their drinks and baring their teeth at Shelley. Gran couldn’t stand her either. I was glad I had her on my side.

My new stepsister Portia, nine years old and a miniature edition of Shelley, bounded past like a baby elephant with her friend Annabelle and two small cousins. Dad’s laugh boomed out and he said, "You’ve had your work cut out, Gem, keeping those three in order. Oh God, they’re heading towards the cake now! I’d better stop them before they have the whole lot on the floor!"

He ran off, calling out to them to keep away from the buffet table. I escaped to the Ladies’, pleased to see it was empty. I stood at the washbasin and stared at myself in the mirror, tugging at the skirt of my dress. God, Tyrone was right; I did look like a prawn! The dress had a square neckline and puffed sleeves and as for the colour, well, coral pink just wasn’t me. It didn’t go with my pale skin, blue eyes and mousy brown hair but Shelley had insisted on it for the bridesmaids because pink happened to be her favourite colour.

I wasn’t all that keen on the white roses in my hair either and the French plait was too tight. I snatched at the ribbon and shook my hair loose, scratching my scalp with relief. The ribbon and the roses fell to the floor and I kicked them away.

I had to get out of this place and get some fresh air. I wanted to be as far away as possible, to run about, to let off steam. Maybe Tyrone would let me join in his game of footie. I could sneak out the fire exit. No one would see me.

As I opened the toilet door Portia ran straight into me.

"Watch it, brat!" I snapped.

I didn’t like Portia much either. She was an obnoxious piece of work and a spoiled brat. Even Dad spoiled her. We hated one another and she always brought out the bitch in me.

She stuck her tongue out I put my hand on her face and pushed her away. She fell back against the wall and started wailing.

"That’ll teach you! Twonk!"

"I’ll tell my Mum and Daddy Dave!" she shouted. She always called Dad "Daddy Dave". It really got up my nose. "They’ll kill you!"

I snorted. "Tell them! Little cow! I lose a lovely little sister and what do I get instead?" Bitter tears threatened again but I sniffed them back. I didn’t want to think about poor Katie, who had died in the car crash with my mum. "An ugly little bleeder like you! OW!"

She’d kicked me hard on the ankle, making me hop about in pain.

"I’ll break your neck for you!" I screamed, but she had already escaped back into the dance hall. I let her go. I couldn’t be bothered running after her and anyway it wasn’t the best time to get her back, not with the place teeming with witnesses.

"You’ll keep!" I murmured, rubbing my throbbing ankle.

I half ran, half hobbled across the car park towards the playing fields. By the time I got there it had started to rain. There weren’t that many people about, just a few jogging or walking dogs. I could see Tyrone and his three mates on the footie pitch and as I got closer I could see he’d taken off his jacket and tie (which was wrapped round his head) and his shirt was hanging out of his trousers. The others were in jeans and hooded tops. They tried to get the ball off him as he dribbled it round and round the pitch but he was too skilled for them.

I paused at the touchline and watched with reluctant admiration. Tyrone was a really good footballer. No wonder he had been picked for the school First Eleven. He was the tallest and most athletic of the four and could easily outrun his opponents. He wasn’t bad looking either, with his dark skin and chocolate drop eyes.

He was also a complete git.

He booted the ball easily between the goalposts, and celebrated by running round and round with the bottom of his shirt over his head and his arms outstretched. One of his mates, a chunky lad, built more like a rugby player, went to retrieve the ball. Tyrone stopped celebrating and shouted to him.

"Hey, fancy practising penalties, Daz?"

"Yeah, OK."

Daz placed the ball on the penalty spot, stepped back a few paces and struck the ball – then slipped in the mud and fell on his bum with a splosh. I chuckled. The ball rolled pathetically towards Tyrone who shouted with laughter as he ran forward to collect it.

"Crap!" he jeered. "God, Daz, you get worse! There’s no way they’ll select you for the First Eleven if you keep playing like that!"

"Oh bog off, will you, Ty, I only slipped." Daz got to his feet, reset the baseball cap firmly on his head and scowled at Tyrone. "Here," he held out his hands, "chuck us the ball back and let’s have another go."

"No, it’s my turn now," said another lad, elbowing him. He was short, skinny and weedy with a spotty face. "I’ll show you how it should be done!"

Daz pushed him away and they started to argue, Tyrone and the other mate running over to join in. The ball was dropped in the barney and rolled towards my feet.

I picked it up and juggled it from one hand to another. Memories of my old team at Woodgate Comp flashed through my mind and depression set in again. That was another reason why I hated Shelley. She had made Dad buy a house on a new housing estate on the other side of the city so Portia could stay on at her primary school but I had to change schools when the new term started in September. Not only did it muck up my GCSE options, it meant I couldn’t play footie anymore!

"Oi, you! Tinkerbell!"

I looked up sharply. Tyrone was coming towards me with a menacing look on his face. I stood my ground and glared back at him. He’d been calling me "Tinkerbell" all day and I was getting tired of it.

"Give us that ball back!"

He snatched it out of my hands and smirked. His mates laughed.

"Don’t you think you’d better get back to that fancy dress party before you’re missed?"

More snorts of laughter. I could feel my temper rising.

"I bet I can put that ball past you, no problem," I said boldly.

He glared at me. "You what?"

"I said…"

"I heard what you said." Tyrone’s face was so close I could feel his breath on mine. "But I don’t think everyone in the park did. Do you want to repeat it?"

"I bet I can put that ball past you, no problem!" I yelled.

People looked across at us. Four pairs of eyes bore hostilely into mine.

"Come on then," said Tyrone, "let’s see what you’re made of. Golden Balls!"

The others guffawed again and I pulled a face. He chucked the ball at me and I clasped it to my chest. It was slippery with mud and stained the bodice of my dress. I followed him towards the goal.

"The penalty spot’s over there!" he snapped.

"I know!" I retreated, blushing, to the penalty box. I put the ball down on the spot. "I have taken a penalty before, you know."

"Well, hurry up then!" Tyrone began to jump up and down, dancing from one foot to the other.

"This should be good!" he said behind his hand to his mates.

"Yeah, she should make a cracking shot in them fancy shoes," agreed his skinny, zit-inflicted friend. "Watch your heels don’t sink in the mud, darlin’!"

"Ah shut it, Tommo, I bet she can take a better penalty than you any day!" said Daz.

"Anyone can take a penalty better than Tommo!" jeered the fourth boy.

"Yeah, even you eh, Zack!" shouted Tyrone. "Hello? Golden Balls?"

I was still standing over the ball, staring at it, trying to psyche myself up for a great penalty kick. It had to be one of my best to wipe that bloody smile off his face! The rain was getting heavier and my hair was sticking to my face. I brushed it out of my eyes so my view of the ball wasn’t obscured.

"I’m drowning here! Get a move on, will yer!"

Taking a deep breath, I took a few steps back, hitched up my skirt, ran forward and kicked, sending sprays of mud all over my dress, arms and face. The ball shot like a bullet from my foot and whizzed over Tyrone’s head.

Stunned, he twisted his head from side to side. "Where’d it go?"

Daz shouted, "There it is!"

Four pairs of shocked eyes followed it as it bounced towards the fence.

"It’s OK, Ty," said Tommo quickly. "She put it over the bar."

"I did not!" I barked. "It was a clean shot, right between the posts!"

"That’s right, it was," said Daz eagerly. "You just didn’t see it, Ty! Hey, girl, that was brilliant! The best kick I’ve seen in ages! Where did you learn to shoot penalties like that?"

"Girls’ team," I replied smugly, pleased at the compliment.

"What girls’ team?" Tyrone, obviously furious I’d managed to put the ball past him, was red in the face. "There are no girls’ footie teams round here!"

"The club you play at has girls’ teams," said Daz.

"That doesn’t count! They’re just a lot of daft women messing about. They can’t actually play."

"I told you ages ago I played at my old school," I snarled.

Tyrone snorted. "Oh yeah, that’s right. I remember you went to Woodgate Comp. They play all those rubbishy sports, like cross-country running, and they’ve got a pot-holing club! I couldn’t believe it when you said they let girls play footie!"

"And why shouldn’t we play footie?" I demanded. "I’ve just proved I can put a penalty past you and you’re supposed to be good enough for the First Eleven!"

"Behave, it was a fluke," said Tommo. "He wasn’t ready, that’s all."

"For your information, mate, I was top scorer in our Under Fourteens’ Eleven."

"’S not saying much. I bet you didn’t get any fixtures."

"Yeah, well, that’s where you’re wrong, see! We won the Girls Schools’ Cup two seasons in a row. Naylorsfield Comp’s rubbish, not having a girls’ team!"

"Are you coming to Naylorsfield Comp then?" asked Daz.

"Yeah." I couldn’t hide the dismay in my voice. "In September."

"Oh, it’s not that bad. We go there. We’re all in Year Eleven."

"I’ll be going into Year Ten. I’m glad. It means I won’t see much of Tyrone!"

I smirked at him and he scowled at me.

"Well, you’re right," he said stiffly, "you won’t be playing footie. Naylorsfield has more sense than to let girls play! You’ll only be allowed to play netball, hockey and gym."

"Yeah. Right."

I was getting very cold and very wet I’d had enough of this conversation. I wanted to get back to the house and sink into a hot bath. I also wanted the bog. I pushed my way past Tyrone. "’Scuse me!" I said haughtily. I caught my foot on something and tripped, landing face down in the mud with a plop.

"Nice one, Ty!" sniggered Tommo.

"Aw, hey, Ty," said Daz, "there was no need for that."

He held out his hand and helped me to my feet.

"Yeah, great, Ty," I said crossly. I looked down at my dress; it was no longer pink but mud brown. "I owe you one. Big time."

Tyrone sniggered. "Come on." He snatched the ball from Zack. "Let’s get out of here. It’s chucking it down and we’re getting soaked." He gave me one final sneer. "See you at school, Golden Balls!"

I stuck my tongue out. "See you on the pitch, Twinkletoes!"

Tyrone swaggered away, followed by the faithful Tommo and Zack, but Daz stayed. I studied his face. He hadn’t been first in the queue when looks were being dished out. His ears stuck out a bit and his nose was small and stubby, but he seemed nice enough.

"Are you OK?" he asked.

I smiled. It was the first time I had met with a friendly face since I’d moved to this dump.

"Dying for a bath." I glared after Tyrone. "He’s a smarmy git! Full of himself!"

Daz nodded. "Yeah, but he’s OK really."

"Who does he think he is, slagging me off for playing footie? I’m as good as he is any day!"

"It’s because he’s in the First Eleven," said Daz. "He thinks he’s as good as the whole of the Liverpool team put together, but he isn’t. He only got into the squad by the skin of his teeth; the lad they really wanted was in a car accident and was out for months."

"So he’s only second best!"

"Well, he can score the odd goal. On a good day he’s not that bad a player. He must be good to be in the squad. Me on the other hand…" Daz stopped short and sighed. "I wish I was good enough to play in the First Eleven but I haven’t managed to get in yet. I’m playing for the Seconds. I keep trying though and Ty’s helping. He’s been making me play virtually all summer. I’ve got my fingers crossed for the trials this year."

"No luck yet then?"

"Nah. There’s a trial coming up in October so that’s why I’m practising. Shame you’re only a girl, you’d have no trouble getting in."

I said nothing, only sniffed.

"Come on, Daz!" called Tyrone from the gate.

"Yeah, I’m coming!" called back Daz.

"Anyway, my name’s Darren Bennett," he said to me. "Daz to my mates. What’s yours? Ty never introduced us."

"Gemma." I was made up that I seemed to have made a new friend. "Gemma Sutherland."

"OK. I’ll see you at school, Gemma. Ta-ra for now."

I watched him run off to his mates. I gave them a few minutes head start before I left the park myself. As I legged it along the road I thought I should ring the social club when I got home to let Dad know I was safe and say I had left the Reception early because I felt sick. It was nearly the truth anyway; I was sick of Shelley and Portia.

I knew Tyrone would grass me up but at least there would be no chance for Dad to kick off straightaway, at least not for another week; he was going straight to the airport for his honeymoon with Shelley and Gran was coming to the house to look after me and Portia.

Ten minutes’ later I reached our front door.

"Oh God, my bag!" I wailed aloud. "It’s got my bloody door key in it!"

I stood helplessly on the step wondering what to do next when suddenly the door flew open. Dad, still dressed in his wedding suit, his tie undone, glared at me angrily.

"Where the hell have you been?" he demanded. "Get in!"

Then his eyes ran over my dress and he gasped. In the background I could hear Portia complaining loudly and Shelley mollycoddling her in her whining, little-girl voice.

My skin began to crawl. I was rooted to the spot. I couldn’t do it! I just couldn’t live with her as my stepmother! I’d hate myself if I did.

"Either she goes or I do," I muttered as Dad exclaimed, "Jesus, girl, look at the state of you! What have you been doing with yourself?"

I didn’t have a choice then, because he dragged me into the hall.

"Get a move on, Gem!" Dad’s voice shouted up the stairs. "You’ll be late."

I groaned, removed my head from under my duvet and glanced at my alarm clock, one of the few things I’d bothered to unpack so far, apart from some cherished photographs of Mum and Katie. I’d forgotten to set it again. It was ten to eight and I should have been up and dressed twenty minutes ago but I couldn’t be bothered. It didn’t help that it was Monday and the beginning of my second week at crappy Naylorsfield Comp. I used to look forward to going to school but not any more. I didn’t care if I was late or not these days.

I heard footsteps pounding on the stairs and there was one loud thump at the door. It opened and Dad, dressed in his dark blue nurse’s uniform, came in.

"Yeah?" I said listlessly. "What?"

"Get up! What are you doing still in bed?"

"Got a headache."

"You’ve got a headache!" Dad strode over to the window and dragged back the curtains. I squinted as daylight fell onto unpacked boxes and hid my head back under the duvet. "I’ve just finished a night shift and I have to go out again to do the weekly shop. So would you mind helping by shifting your bum and getting yourself and Portia off to school?"

I sat up wearily and ran my head through my newly chopped, newly dyed, jet-black hair, matching Dad’s frown with a look of defiance. I had become a Goth while he had been on honeymoon with Shelley because it suited my depression, but also because I wanted to rebel. Not only had I dyed my hair, I’d cut it with Dad’s garden shears and shaved bits of it with his razor clippers, so that it stuck out like spikes. I wore black eye shadow and lipstick, black, holey tights and dresses and short skirts and chains, stuff I’d got cheap from jumble sales and Oxfam shops. Everything in my life was now black to match my mood.

Dad wasn’t very happy about it. He said he didn’t know me at all now. I didn’t care: it was his punishment for what he’d done by bringing that cow into my life.

He sat on my bed and tutted. "You want to see yourself. You look like a panda."

I shrugged. I hadn’t bothered to wash my eye shadow off before I went to bed.

"You look tired too. Didn’t you sleep very well?"

I shrugged again. I didn’t want to worry him by telling him I hated school on top of everything else.

"Nah, just not used to the house yet, that’s all. It’s taking me a while to settle in."

"Oh, it takes time to get used to a new place, love," said Dad kindly. "Remember when I started on the neurology unit? It took me ages to get used to it. I love it now."

I sat up and shoved the bedclothes away impatiently. Did he think I was born yesterday? I knew he was worn out with all the responsibility of his new job; he worked long hours to pay the mortgage on the house and although Shelley worked afternoons and evenings she didn’t do much at home, except pamper herself and lie in bed every morning.

"Why can’t Shelley go out and do the weekly shop for a change?" I asked crossly. "Why can’t she get her own kid off to school? Why can’t she get her fat lazy arse out of bed and let you get some sleep?"

"Don’t start, Gem," said Dad with a sigh. "You know how tired Shelley is in the mornings because of her job at the bingo hall. And she’s your new mother now so isn’t it about time you started showing her a bit more respect?"

I snorted and wrapped my dressing gown tightly around my waist. "I keep telling you, Dad, Shelley will never be my mother."

I went over to my dressing table and picked up Mum’s photograph.

"Look," I said angrily, waving it in his face, "this is my real mother. She’s dead, remember?"

Dad went pale and turned away from the photograph.

"I know that’s your real mother," he said gruffly. "I was married to her for twelve years, remember. Look, just hurry up and get dressed. You’ll miss your bus if you don’t get a move on."

He went out of the room, banging the door behind him. I sneered after him, went over to the bed and picked up Mum’s picture.

"I miss you, Mum," I told it softly, stroking the outline of her face with my finger. "So does Dad but he won’t admit it. Shelley’s a bitch and Dad’s too good for her but he’s too blind to see it. I wish you were here and not her!"

Wallowing in my own misery, I put the frame back on the dressing table and reluctantly went off to the bathroom to get washed, then came back to my room and put on my navy blue uniform. I hated it. I missed my mates at Woodgate Comp too. Since I’d moved we’d met up a few times in town and talked about football mostly but it only reminded me I couldn’t play for my school anymore.

Dad wasn’t helping. He kept going on at me to try and make new friends. He was pretty keen on a girl called Candice Stevens who lived two doors down from us and in my year. I couldn’t believe it when he went round and asked Mrs Stevens if Candice could go round with me at school the first week!

Candice was tall and pretty, with thirty-four inch boobs and naturally tanned skin inherited from her half-Jamaican dad. Her dark hair was long and silky and she liked to wear fashionable clothes, big earrings and long false nails painted white. I think my pale skin, black eyes, lips and nails scared her. She always gave me wary looks and didn’t say much when we walked to school. When we joined up with a gang of her friends halfway along the road I usually ended up being left behind. And I hardly saw anything of her at school.

I didn’t see much of Daz or Tyrone either. I spent most of my time wandering around strange corridors, getting lost, turning up in wrong classrooms and having to suffer the grossness of netball lessons whilst the boys ran off and played footie.

I was crap at netball. Mrs Lawford, who was head of sports, put me in as Goal Keeper once and I wasn’t surprised when we lost seven-one. Candice was livid; she was Captain of our team and not used to losing.

I applied my eye shadow and lipstick and some foundation until I was satisfied I was pale and deathly enough. I didn’t care if I got into trouble at school again; I was becoming immune to all the flak I was getting for being a Goth.

"About time, too," muttered Dad as I ambled into the kitchen. He was emptying aspirin from a bottle into his hand. "Here, take this for your headache and get that cereal and tea down you. Then you can go back upstairs and wash that muck off your face and nails. You know very well you’re not allowed to wear it at school."

I shovelled Rice Crispies into my mouth, ignoring him. He knew very well I carried my make-up in my bag and would put it on again before classes started.

"I’ll give you and Portia a lift on my way to the supermarket. You’ve missed that bus now."

My headache still lingered when I got into the front seat of the car. I wanted to crawl back into bed and die. Portia wasn’t helping, kicking the back of my seat and grumbling she hadn’t had enough toast for breakfast. She was getting right up my nose.

We reached the traffic lights. I undid my seatbelt, climbed onto my knees and reached for her wrist, twisting it in a Chinese burn. She screamed and burst into loud wails.

"What the bloody hell’s going on?" yelled Dad, pulling into the kerb.

"The little cow’s been kicking me since we left the house," I said furiously. "So I sorted her."

"How?"

"Chinese burn!" howled Portia, shoving her arm under Dad’s nose for inspection.

"She asked for it! You and Shelley let her get away with murder!"

Dad scowled. "You’re grounded. Get out of the car. You can walk the rest of the way. And it serves you right if you get into trouble for being late."

"You can’t ground me," I raged as I pushed open the car door. "I’ve arranged to meet Becca on Saturday. We’ve going to the match."

"Yeah, well you’ll just have to tell her you can’t go."

"Dad!"

"Just shut the door, will you Gemma!"

I slammed it forcefully and he drove off. Portia turned round in the back seat, smiling and pulling tongues at me. I put up two fingers in response and started to walk, not bothering to hurry.

***

By the time I reached the school gate I was in a foul temper and marched into the yard still packed with kids.

"Hey!"

I had walked straight into Daz.

"What’s up?" he asked. "You’ve got a face like a smacked bum."

I glanced over his shoulder towards a gang of kids huddled together in a group. Tyrone was there, smoking a ciggie. He was surrounded by the likes of Tommo, Zack and Candice Stevens who was giggling and whispering to him behind her hand.

"Hey, it’s Dracula’s Daughter," he said, puffing out smoke as I approached with Daz. He had a football resting under his foot. "Didn’t recognise you not looking like a corpse."

At least ‘Dracula’s Daughter’ was an improvement on ‘Golden Balls’.

"Just leave it, yeah, Ty," said Daz warningly.

Tyrone had no intention of leaving it. "Hear you’re not much good at netball, Gem."

"She’s rubbish," jumped in Candice. "Bloody useless. She doesn’t do a thing to stop the goals from going in. I don’t reckon she’ll be any better at hockey either!"

"Pity that," said Tyrone, shaking his head sadly. "If she can’t play netball, hockey, or tennis there’s nothing else left for her to do. She’ll just have to sit in the library with all the other weirdos!"

I sneered while the others laughed. "Lawford made a big mistake putting me in as Goal Keeper! I played Centre at my old school" (I was lying. I only said that because that was Candice’s position.) "so I’ll ask her to put me in as that next time and see how many goals I can score and that’ll bloody show you, you smarmy gits!"

Candice’s eyes flickered.

"You’re not playing Centre!" she said hotly. "I’m Centre! I’m up for the First Team this year."

I grinned slyly. "What’s the matter, Candice? Scared of the competition?"

"Take no notice of her," said Tyrone as Candice’s nostrils flared. "She’s bluffing."

"Oh, didn’t you tell your girlfriend how I put that penalty past you, Tyrone? I wasn’t bluffing when I said I could do that, was I?"

Tyrone scowled and took another drag on his ciggie. Daz laughed. "She’s got you there, mate."

"She got lucky, that’s all. Like I said, girls and footie don’t mix. And Candice isn’t my girlfriend," added Tyrone haughtily.

Candice turned pink and examined her hands self-consciously.

"How about a real match, Tyrone?" I said. "Like a five-a-side match, girls versus boys? Just to prove girls can play? Candice could go in goal. She’d make quite a good keeper."

"I wouldn’t bother freezing my socks off in goal!" said Candice pompously. "I’d be out on the field, scoring."

"So you think you’d be good enough to score goals, do yer?"

"If I played football, yeah. But I don’t."

"Think you could do this?"

I dragged the ball away from under Tyrone’s foot and kicked it up onto my knee. I bounced it there a couple of times before dropping it back onto my foot, resting it on the top for a moment before lobbing it higher, bending myself forward and letting it land on the back of my neck. Then I moved forward and the ball fell to the ground. I kicked it back up onto my knee and started to bounce it up and down.

"Hey, she can do keepy-up!" said Daz, impressed. I began to alternate knee bounces with kicks. I was counting them in my head…thirteen…fourteen…fifteen…

"Anyone can do keepy-up!" snapped Tyrone. "It just takes practice."

"But I’ve never seen a girl do it!" said Candice.

"A monkey could do it if it was shown how to!"

After reaching a score of twenty, I kneed the ball up to my forehead and headed it straight at Tyrone.

"Go on, then. Let’s see you do it."

"Yeah, Ty," said Tommo eagerly. "Show her how it should be done."

The others egged him on so Tyrone started to kick, but I only counted to seven before a shout in the background distracted him and made him miss his eighth kick. I was the only one who sniggered as the ball rolled away.

"Bloody Cassidy!" spat Tyrone, scowling as the teacher came towards us, holding the ball. "The git put me off."

Mr Cassidy was the junior games teacher. He was young, not that much older than the lads in the sixth form, straight out of teacher training college and really good-looking, with short dark spiky hair and deep blue eyes. He always went round in a navy tracksuit. All the girls in the school fancied him, including me.

"Come on, you lot!" he said. "Didn’t you hear the bell? You should be in class now."

Tyrone squared up to him. He hid the cigarette stub behind his back but couldn’t stop the smoke from floating up his shoulder.

"All right, mate, keep your hair on! We’re coming."

"Less of the lip, Collins! And what’s that behind your back?"

"Nothin’."

Mr Cassidy may have been nearly a head shorter than Tyrone but he certainly wasn’t fazed. He reached for Tyrone’s hand but Tyrone snatched it away and dropped the stub. Cassidy saw it, stamped on it and put it out. He frowned at Tyrone.

"Well?"

"It’s not mine," lied Tyrone.

"Come off it, Collins, you’re reeking of fag ash! You want to watch it, lad. Fifty a day’s bad for your lungs and hardly a great asset to the career of a promising young striker."

Tyrone flushed red. "You can’t prove it’s my ciggie! It could be anyone’s. We’ll all have smoke on us now."

"Nice try." Mr Cassidy threw the ball back at him. "But I’ll still report this to Mrs Lawford and the Head. Now get inside! The lot of you!"

Tyrone gave him one last scowl before sauntering away, followed by his devoted gang. Mr Cassidy smiled at me.

"It’s Gemma, isn’t it? I was watching you doing keep-ups just now. I was really impressed with the way you were controlling the ball."

I blushed.

"Play a lot of football, do you?" he asked as we walked towards the school building.

"Not now." I couldn’t keep the bitterness out of my voice. "I played for my old school, Woodgate Comp."

He nodded. "Oh I know Woodgate. It was one of the first schools in the country to introduce girls’ soccer and a lot have followed suit since. My sister played in the first of the competitions when her school won the Inter-Schools Girls’ Trophy. She went to Blackburne Manor. She’s a junior coach now for one of the clubs, St Domingo Girls. Have you heard of St Domingo’s?"

"No," I replied, glad to talk to someone about girls’ footie, "but I’ve heard of Blackburne Manor. They were our rivals."

"I do a bit of coaching for St Domingo Boys when I get the chance," said Mr Cassidy. "What position did you play?"

"I’m a striker mostly, but I’ve played in midfield and defence too. I do prefer being a forward though."

"It’s a pity we don’t have a girls’ squad here," said Mr Cassidy regretfully. "I mentioned the possibility to Mrs Lawford but she’s flatly refused to consider the idea."

My eyes brightened. "You want to set up a girls’ squad here?"

"Yes, I do. I think it would be good for the school. It’s becoming more and more popular and there’d be no shortage of fixtures."

"It’d be cool if we could!"

"Mm, it would be," said Cassidy, "if it wasn’t for the fact that Mrs Lawford thinks the girls should stick to their usual dose of netball and hockey and the boys should be left to get on with football and cricket." He tutted irritably. "She said we haven’t got the resources or the staff to train girls’ football. Even when I said I was prepared to take the project on in my spare time she said she wasn’t having it." He shook his head. "I must say I can’t understand her attitude."

"From what I’ve seen of this place, though," I said, thinking of the likes of Candice and her cronies, "I don’t think you’d get many girls interested in signing up."

"Actually, there are quite a few girls who’d be interested," said Mr Cassidy. "I know because I’ve slyly asked around. A lot have friends, and friends of friends, and even family in other schools who play and they wish they could too."

I nearly whooped aloud. This was very good news! The best!

"Will you have another go at trying to get a team together then, sir?" I asked hopefully.

"Well, we’ll have to see."

We reached the classrooms. Candice and the others were lounging outside ours, waiting for Mr Connolly, our Year Tutor, to show up. I met Candice’s eye and we stared at one another for a moment before looking away.

"In the meanwhile," Mr Cassidy was saying to me, "I can give you a list of clubs you can join if you’re interested in taking up the game again. St Domingo’s is one of the best but don’t let my bias influence you! There are plenty of others around."

Why hadn’t I thought about joining a club before? "OK! Ta, sir!"

It would be brilliant playing for a team again. If anything it’d get me out of the house away from Shelley and her brat of a daughter.

"Right. Well, here’s Mr Connolly now. You’d better go in. I’ll come and find you later with that list."

He said goodbye, nodding to Mr Connolly as they passed one another. Mr Connolly hurried towards us, a pile of books under his arm, his curly hair tousled and his brown suit crumpled. He always looked like he’d slept in his clothes. He fumbled in his pocket and took out a set of keys.

"OK, rabble, in you go," he said as the door fell open.

We piled in. As I sat down I caught Candice’s eye again and she treated me to one of her scowls. I laughed and put my tongue out at her. She went red and turned away. The thought of playing footie again had put me in a good mood and I wasn’t going to let her get the better of me.

***

"Hey, Gemma!"

I came out of the Maths classroom and Mr Cassidy was pushing his way through the throng in the corridor, waving a piece of paper at me.

"The list of clubs I promised you," he said. "I’ve written down eight of the best. You have to pay for membership but it won’t cost that much, and they’ve all got good reputations, especially St Domingo’s, but like I said, don’t let me influence you!"

He disappeared into the mob, leaving me to study the list. It included the addresses and telephone numbers. There were two clubs not far from where I lived, Everton Park FC and Holly Lodge Athletic, but only St Domingo’s was within walking distance. It was at the sports college, down the road from our house.

"What’s that?" said a voice behind me.

The list was snatched out of my hand. Quickly I turned and tried to grab it back from Tyrone but he held it out of my reach.

"Give it back!"

"Not until I’ve seen what it is, DD! Hey, Tommo!" He screwed the paper into a ball and threw it at his mate. "Catch!"

Tommo caught it and they began to pass it backwards and forwards to one another, whooping loudly as they skipped along the corridor, cheered on by Candice, Zack and some of the others.

"Pack it in, Ty," I heard Daz plead but Tyrone ignored him, just threw the paper ball in the air, caught it and ran. I chased him as far as the boys’ toilets where I cornered him and walloped him in the stomach with my rucksack, then kicked him hard on the shin.

"OWWWWWWWWWW!"

He hopped away, clutching his leg, screaming. He stumbled against Zack who had just appeared with Daz, Tommo and a few other boys, and they both fell against one of the washbasins, landing on the floor with a thud. Bewildered, Zack got up straightaway, rubbing his bum, but Tyrone rolled about, still holding his leg, his face contorted with pain, acting like a striker who’d taken a dive after being tackled.

"Oh, get up, Tyrone!" I bent down and picked up the paper quickly. "Talk about mincing it! You’re not on the bloody pitch now, you know!"

The door banged open and in ran Candice. When she saw Tyrone she screamed and rushed towards him.

"What have you done to him?" she wailed at me.

"She kicked him," snarled Tommo.

"Come on, Ty," said Daz wearily. "Stop play-acting and get up."

Candice had dived on Tyrone and her arms were draped round his neck. "Oh Ty! Speak to me!"

Tyrone writhed about, his howls echoing eerily round the toilet walls, and tears were pouring down his cheeks. I was nearly worried. Maybe he wasn’t putting it on. Maybe he was really hurt.

Then he did something totally unexpected. He passed out.

"Tyrone?" I whispered.

The stunned silence was broken by another of Candice’s piercing screams. She got to her feet and clutched my arm in fear.

"What’s the matter with him?"

My eyes were fixed on the unnerving sight of Tyrone just lying there. I tried to remember what Dad had taught me about helping an unconscious casualty. Shaking, I bent down next to him and shouted in his ear. "Tyrone? Can you hear me?"

No answer. Candice was now in floods.

"Do something, Gemma! Your dad’s a nurse so you must know what to do!"

"That doesn’t make me one," I pointed out impatiently.

I tried to think. Airway. I pulled down Tyrone’s jaw carefully and peered into his mouth. No obstructions; he hadn’t been chewing gum.

Breathing. Good, I could see his chest going up and down.

Circulation. I put three of my fingers on Tyrone’s neck. There was a strong pulse.

"He isn’t dead, anyway," I said.

I wondered if I should tickle him to see if he was putting it on but that would have sent Candice into more hysterics.

"Didn’t your dad tell you the sorts of things you have to do in an emergency?" asked Daz worriedly, bending down next to me. "Come on, Gem, you must know something. If it’s his leg shouldn’t you put it in a sling?"

"You mean a splint."

Carefully I rolled up Tyrone’s trouser leg and examined his shin, bracing myself for blood and bone. It looked normal. There weren’t any bruises either.

"He could have a sprain or a torn muscle."

"Well he’s out cold. Shouldn’t someone give him the kiss of life?" put in Zack helpfully.

I pulled a face in disgust. "Gross! My gob’s going nowhere near his! Anyway, he doesn’t need the kiss of life. What he needs," I moved Tyrone’s head on its side and stretched out his arm, "is the recovery position." I bent the good leg furthest away from me and turned him over. "Someone should go and get a teacher. And we’ll need something to use as a splint for this leg. Like a thick piece of wood."

I frowned, trying to think. Should I have put the splint on first?

"A hockey stick!" suggested Candice. "I’ll get one from the gym."

"I’ll go and tell a teacher," said Zack.

They ran out as other kids came in, eager to see what was going on. Within minutes Candice was back with the hockey stick, followed closely by Mr Cassidy. Zack came in shortly afterwards with Mrs Trenchard, the school nurse.

"What happened?" she asked, staring at Tyrone’s leg. I had tied the stick to it firmly with Daz and Tommo’s ties. "His leg…!"

"Gemma’s dad’s a nurse," Daz volunteered.

"Oh," said Mrs Trenchard. "Do you think his leg’s broken, Gemma?"

"I don’t know, miss. But he was in a lot of pain with it so I used a splint, like, just in case. He seems to have fainted. But he’s breathing and everything."

"Well, let’s try to make him more comfortable. Bennett, may I borrow your pullover? We can fold it up and make a cushion for his head."

"Should I phone for an ambulance, Mrs Trenchard?" asked Mr Cassidy.

"Good idea, Mr Cassidy. And if someone could go and fetch Mr Harper…"

"I’ll do that too. In fact I can phone from his office."

Mr Cassidy disappeared. A slight murmur came from Tyrone’s lips and his eyes flickered. He began to moan.

"I think he’s starting to come round," said Tommo.

Candice dived on him again. "Tyrone!" she gasped, but she moved back when Mrs Trenchard told her sharply to give him space. Tyrone opened his eyes wide and tried to sit up.

"Sh, dear," said Mrs Trenchard, putting a restraining hand on his shoulder. "You’ve hurt your leg. Just lie still."

"What’s that hockey stick doing there?" he asked, bewildered. "Ooh!" He grabbed his thigh. "Bloody hell!"

Daz explained what had happened to him while Mrs Trenchard said to me, "Did you notice if he fitted at all?"

"No, he just fainted."

Mr Cassidy and Mr Harper, the headmaster, arrived.

"I’ve called the ambulance and Tyrone’s mother, she’s on her way," said Mr Cassidy.

"We have to keep his leg perfectly still," said Mr Harper. "Tyrone?" Tyrone’s eyes were wide and he was staring round in confusion. "How are you feeling? Do you know where you are?"

Tyrone frowned. "In the bogs with a broken leg?"

He tried to move it.

"Keep it still, Tyrone!" commanded Mrs Trenchard.

Candice had started to cry again.

"Control yourself, Candice!" snapped Mr Harper irritably.

"But he’s really hurt!" she sobbed.

"Yes, well, the ambulance will be here shortly. And the last thing we all need is you blubbering over him. Gemma, will you take Candice outside please?"

I frowned at him. "Me?"

"Yes."

Tutting, I grabbed Candice by the arm but she shrugged me off. She bent down over Tyrone and clasped her arms round his neck again. He prised her hands away.

"Get her off me!" he shouted crossly. "She’s demented!"

Then he turned his head away and threw up all over the headmaster’s shoes. Only Candice, Tyrone and Mr Harper didn’t laugh. Mr Cassidy and Mrs Trenchard looked like they had a job keeping their faces straight and Mr Harper glared at them as he carefully tried to remove his shoes. Mrs Trenchard soaked a paper towel in cold water and handed it to Tyrone to wipe his mouth with. Mr Cassidy cleared his throat hastily and clapped his hands.

"Right, come on, you lot," he said briskly to us. "Out now. The ambulance will be here soon."

"Let Daz stay," pleaded Tyrone. "Can’t he come with me to the hospital?"

"If he must. But please get the rest of them out of here, Mr Cassidy." Mr Harper eyed the pool of sick with disgust. "And fetch the caretaker to clear up this mess, will you?"

***

Outside the toilets Mr Cassidy said, "Take Candice to the canteen, Gemma, get her a cup of tea or something. We don’t want her jumping into the ambulance."

I glanced across to where Candice was leaning against the wall, her face in her hands. The last thing I wanted to do was to babysit her!

"Come on," I said, taking her arm again when Mr Cassidy went back into the toilets. "Let’s find your mates. They can look after you instead."

"No!" Candice wriggled her arm free. "Get your hands off me, you!"

She stormed off, pushing people out of her way.

"OK, stuff you, then!" I shouted after her.

I didn’t care. I wasn’t her keeper. If she did try to get in the ambulance with Tyrone it wasn’t my problem!

Anyway there was still half an hour of dinnertime left and I wanted my sandwiches and to put my make-up back on. I also wanted some fresh air. After getting my jacket from the cloakroom I left the building and found a bench as far away from the playground as possible, out of the wind. I took my magazine, bottle of water and packed lunch container out of my bag and settled down to a nice, quiet lunch.

Mm, cheese and pickle butties! I bit into one and wondered idly how Tyrone was doing. Not that I gave a monkey’s really but it had been scary seeing him faint that like that. It made him seem small and powerless, knocking all the arrogance out of him. As for Candice, it had scared the life out of her. It didn’t take a genius to work out she fancied Tyrone like mad and wanted to be his girlfriend, even if he did treat her like dirt.

I heard a beeping sound coming from my bag. I took out my mobile and read a message from Dad, wanting to know if we were still friends. I sighed; he should have been asleep in bed. I wondered if I should ring him and tell him about Tyrone but if I knew if I did he would feel obliged to go straight to the hospital to see him.

"Gemma?"

Candice was standing over me, her lip trembling and black mascara running down her cheeks. She was a mess. I snapped my phone shut and stuffed it back in my bag, inching away as she collapsed onto the bench next to me.

"If you’ve come to have a go about Tyrone," I said coldly, "I’m not interested. It was an accident, the clumsy git fell over Zack."

"I haven’t," said Candice. "I just came to…sit."

"I thought you might have gone after the ambulance," I said slyly. "Holding Tyrone’s hand all the way to the hospital."

Candice didn’t reply. She was peering over my shoulder.

"What are you reading?" she asked at last. "Oh, ‘Pop Factor’? I read that too. Is it the one with the interview they did with Ronan West?"

I ignored her and continued to read.

"I haven’t got my copy yet," she persisted.

I slammed the magazine down on my lap. "Is there something you wanted, Candice?"

She gasped out a sob. "Oh Gemma!" she gulped. "I was so scared about Tyrone. I thought…"

God, she could certainly turn on the waterworks!

"It’s only his leg," I said, losing patience. "He’ll live!"

"But I thought he’d stopped breathing." Candice put her hands dramatically over her face. "It was horrible!"

"Tch! He’ll be OK once he gets to the hospital."

"You were so good with him, so calm. And I know you don’t get on. He told me about your dad marrying his Auntie Shelley."

"Yeah, well." I didn’t want to be reminded about that. "Maybe I shouldn’t have kicked him but he does get on my wick."

"He asked for it," said Candice firmly. "He can be such an arrogant no-mark! I don’t know what I see in him to be honest."

I stared at her. She produced a tissue, blew her nose and wiped it.

"I wish I could pay him back for the way he’s treated me," she said piteously. "Every time I try to get close to him he speaks to me like I’m something he’s picked up on his shoe. Well, I’ve made up my mind!" She set her face grimly. "I’ve finished with him! I really have!"

I took a drink of water and turned my attention back to Ronan West, hoping Candice would take the hint and go away. Instead she sat back and began to play with her nails.

"I saw you and Mr Cassidy," she said after a while, "chatting away in the yard before lessons and outside the classroom at dinner. You looked very cosy!"

I dropped the mag on my lap again. "We were talking about footie, that’s all," I said crossly. "He saw me do the keepy-ups in the playground and asked me where I learnt to play. OK?"

"Oh, right."

"And he gave me a list of girls’ clubs I can join. See?" I showed her the crumpled list. "That’s what all the trouble was between me and Tyrone. He pinched it from me so I went and got it back off him."

"Sounds like the sort of childish thing he would do," she said bitterly.

I folded up the magazine and put it in my bag. "High time you realised what a charmless pratt Tyrone Collins is!"

"Oh I have. Honest."

I snorted as I brought out my bottle of nail varnish.

"I wouldn’t mind learning how to do that keepy-up thing like you can," said Candice. "You do it really well."

"Tyrone said he’d teach you," I replied, carefully painting my thumbnail.

"I wouldn’t ask him," scorned Candice. "I’d rather you showed me."

I was getting suspicious now. Why all this sudden dislike for Tyrone and friendliness towards me? "You said you’d never play football."

"I wouldn’t mind having a go, but I don’t suppose I’ll ever get the chance to play here."

"Really? Well, here’s something you can tell your boyfriend." I smiled smugly. "Mr Cassidy wants to set up a girls’ team."

Candice raised her eyebrows. "A footie team?"

"What else? That’s if he can persuade Lawford to agree to the idea. So far the old cow’s said no."

"She would!"

"Mr Cassidy says there are a few girls in the school who really want to play. Can you imagine Tyrone’s face if there was a girls’ footie team here? He’d go ape!"

"You could always go over Lawford’s head," said Candice. "Talk to Mr Harper about it. He might say yes. If he does, you can put my name forward for a trial."

I laughed. This was too much. "Are you for real?"

Candice looked offended. "Why not?"

"Come off it!" I said. "How much of this is a real keenness to play footie? Or are you doing it just to get back at Tyrone?"

"Well, maybe a bit of both," admitted Candice. "But really it’s because I want Mr Cassidy to see me in a pair of shorts!"

I laughed again as I screwed the top back on my bottle. "No, I bet he’d like my legs better!"