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CHAPTER ONE
From the very first second I saw Gemma Hammond, I liked her.
She was standing with Mr. Baker at the front of the class and we were all sat staring at her. I felt sorry for her. I knew how horrible she must be feeling because once I’d had to stand there, as well.
I had never wanted to come to this school, never wanted to leave where we were living, but then my Dad got a job up here and my Mum said, ‘You either come with us or stop with your Gran, Polly. You choose.’
So I came.
It’s not that I don’t like my Gran. I do. But she goes ballroom dancing! And she wants me to go with her!
B.O.R.I.N.G.
‘Stop with me!’ my Gran cries. ‘And we’ll go dancing together. I’ll buy you a dress. You know, one of those things with a skirt. Now, let me see,’ she goes, staring at the ceiling, her eyes all misty with pink net and blue feathers. ‘Yes! You could have a pink dress with a sweetheart neckline!’
Don’t ask.
It’s shaped like a heart as far as I can make out.
I RAN home.
‘I’ll go. I’ll go,’ I shout, as soon as I opened the back door. ‘Book me a ticket’
My Mum looked up from her Thriller.
‘We’re going in Leonardo’s van,’ she said, and I almost changed my mind right there and then.
‘I’m not going in Leonardo’s van,’ I tell her. ‘I’d rather walk first.’
‘Walk, then,’ my Mum says, ‘and we’ll see you when you get there. Otherwise,’ she turns a page, ‘we’re all going in Leonardo’s van.’
This is the last time I shall ever go in our Leonardo’s van because if my Mum and Dad move once more, I’m not moving with them.
I’ll go and live with my Gran and Grandad instead.
At least THEY stay in one house long enough to grow flowers, make friends and have their letters pushed through the same letter-box.
We move before the paint’s dry on the doors and I hate changing schools and having to make new friends, especially as no-one ever seems to want to be friends with me.
‘Now, then. Now, then,’ my Gran goes, when I sit and moan to her. ‘Your Dad has to go where the work is. One day, you’ll look back and see these were the best years of your life, Polly.’
‘Yeah, right,’ I mutter, because I know my Gran is dead wrong about these being the best days of your life.
Even my Grandad says they aren’t.
‘Couldn’t be more wrong if she tried,’ he growls. ‘But what can you expect from a woman as traipses around a square of polished wood, ducking and diving, sliding and slipping until she makes you dizzy? No! The best days of MY life were the days after I’d left school and started work.’ And they’ll be my best days, too.
Anyway, there was Gemma standing with Mr. Baker and Mr. Baker was in a rush again. He’s the Headmaster here and he’s always in a rush.
I read once about spon-tan-e-ous combustion, which you say as if there’s another ‘e’ after ‘tan’ so that it rhymes with lane, like, ‘tane.’
I don’t know who invented words but I do know they didn’t care about kids having to learn them.
What ‘spontaneous combustion’ means is that you can burst into flames without a lit match anywhere to be seen.
Whoosh, you go, and that’s the end of you.
‘That can’t be true, Polly,’ my Mum frowns.
I shrug.
‘It might be,’ I say, and just in case it is, I keep an eye on Mr. Baker for if anyone is going to burst into flames, it’s him. He dashes round school in a flare of sparks zipping off his shoes.
Now Mr. Baker rubs his hands together and says, ‘Good morning, everyone.’
Half of us say, ‘Good morning,’ and the other half mutter, ‘What’s good about it?’
Then Mr. Baker peers at this poor kid stood next to him.
‘This is Gemma Hammond,’ he roars. ‘Gemma is new to the town and new to the school, so make her welcome, you lot.’
Gemma tries to smile but can’t because her lips are trembling.
Mr. Baker stares around the classroom, then points to an empty seat at my side.
‘You’ll look after Gemma, won’t you, Polly?’
‘Yes, Mr. Baker,’ I say.
‘Good,’ says Mr. Baker and leads Gemma across to me. ‘Right,’ he goes on, beaming down at her. ‘Now that you’re settled, Gemma, we’ll make a start.’
He walks back to the whiteboard and writes
‘READING’ in the middle of it.
‘The lesson we all love,’ he says. ‘Commence.’
We haul our books out and flick to the page we were at last time.
‘You can share my book,’ I say to Gemma and she smiles, ‘Thanks.’
Then she looks at the cover of my book and goes, ‘I love history.’
After that, I was sure we were going to be friends.
‘So do I,’ I say, letting my hand drift across the cover of my beautiful, ‘STORIES OF ANCIENT EGYPT’ that lies between us.
‘This is my favourite book,’ I go on.
This book has gold all over the cover and it’s just as brilliant inside as out because the pages are thick with pictures of palm trees and camels, pyramids and Egyptian people, drawings, beads, bracelets and necklaces, Pharaohs, Queens, princes and princesses, cats, birds, fish and a million other things besides.
There are even pictures of dead people wrapped up in bandages and lying in coffins.
Mummies!
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