Being Miss Nobody Page 2

  Anyway, it wasn’t long after my first therapy session with Dr Peak Not Peek that we found out Seb had The Illness, so my parents kind of left me to it. And that was two years ago now. It turns out that if you’re not exactly dying of something in my house, then you’re not exactly The Main Priority. Even if sometimes maybe you wish you could be.

  After a year and a half of saying Nothing At All Ever to Dr Peak Not Peek, he decided that he couldn’t help me any more, and he referred me to a different therapist. And I was half Massively Relieved I wouldn’t have to sit in his office surrounded by the Awkward Silence any more, and half Totally Scared about meeting someone new. He told me to write something about myself and my family for my new therapist while he had a meeting with my parents. So I sat on a plastic chair outside his office and opened my yellow notebook for the last time.

  My house is number 3 Byron Hill. All the streets in my area are named after famous poets. There’s Rossetti Drive, Shelley Close, Tennyson Street, Coleridge Avenue and Clare Street. Our area is an okay area for the town where we live. Which means it could be a lot better, but it could also be a lot worse.

  The Main News at my house isn’t me, it’s Seb. He’s my brilliant little brother and he’s dying. He’s not dying quickly like what happens if you get certain diseases, he’s dying really slowly. Because we found out ages ago, and he’s had four rounds of chemotherapy now but he’s still not getting better. I can’t be very good at therapy either, because I’ve had seventeen sessions with Dr Peak and I’m still only speaking to about 0.0000000001% of the world’s population.

  When we first found out Seb was ill, Mum wanted to move house. She said she wanted us to live somewhere nicer where trees are planted in the pavements and people say “Hello!” to you when you walk past. But when I asked Dad if we were going to move he said, “The problem is we had children the wrong side of the financial crisis.” And when I looked confused he said, “Put it this way – if we moved somewhere more expensive we would have to start cutting back on luxuries such as wearing clothes and eating food.”

  Mum always says, “Even though Seb’s really poorly, there’s Still Every Reason To Hope he will get better.” But last week I overheard Dad say, “We have to Prepare For The Worst.” So I’m not exactly sure what to think. Some days Seb seems okay and some days he’s too ill to do anything apart from sleep, and some days he’s like a normal eight-year-old boy (apart from his personality). Anyway, whatever happens, I’m massively glad I don’t have strangers saying “Hello!” to me all the time.

  Seb doesn’t go to school any more because of all the germs, but he’s still brainier than anyone I know. He has a special tutor called Brian, but Seb calls him Brain because he is really clever but also because it’s an anagram. Brain tested Seb’s IQ when he first started tutoring him and said it was a lot higher than normal. One of Dad’s all-time favourite sayings since then is This Family Just Doesn’t Do Normal, which I agree must be true, but I’m still not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

  As well as being able to memorize really hard things like the names of loads of astronauts, star constellations and every dinosaur that existed, Seb’s obsessed with poo. He kind of already was, but when his medicine started giving him diarrhoea all the time, he called himself a pooperhero and since then he makes at least one poo joke a day. It’s like even though he is way cleverer than normal, the age part of his brain is way younger than normal. He’s also way happier than normal too. He never seems to get sad, even though he’s dying, which is kind of the Exact Opposite to me because I definitely feel sad a lot of the time and I hardly ever get ill.

  Even though I can speak normally at home, I have to be careful around Seb not to mention his illness. He knows he is ill but I’m not supposed to bring it up in conversation unless he does. Once I asked Mum if she would have another baby if Seb dies and she got really upset and I wished and wished I hadn’t said it, because she didn’t stop crying for ages. Since then I try not to mention it. If Seb dies I will be an only child, then I really will have no friends.

  We don’t have much extra money because Mum quit her job to look after Seb, but we’re saving up to go on a family holiday. We are going to Egypt because seeing the pyramids would be Seb’s Dream Come True. He’s a little bit obsessed with pharaohs and last time he was in hospital he asked the nurses for bandages so he could mummify his toy dinosaurs. He made a wig out of tinfoil and makes everyone call him Pharaoh Poopookhamun anytime he wears it, which is a lot.

  Ages ago Mum wrote to this charity that gives you a Dream Come True if you’re dying, but they can’t afford to give everyone a Dream Come True, so we can’t count on it. That’s why all our spare money goes into Seb’s holiday fund and that’s the reason I don’t get pocket money because I want it to go to Seb’s dream. I’m looking forward to going to a country where everyone speaks a different language, because no one will expect me to talk to them.

  Since we found out Seb’s got The Illness, our house is only happy at certain times, like when Seb’s around, then at other times everyone gets really upset, like last week when Seb had to stay in hospital again and Mum wouldn’t stop crying. And other times I feel like something bad is happening but my parents kind of pretend it isn’t. But I know it is definitely happening because the silence feels weird. If my house had to be a colour, sometimes it would be sunshine orange and sometimes it would be rain-cloud grey.

  That’s why I like going next door to Mrs Quinney’s, because although her house isn’t exactly really happy, it’s always the same no matter what. And the silence in her house isn’t the scary kind.

  What with Seb’s hospital visits, and Dad working extra hours, I end up going to Mrs Quinney’s house a lot. One of the reasons I love Mrs Quinney is because she is one of The Few People On Planet Earth I’ve always been able to speak to. She’s half-battleaxe, half-fruitcake according to my dad, and she lets her cats, Mary and Bernard, launch their bum rockets in our garden according to Seb. But Mum appreciates what she calls “Mrs Quinney’s Victorian Finishing School”. (Mrs Quinney calls it etiquette.) She’s taught me how to correctly lay a table, how to sew people’s initials onto a handkerchief, and I can balance three books on my head and walk around her living room, which is called posture and it’s important in case you ever want to get married.

  Dad wishes I didn’t have to go there so much because last Christmas he asked me what I wanted from Santa and I said, “Peace on earth.” Then Dad said he was going to have a word with Mrs Quinney about brainwashing me.

  But Mum said, “She can speak normally there. And Mrs Quinney loves her. I’m sure she must get lonely. It won’t do Rozzie any harm to learn a little bit about God.”

  And Dad said, “Fine, but when she comes back wanting to become a nun, I’ll blame you.”

  For the record, I only ever wanted to become a nun for about two days when Mrs Quinney told me they can take a vow of silence and then they don’t have to speak to anyone. But when I looked it up in the encyclopedia and found out they have to get up really early and do loads of chores and praying, I changed my mind. Anyway, if I was a nun I don’t think God would like me very much because what I really want more than anything is the Exact Opposite of a vow of silence – to be able to say whatever I want to everyone. But unfortunately, that’s not the sort of Dream Come True you can save up your pocket money for.

  One of the best ever things Mrs Quinney taught me is calligraphy, which is like a special type of handwriting that is actually a form of art. The word calligraphy comes from the Greek language, meaning beautiful writing. I looked it up. Mrs Quinney has the most perfect handwriting I have ever seen, but her hands are old now and she says her writing was even better when she was younger.

  The first thing Mrs Quinney taught me was how to do swirly letters. You start by practising the alphabet which takes Literally Ages, then you can move on to short, joined-up phrases like this:

  I love doing calligraphy because whatever is happening with words in my head, I can always write some down on paper. And since doing calligraphy, I can make them look nice, which is not how they feel in my head most of the time. When I feel worried (which is a lot) I do calligraphy and it helps the panic in my head go away a bit.

  Anyway, I’m writing all this because Dr Peak said you are an expert in helping people like me. And I’m really hoping that’s true. I need someone to help stop words from getting stuck in my head when I try to speak to people. Because even though my dad says being Completely Normal isn’t very good, it still sounds A Million Times Better than being me.

  Even though I never actually spoke to Dr Peak Not Peek, things got a bit better for me at my primary school after they found out I had SM. I never said anything in class, but Miss Castillo gave me special cards to hold up – a red one for if I needed five minutes outside the classroom on my own, a pink one for if I needed to go to the toilet (which was a massive relief), a green card if I knew the answer, and a special whiteboard to write things down on. I even spoke to her quietly after class when no one else was around. Everyone agreed I was Definitely A Lot Better. And even though I still didn’t have anyone who could be classed as An Actual Friend, no one called me weird or a brick wall any more.

  But then Year Six finished, and I had to start a whole new school where I didn’t know anyone. In their special meeting, Dr Peak Not Peek told my parents it would be better for me to start at a secondary school where no one from my primary school would be going, so I could have a Totally Fresh Start. He thought it would help me be able to speak normally, to “break my pattern” of being totally silent. Only I didn’t exactly understand what that meant. Anyway, what happens if you’re Someone Like Me is your parents listen to the expert (which wasn’t me unfortunately). So everyone
from my class went to Stanthorpe Academy, and I had to go across town to Manor High.

  And I suppose that’s when this whole thing kind of started.

  Going to a new school felt a bit like there was this massive train coming towards me, and I couldn’t get out of the way because I was tied to the tracks. All these questions were flying around in my head like bats, conjuring up Awkward Silence Scenarios like: What if I can’t speak to my new teachers? What if I can’t say my name? What if I get ignored again? What if everyone at my new school thinks I’m weird? What if no one likes me? And the main one:

  And all the words jumbled up into a Massive Muddle of

  Because even though I had spent literally the whole summer wishing my SM would magically disappear before my first day at Manor High, I was seriously worried that, actually, it might get worse.

  And it turned out I was right.

  Which just proves that no matter how many times you wish for something, getting a Dream Come True when you are Someone Like Me is probably the closest you can get to impossible.

  It was the start of September, and my first day at Manor High. Seb was going through a bad patch so he was in bed. I’d heard him being sick in the night. Dad was obsessively cleaning everything like he always did when Seb got bad, and Mum was at the kitchen table reading her book about alternative medicines. Seb called them Mum’s Miracle Cures, but they weren’t like real miracles because they never seemed to work. I was wearing my new uniform and trying my best to hide the Massive Silent Panic I was having about going to my new school (because I knew for sure Mum didn’t have a Miracle Cure for that).

  When Mum saw me she got up from the table, gave me a hug, tucked in my shirt, did up my top button and said, “There. You look great! Are you sure you don’t want Dad to go into school with you? He could help you find your class and just, you know, make sure you’re okay.”

  I said, “No, I’ll be okay. I’m actually Totally Fine. I’m sort of looking forward to it!” Which was a Massive Lie because a) I would rather have walked barefoot across the bum-rocket rose bushes than go to a new school, and b) I really did want Dad to come with me, but even I know if there’s a way to look like a Complete Weirdo on your first day at a new school, it’s taking my dad with you. Especially when he’s wearing his I HUG PUGS T-shirt.

  Dad gave me a hug, being careful not to touch me with the bubbly washing-up gloves he was wearing and said, “You’ll be fine, Rozzie. Totally Fresh Start, hey?”

  I smiled, trying to make it look as convincing as possible even though the words

  bubbled up in my head.

  “Seb made you a card,” Dad said, and pointed to the table.

  The card said GOOD LUCK, ROZZIE! on the front and I hope your first day at school goes with a BANG! inside, next to a picture of a school exploding, which I hoped was his way of telling me he knew I didn’t want to go to Manor High and not some secret terrorism fantasy.

  “And me and Dad got you this,” Mum said and gave me a red-and-white striped parcel. Inside was a new notebook and pen and on the first page it said:

  I’m Rosalind Banks.

  Sometimes I find it hard to speak.

  Dad said, “We’re sure you’ll be fine. Your new teachers know about…you know. This is just in case.”

  Then a million little grey clouds inside my head started raining the words

  But I said, “I’ll be okay. I probably won’t even need this,” because it looked like Mum was about to cry. Then I said, “By the way, I’m definitely not the one you need to worry about,” and showed them Seb’s exploding school picture.

  “Honestly, I don’t know where he gets it from!” Dad said, pointing at Mum.

  So I spent that morning the same way I’d spent the entire summer: telling my parents I felt Totally Fine about starting my new school and, unfortunately, they believed me. Which is annoying, because the truth was I felt Totally Like I Was About To Do A Bungee Jump Off A Massive Cliff With No Rope Attached. And not telling my parents that was probably my first Major Mistake.

  Letting Mum tuck in my school shirt so tightly, do up my top button and send me to Manor High with a notebook and pen in my hands was Major Mistake Number Two.

  The first Traumatic Experience Of The Day was catching the school bus. To me, catching a bus filled with people I don’t know, when I might not be able to say a word, is like asking someone to get into a tank full of hungry sharks wearing a seal costume.

  The sound of everyone’s voices over the rumbling engine made it really noisy. People shouted things across me as I got on and the whole time I wished Dad had taken me to school (or let me be homeschooled by Brain for the rest of my life actually). A girl wearing blue-rimmed glasses sat next to me and said, “Hey, I’m Ella, is it your first day too?” I tried my best to say “Hi!” but all my words Disappeared Completely and I couldn’t even move my head properly to nod. She must have thought I was being rude because she said, “Okay, whatever! Don’t speak to me then!” and leaned forward to speak to the girl in front. I looked down at my new shoes, feeling like there was some kind of giant spotlight on me showing everyone on the bus how Totally Silent And Friendless I was.

  The bus stopped just outside the school gates and I waited until everyone had got off. I tried to say something, anything, just whisper a word quickly to myself like Dr Peak Not Peek had told me to, but it seemed like there were millions of people outside rushing and shouting and the bus driver was telling me to “HURRY UP!” so my lips wouldn’t move at all.

  I got off the bus and gazed up at the grey buildings casting their enormous shadows over me like massive storm clouds. Everything and everyone was so much bigger than primary school. There weren’t any teachers telling people to line up, and everything was noisier and more crowded than I’d expected. I’d missed the Year Seven Orientation Day because that day Seb had been rushed into hospital with a really high temperature, so it seemed like everyone knew where they had to go apart from me. I took out the blurred map the school had sent me, wondering if there was any place on it I might be able to speak.

  My new form tutor was called Mr Bryant and my form room was E14, which stood for English 14, which meant I had to somehow find the English block from where I was standing. When I’d shown Seb the map, he’d said that even Christopher Columbus would find following it a challenge, so for me with Literally No Sense Of Direction and in the middle of a Massive Silent Panic, it felt impossible.

  I waited for a gap in the crowds that looked Unlikely To Result In Me Getting Crushed To Death, put my head down and walked in what I hoped was the right direction. Suddenly a tall boy with dark messy hair stood right in front of me blocking my path. He leaned down really close so his nose was practically touching mine and he was half standing on my foot. He shouted, “Geek!” and I felt his hot breath on my face. He ran off laughing and my cheeks burned red.

  So that was my Welcome To Manor High. The bell hadn’t even rung and my chances of speaking to Anyone At All Ever went crashing down from Not Exactly Likely to a Massive Zero. My hands were shaking and the tears stinging my eyes made everything look blurry, which I suppose at least made the map more accurate. A surge of people moved behind me and I got carried along in the crowd, feeling like a tiny spider being washed down the plughole.

  I spotted the word English on a building to my left, so I headed towards it, thinking if I could just get away from all these people, maybe I’d be okay. But when I got inside, most of the classrooms were missing their numbers and everyone looked too scary to ask them anything in my notebook. So I walked up and down the graffitied corridors doing emergency prayers to God to let me find E14 before I was late. And maybe God was listening, or maybe He has a strange sense of humour, because I found the classroom, but waiting for me inside was something that made me wish I was late: The Introduce Yourself Game.