Glitter. Kate Maryon
“I wonder if she ever played a tune to me?”
When we’ve unpacked and had our tea and sat through a house meeting and shared summer stories and welcomed the new girls, Alice and I sneak out of our window and on to the flat roof to look at the sky. Above us is a soft glittering blanket that twinkles through the darkness and wraps us up in stars.
“I’m so glad to be back,” I whisper.
“Me too,” says Alice.
“Whoever invented the stars,” I say, “truly was a glittering success. Can you imagine what it would be like to fly through them and feel them glittering all about you?”
“Of course a person didn’t invent them, Libby,” says Alice snuggling in close, “but imagine if they had. They would be the most popular and richest person in the world.”
“No, Alice,” I giggle, “your dad is the richest person in the world. Well, not like kings and princes, but he is rich.”
“Your dad too,” she says.
“I suppose so,” I sigh. “It’s just I don’t really see the point of it when he’s not happy and enjoying it. He’s so moody and stressed all the time, who cares how much money he has? My dad wouldn’t know how to enjoy himself if it came and bit him on the nose. That’s what my granny says.”
“Daddy says things are changing,” says Alice. “He says the banks have more debts than they have money.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“Don’t know really,” she says. “He just says that things will change. But we don’t need to worry about anything, Libby, nothing will happen to us, silly.”
Having a best friend like Alice is as amazing as my school. I mean having a best friend full stop is brilliant, but for me it means I always have someone I can share my feelings with, someone I can trust. I know that whatever happens in our lives Alice will be there for me and I will be there for her. That’s how it is with us, it’s simple. Alice is also very good at telling me the truth, even when it hurts.
“Can you try not to dump your feelings on me this term, Libby. We’re nearly twelve and that’s too old for lashing out.”
“I’ll try,” I say. “It’s just sometimes I can’t help it. It must be my red hair.”
“The colour of your hair is no excuse, Libby, you have to take responsibility for your feelings.”
Chapter 4 everything is really all my fault…
Three weeks later I’m sitting in a maths lesson with my mind half drifting out of the window when a prefect knocks on our door and tells our teacher that I have to go to the headmaster’s office straight away. I am completely sure that I haven’t done anything wrong or bad enough to need a trip to see Mr Jenkins, our headmaster, for a telling off, but anyway I’m careful to pull up my socks and straighten my tie before knocking on his door. “Yes,” booms his throaty voice, “come on in.” I turn the big brass handle, step inside and am surprised to see my dad sitting on one of Mr Jenkins’s black leather chairs. He’s looking all red faced and flustered and Sebastian is there as well, pacing about the room in tears. My heart dives into my tummy like a cold hard pebble and bounces straight back up again and lodges in my throat.
“What’s happened?” I ask, immediately leaping to the conclusion that somebody we know has died or that Sebastian only got a B for his science homework or something terrible like that.
“Come and sit down, Liberty,” says Mr Jenkins. “I’m afraid your father has some rather upsetting news.”
But I don’t sit down. Because how can you sit down when the tension in the room is making you worried that your ears are about to hear some ultra-upsetting news. My dad looks terrible. He clearly hasn’t shaved for a few days and he looks like he hasn’t slept or eaten for weeks. I hover nearby without getting too close. I never know with my dad when he might unexpectedly bark some random command at me and make my feelings hurt. The headmaster coughs as a polite way of reminding my dad that it’s his turn to speak now.
“Liberty, I’m afraid I have some bad news,” whispers my dad, running his hand through his untidy hair. I’m shocked because I’ve never heard my dad speak so quietly before. His voice usually booms around the room, deafening my ears, but now he sounds like someone’s just let the air out of him and there’s nothing left for talking. “The business has collapsed, Liberty,” he says. “I’ve hung on for months and months trying to keep it all going but now I’ve hit rock bottom, the official receiver has been called in and we’ve become victims of the credit crunch.”
Then he looks at me like I know what all that means, which, of course, I don’t. I mean I’ve heard of the credit crunch and everything and things closing down all over the place, because whoever on this planet hasn’t. That was what Alice was saying her dad was talking about. He said things would change and he was right, but what has any of that got to do with me? Then Sebastian explodes.
“What he’s trying to say, Libby,” he steams, “is that we’ve lost everything. And I mean, everything! All the houses, all the cars, the boat, all the shares and every last penny in the bank.”
“Oh,” I say, still not really understanding, but knowing that something has gone terribly wrong. “I’m sorry, Daddy.” And suddenly it’s like the word ‘sorry’ has been touched by the edge of a lighted match and whooshed it up in flames.
“Sorry!” my dad bellows, full of air again. “What do you mean, ‘Sorry’? Sorry is hardly going to help now, Liberty, is it? What are you talking about, child? It’s far too late for sorry.”
I flinch and begin to feel like the whole credit crunch thing and Dad’s business collapsing and everything is really all my fault. All I want is to go back to my maths lesson, because right now maths feels like one hundred and fifty thousand times more interesting than the angry words that are flying out of people’s mouths and around this room. Luckily Mr Jenkins takes charge.
“Liberty,” he says, in a trying-to-explain-something-important-to-a-stupid-person kind of voice, “your father’s here to take you home. He’s come to pick you both up and take you home because he can no longer afford the fees to keep you here.”
Dad makes whimpering, hurt dog sounds and his left leg keeps jiggling up and down like it can’t stop.
“Home?” scoffs Sebastian. “And where exactly is that, Dad? Where is home?” And then he crumples in a heap on the floor, wiping his tear snot on his blazer sleeve. And my dad peers back at him through empty eyes. I’m afraid to even move an inch or say anything at all because I don’t want to make anyone else shout. And I’m relieved when Mrs Peterson, the school secretary, arrives with a tray full of tea and biscuits. But Sebastian’s not letting up and he turns on Mr Jenkins.
“After all I’ve done for this school,” he shrieks, “and being head boy and everything. You can’t just turf me out on the streets; I’m in my last year of A levels. This disaster might well ruin my whole life and I will hold you,’ he points to Mr Jenkins, “and you,” he points to Dad, “personally responsible.”
“Calm down, Sebastian,” says Mr Jenkins, handing Sebastian a handkerchief and a cup of tea. “Of course I wouldn’t just turf you out on the streets. At your stage in your education and with your brilliant academic record there are plenty of bursaries and charitable funds available to finance your last year with us. It’s your father’s decision to take you home.”
Sebastian glares fury at Dad, wanting some answers.
“It’s true, Seb,” says Dad. “I can’t help it; I’m a proud man. I owe the school the whole of last term’s fees and there’s no money to left to clear the debt or pay for any more. And that debt doesn’t even