Free What We Hide by Marthe Jocelyn

form.”
    “Plus,” says Luke, “it suits her.” Kirsten rolls her eyes.
    “Great name for a skinhead rocker,” I say.
    “But she is not a skinhead rocker,” says Ann.
    “Yet,” says Kirsten.
    I’d expected the kitchen to be all shiny, like in a magazine, but it’s the opposite and even better. The cupboard doors are glass, with stacks of pretty plates and cups peeking through. There’s an armchair in a nook by the window, covered in faded sunflower fabric, with a book open onthe seat. The table was probably built by peasants in the twelfth century, and the cooker is one of those huge black things that you can practically drive. The floor is painted a glowing red, the colour of apple skins in an advertisement. It’s all so bleeding pleasant that I’m dying to steal their vodka or take off my shirt, just to shake it up a bit.
    After the newspapers get bundled and stashed in the bin, Ann puts the kettle on. “Fish-and-chips is the best,” she says. “No washing up after.”
    “What’s for dessert?” asks Luke.
    “Ice cream,” says Ann. “With chocolate syrup to pour over.” She puts out these crystal cup things that she claims are especially for sundaes.
    “I bought them in New York last year,” she says. “Aren’t they so American?”
    “Were you there on holiday? Did you go too?” I ask Kirsten.
    “My parents went without us,” she says. “Romantic getaway or some rubbish. They brought good presents, though.”
    There are three flavours to choose from. I have coffee, Kurse has chocolate, Luke has both, and Ann has none. We pour on fudge sauce, slurp it up.
    I run my finger around the inside of the scalloped rim, because Luke is doing it too. I get every last smear before I stand up to clear. I cradle the crystal cup for one second and then purposely drop it. The floor is wood, so the glass doesn’t shatter, but it bounces and cracks, a couple of chips flying off. Good sound effect. Ann stares, first down atthe glass and then at me. I smack my hands to my mouth. “Oh-my-god-I’m-so-sorry-I-can’t-believe-I-just-did-that-oh-my-god-I’m-so-sorry.”
    “That’s okay,” says Ann. She folds her napkin.
    Kirsten’s got a telly in her room, so we watch for a bit and then natter and then go to sleep like two teddy bears on a great big pillow.
    “Ohhh, best part of being home,” says Kirsten, when we wake up. “No bell for breakfast. Missing Saturday classes. No freezing floor between us and the toilet.”
    “No squishy Susan masturbating,” I say.
    “No Oona rattling on about Nico.”
    “No spongy eggs waiting in a tub on the table.”
    “I heard you talking,” says Ann, coming in. “Breakfast in bed?”
    “Yes, please!” I say, just as Kurse says, “No, we’ll come down, Mum.”
    “Which?” says Ann.
    “I hate bacon in my bed,” says Kirsten.
    “Right, then, how about I bring just tea and you come downstairs for food?”
    “Ohmygod, Kurse, you have the nicest mother.” I burrow into my warm tunnel of duvet. “I feel like a princess. And it’s not even my birthday.” I punch Kirsten’s shoulder.
    “Owww!”
    “That’s one,” I say. “Fifteen more for sweet sixteen.”
    She flips over. “Don’t you dare!”
    “Not telling you when, though. I’ll get you as the day wears on.”
    “I love being home for my birthday,” she says.
    “I’m always home for birthdays,” I say. “August fourth. I’d rather be at school.”
    “It can’t be that bad.”
    “You have no idea.” She has no idea.
    Fourteenth Birthday, by Penelope Fforde
    Wake up on school time even without bells .
    Go to the loo. Flush toilet before use. Flush toilet after use .
    Listen to snoring in parents’ room .
    Go to living room, see useless oaf Barney on sofa, too lazy to go four steps to his bed at three in the morning .
    Look in refrigerator, note emptiness on both sides of milk bottle .
    Think , Hmmm, maybe they’re planning a smash-up surprise party for later.
    Right .
    Pull out milk.