Free Skeletal by Katherine Hayton Page B

equipment then tell her not to spend the money on frivolous expenses.’
    I bit back retorts, and wondered at what point in my life I would be in an exchange with an adult where I wasn’t judged and found wanting.
    ‘She doesn’t spend money on things she doesn’t need to,’ I answered. This was perfectly true, from an alcoholic’s point of view. ‘But we had a lot of expenses moving here, and this is just outside our budget at the moment.’
    ‘You would’ve needed these things at your previous school.’
    ‘We had to leave in a hurry. I don’t think they were packed up, or we’ve lost them somewhere in the move.’
    Ms Pearson sniffed, and walked behind her desk. She placed her hands on either side of the pristine desk pad that was centred on it, and leaned forward.
    ‘Well, if your mother really does require some assistance perhaps we’d be able to help.’
    I let out the breath I’d been holding, and relaxed. I nodded at her, ‘Do I need to fill in some forms?’
    Ms Pearson smiled. Wide. ‘Oh no, you don’t need to do anything.’
    I started to feel as though I was on less sure ground. ‘How do I apply for assistance then?’
    ‘ You don’t, Daina Harrow. Your mother will need to apply for the funding. Once she comes into the office to complete the application we’ll release the necessary equipment from the school stationery supplies.’ She sniffed and shifted her weight back. Her hands folded neatly in front of her waist.
    ‘While she’s here she can complete the paperwork that she’s failed to fill in for your attendance here. Get everything cleaned up and signed off.’
    I swallowed hard and nodded. ‘I’ll let her know,’ I said as I backed out of her office and turned away. One avenue I doubted my mother would be following up on anytime soon.
     
    ***
     
    When I arrived home the front door was locked. I went around the back of the house, and picked up the fake stone that held the spare.
    Empty.
    I went back around to the front, and put my ear to the door. I couldn’t hear anyone moving around inside. Mum usually only locked it when she went out, and increasingly not even then. But the curtains were still drawn from last night so I couldn’t be sure. Perhaps she was sleeping one off on the sofa.
    I wriggled the door again to make sure it really was locked up, and not just caught. It refused to open. I stepped back and walked the perimeter to see if there was anything else open. The window to the bathroom was ajar, but when I tried to pull it open further I could see that the latch had been turned to the wrong side. It left enough of a gap to let some fresh air through, but there wasn’t enough room for me to stick my fingers in and flick it open.
    There was already a slight drizzle. If my luck held that would soon be a downpour. And we didn’t have a veranda, or balcony. The art deco styling meant that there weren’t even any eaves to shelter beneath.
    The mist that formed on my clothing started to turn to droplets.
    I tried to use the hairpin to open the lock, but I couldn’t even get a feel for the tumblers, let along turn them. The rain was starting to come down more persistently now. Drops gathered in my wet fringe and then ran in tiny rivulets straight into my eyes. I wiped them clear with frustration.
    I could throw a brick through the ranchslider. That would teach my mother to lock me out of the house. But then it would just mean cardboard over the glass, and an offer to every thief in the neighbourhood that it was open season at number fourteen.
    I jiggled the front door again, pulling hard in anger, frustration and misery. It jolted and tipped on the long grooves of the fitting, and I could see that the lock mechanism was slightly ajar. I tried it again, sliding it with force and exerting some downwards pressure to encourage it to slip more. I was rewarded with a wider gap.
    Three more pulls and the tongue of the lock popped free.
    I opened the door and looked around. No