Free One More Little Problem by Vanessa Curtis

promises to return on Saturday morning with some story worked out about what she and I are supposed to be doing all that day.
    Caro is upstairs downloading new goth misery music from Heather’s computer on to her iPod.
    I’m sitting at the kitchen table performing a ritual on the last of the custard creams by dissecting it into little squares of equal sizes and arranging the pieces around the edge of the plate with four centimetres in between them.
    ‘Oh dear,’ says Dad when he sees this. ‘Bad day, Princess?’
    He throws his briefcase into the corner and pulls out a chair.
    His eyes are a bit red and his cheeks are flushed and there is a faint whiff of something. Petrol? Aftershave?
    Oh no, it’s stale beer.
    ‘Dad,’ I begin, suddenly feeling as if I have the weight of the entire world on my shoulders. ‘Dad, please tell me you didn’t go in the pub on the way home from school?’
    Dad holds his hands up in a surrender position. His tie is hanging loose around his neck in a most un-teacherly fashion.
    ‘OK, I did go for one quick drink,’ he says. ‘But only because I was celebrating my first day in a proper job again. The induction is going really well.’
    I perk up a bit at that. He does look cheerful, in a flushed kind of way.
    ‘What were the other teachers like?’ I say.
    Dad gets up and clicks on the kettle.
    ‘Nice,’ he says. ‘Yep. They were really nice. I think I’m going to like it there.’
    Well, at least something good has come out of this confusing day. My father isfinally getting himself sorted.
    I dissect the custard cream into even smaller bits.
    Then I go upstairs to scrub my face.

Chapter Fourteen
    M y rituals go from bad to worse.
    When I was at Forest Hill I kind of got over my fear of touching toilets and sinks. But now it all seems to be going backwards again.
    I’ve just been to see Stella at the clinic for my treatment session.
    It’s fair to say that she wasn’t very happy with my progress.
    Stella looked as hygienic as ever in her white coat and shoes.
    But she didn’t smile as much as usual. Her face kept creasing into a frown as she listenedto me talk about what was going on at home.
    ‘So you’re pretty much trying to take control of everything,’ she said. It’s not really a question, more just a summing-up of my hideous life.
    She chewed her lip for a moment and I got all worried that she was considering contacting Social Services and reporting Dad for going to the pub on the way home from teaching and not helping me with the cleaning.
    And if she got them involved they might take me away from home and place me with foster parents. Like Caro. Look what’s happened to her.
    ‘It’s only temporary,’ I said, trying to smile. ‘Heather’s back in a couple of weeks and then I’ll be able to get on with my normal school life after that.’
    ‘Hmm,’ said Stella. ‘The thing is, Zelah, that none of the things happening in your house should really be your responsibilityat all. I’m not surprised that your rituals are getting worse.’
    After a bit more of her looking doubtful and me pleading that everything at home would soon be normal again (ha!) she let me go home on the condition that I ring her up if it all gets too much.
    Like I’m going to do that. I might as well just ring social services direct and volunteer myself as a homeless foster child.
    ‘It’s fine. It’ll be fine,’ I said as I backed out of her office and made a run for the bus.
    Saturday dawns all wet and horrid.
    Great. I won’t even be able to wear my favourite silver flip-flops unless I want to make weird squelching noises all around Shepherd’s Bush.
    I’m up in the bathroom doing some extra rituals to prepare.
    I turn the taps with a tissue wedged between the cold metal and my warm hand.
    I put a piece of paper on the toilet seat before I sit on it.
    If I forget to wash my hands at any time I have to do each hand an extra thirty times, with the nailbrush and a load of white