Free Only We Know by Simon Packham

seen Grandma in over two years. And I miss her. ‘What does she want, anyway?’
    â€˜She says she’s got something for you. But I think she just wants to see how you are.’
    Every summer, Tilda and I spent a week at the house in Littlehampton. I loved Grandma more than almost anything. Mum and Dad were always in a hurry. But Grandma always seemed to have time. If you couldn’t sleep, she’d never pack you off to bed and order you to ‘think great thoughts’, she’d fix you sugary tea with a ginger biscuit and tell you the story of Auntie Mabel’s knitting and the toffee apple.
    â€˜All right, if she really wants to see me, I’ll go. But if the old dear starts having another go at me, I’m out of there, okay?’
    â€˜Fine,’ says Dad. ‘I’ll phone and let her know we’re coming.’
    The sat nav politely informs us we’ve arrived at our destination. Dad pulls up in front of an oak-beamed mansion (well, compared to our crappy new house it’s a mansion) with a double garage and a classic MGB roadster in the drive. Now that is a cool car.
    â€˜Here we are then,’ says Dad, undoing his seat belt. ‘Do you want me to come to the door with you?’
    â€˜You are joking, aren’t you?’
    â€˜Of course I am,’ says Dad, re-fastening his seat belt. ‘Now remember, I’ll be waiting out here for you at eleven. So don’t be late.’
    â€˜That’s way too early.’
    â€˜It’s what we agreed on. If you’re not out by five past, I’m coming to get you.’
    â€˜Okay, fine,’ I say, jumping out onto the pavement before he can come up with any more ridiculous conditions. ‘I’ll see you later.’
    The passenger window slides down; Dad shouts some last-minute instructions. ‘Watch what you’re drinking, don’t say anything you might regret later, and make sure your phone’s switched on.’
    â€˜Yes, Dad.’
    â€˜And, Lauren?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜You look … nice.’
    The house is throbbing at 120 bpm. I turn to face the music, acutely aware that Dad’s still monitoring my every move from the car. When I reach the front door, I start waving at him. And I keep waving until he finally takes the hint and drives off.
    It’s probably for the best, because just as I’m about to knock, my breathing goes all funny and I bottle it.
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    I walk the streets for nearly an hour – only as far as the postbox and back, but over and over until the cracks in the pavement start to feel like old friends. That’s nothing– there were a couple of times last year when I slipped out of the house at two in the morning and didn’t sneak back until sunrise. I still feel safest when there’s no one about.
    You see, you think you’re ready for something, but it’s never quite that simple. Izzy’s party ought to be the best moment of my new life so far. But what if one of them gets totally shitfaced and starts asking dumb questions? Three times I nearly give in and call Dad. He’d love that, wouldn’t he? But it’s not the inspirational ‘notes to self’ in my head that send me scuttling back to Izzy’s house, it’s the weather. Thank God I didn’t wear that strapless dress. Somewhere on the way to the postbox, autumn turned into winter, and it’s so bloody cold that I’m shivering like a five-year-old on Littlehampton beach.
    This time the front door is wide open. The violin girl from the fashion show welcomes me with a big hug. ‘Hi, Lauren. You look gorgeous.’
    â€˜Thanks.’
    â€˜There’s, like, pizza in the kitchen and dancing down that way, I think. Or you could try your luck upstairs!’
    And suddenly I feel really self-conscious: small and insignificant and completely out of place. Maybe if I track down the person who invited me, I might feel like I