Free Six Impossible Things by Fiona Wood Page B

got to get out of here.
    ‘And he’s around my age, did you know that?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Yep. So, why didn’t I end up with him, instead of your father?’
    Who knows the right answer to that one? Er – you live on different continents . . . ? You don’t know him . . . ? He’s short and you’re tall . . . ?
    I don’t point out that I’m the result of her breeding with her reject husband. I don’t feel like much of a consolation.

    It’s clear I have to protect my mother from the prank phone calls in her current fragile state, so I do something I’ve never done before in my school history. When Mr Pittney finishes morning homeroom with a rhetorical, ‘That’s it, then?’, I stand up and speak in front of the whole class. Voluntarily. Not for assessment purposes. It’s weird – I don’t consciously decide to do it; it’s as though I’m watching myself do something I have no power to stop, even though I know it’s going to hurt.
    I walk to the front of the class and hold up a flyer, my face growing red in a rush of embarrassed second thoughts. Too late now.
    ‘This is my mother’s business. She makes wedding cakes. She’s having a hard time. My father walked out on us eight weeks ago. And he lost all our money. Or we didn’t have any, or something. And so my mother has to make this business work, or we can’t afford to . . . live. I’m not talking holidays or luxury vehicles, I’m talking food. So please do not ring this number unless you want a cake.’
    Pittney has obviously only been half-listening, as usual.
    ‘Thank you. Righto, so, I think if we, if anyone, that is, wants a wedding cake, we all know where to take our business. But no more advertisements in homeroom, thanks, Cereal.’
    ‘Cereill.’
    ‘Of course, Cereill.’
    Estelle is looking at me curiously. Add inappropriate blurting of private family matters to the list. Jayzo is sneering and aggressive, but I hold eye contact with him in as threatening a manner as I can manage. He’d better get the message or I’m going to have to do something more drastic. What that might be, I have no idea. Until the muscles develop, sharp words are the only other thing in the arsenal.
    Jayzo yells out, ‘Who’s up for some pus and raw brains?’ Nice. Now he’s trying to make me faint, hitting me where it hurts. Lou shoots me a sympathetic look. ‘What about some raw liver and snot?’ Jayzo asks.
    I just make it back to my seat in time, through sniggering and Mr Pittney’s confused ‘settle downs’.

    That night there are five more prank calls. Speaking up seems only to have inspired the few people who hadn’t already called. I answer the phone and tell my mother they’re wrong numbers.
    Maybe it shouldn’t be such a big deal, but it is. I hate using the polite business voice and saying the stupid business name, only to cop inane abuse, knowing it’s someone I’m going to see at school in the morning but not knowing quite who. The anonymity turns the whole class into enemies. If someone smiles, it feels like mockery. The calls go on for a couple more nights.
    At school I get called ‘cake boy’, arguably no better or worse than dickhead or cereal, but I feel more exposed than before. I’ve appealed to people’s better nature, I’ve made myself conspicuous by telling them about my life and now they’re clubbing me over the head with it.
    I’m full of pointless anger towards my mother for her stupid business intruding on my stupid life. I know it’s really my father who started the ball rolling down this bad hill, but he’s not around to blame, and besides, I can’t be any more pissed off with him than I already am. Bashing away at the back of my skull is the obvious – it’s not about my parents, it’s me, and how I’m – not – handling things.
    Life in our cold house grows colder. I barely speak to my mother. And she hardly notices. I guess she’s silently communing with Thom Yorke. She and Oliver share an occasional