Free Girl Alone: Joss came home from school to discover her father’s suicide. Angry and hurting, she’s out of control. by Cathy Glass Page A

good girl,’ I said. ‘I am pleased.’
    ‘Can I have a door key now, as I’m back on time?’ she asked.
    ‘Not yet, love. “One swallow doesn’t make a summer.”’
    She looked at me slightly oddly, and slipped off her shoes.
    ‘You’re working towards it,’ I said. ‘A couple of weeks of coming home on time and then we’ll see.’
    ‘What’s a couple?’ she asked.
    ‘Two.’
    She pulled a face. ‘I can’t do that,’ she said. ‘Two weeks is far too long. I’m not an angel.’
    I had to smile. She had a dry sense of humour sometimes. ‘Joss, you’ve come home on time tonight, as you did yesterday afternoon, so there is no reason why you can’t do it again, and again.’
    ‘I had a lift tonight,’ she said.
    ‘From Chloe’s mother?’
    ‘Her uncle.’
    ‘I trust he hasn’t been drinking too?’ I could smell alcohol on Joss’s breath, although she wasn’t drunk.
    ‘Only one. He’s sensible,’ she said.
    She said she wanted a glass of water and went into the kitchen. I wandered in too.
    ‘Was Chloe in the car with you as well?’ I asked casually.
    ‘I think so,’ she said as she took a glass from the cabinet.
    ‘You must know, love.’
    ‘Yeah, she was.’ Joss concentrated on filling her glass from the cold-water tap.
    I looked at her carefully. ‘Joss, I’m only trying to protect you and keep you safe. I care about you, and while you’re with me I’m responsible for you.’
    ‘Yeah, I know, you said. Thanks. It’s much appreciated,’ she said dismissively.
    She switched off the tap, said goodnight and went upstairs to bed. Joss’s hostility and constant rebuffs were without doubt a defence mechanism – to stop others from getting close. The logic behind this is that if you don’t form an attachment, with the possibility of losing that person, then you won’t be hurt again. Only, of course, it doesn’t work like that, and one of the scariest places to be is a teenager isolated, alone and suffering in silence.
    The following day, at 12.15 p.m., I parked my car in a side road close to Joss’s school and made my way round to the main front entrance. The weather was warm and the students were allowed off the school premises during lunch break. I passed small groups of kids chatting and laughing and also smoking quite openly, although out of sight of the main building. I thought it was a great pity that so many young people still thought smoking was cool and hadn’t got the message that it was damaging their health. The school was in the older part of town and didn’t have the best reputation. From what I’d heard and read in the local newspaper, the standard of teaching was reasonable, but there were ongoing concerns about discipline and the students’ behaviour, both inside and outside the school. Shopkeepers in the area complained about pilfering, and residents said that gangs of students roamed the streets after school, graffitiing fences and walls, throwing rubbish into gardens and bad-mouthing anyone who came out to complain.
    I went in through the main doors and gave my name to the receptionist, explaining that I had an appointment with Miss Pryce at 12.30. She said she’d let her know I was here and asked me to sign in the visitors’ book and take a seat in the waiting area, which was over to the left. The corridors were noisy at lunchtime with students milling around. They wandered past me in pairs and small groups on their way outside. Many of the girls wore their skirts very short, as Joss did, with knee-length socks, which were fashionable. Both girls and boys had their ties loosened, or weren’t wearing them at all, and some had multiple ear piercings, as Joss did. Presently, Miss Pryce appeared. She introduced herself – ‘Lisa Pryce’ – and then led the way down a corridor and into a room on the right.
    ‘We shouldn’t be disturbed in here. Do sit down,’ she said, waving to the four chairs that stood around a small table in the centre of the