Free The Mixed-Up Summer of Lily McLean by Lindsay Littleson Page B

foot in the real world; we haven’t lost her completely. But she doesn’t offer to walk up to the dance with David.
    Everything and everybody is changing, while I’m desperately wishing my school life could stay the same. I don’t want to go to secondary school, with its maze-like corridors, stairs leading in all directions and hundreds of teenagers I don’t know and who won’t want to know me.
    The school bell rings and I line up for the final time. Mrs McKenzie comes out to take in the lines, looking grumpier than she usually does on a Friday.
    “Is this a line of P7 pupils, or a troupe of baboons?” she asks grouchily. “In a week you will all be leaving this school. Is this the impression you want to create in secondary?”
    I will even miss Mrs McKenzie’s sarky comments. I feel sentimental tears gathering and hastily brush them away. It’s completely unlike me to cry without a good reason, like my hand being trapped in a door, or being haunted on Largs’ seafront. And anyway, if I cry I will draw unwanted attention to myself and Mrs McKenzie is clearly in no mood for nonsense this morning.
    We pile into the classroom, but it takes a while to get settled into our seats as there is a fight between Doug the Thug and Big Cheryl. She hits him with her bag as she crashes clumsily towards her seat and he takes offence, swears loudly and shoves her.
    “You boggin’ pig. You done that on purpose! I’m gonna haveya!” roars Cheryl, lunging at Doug, fists flailing.
    I would have been scared to intervene but Mrs McKenzie is afraid of nothing and nobody. She charges into the fray and sorts it out. They are both on final warnings, again.
    I suspect Mrs McKenzie will not be sad to see the back of Doug the Thug and Big Cheryl.
    Rowan slides into a seat beside me and grins.
    “Are you all set for tomorrow?” she whispers, as we pull our maths homework from our bags and hand it to Mrs McKenzie, whose face is now grim.
    “You know me. I am uber-organised,” I reply. “And I can’t wait to see you and David on Friday.”
    Rowan’s face clouds over.
    “I’m not sure if we’re going to make it,” she whispers. “My mum says she doesn’t want to waste money on the ferry unless it’s a really sunny day. I asked if David and I could go over on our own, but she said ‘No way’. And what are the chances of a sunny day? Realistically, pretty low.”
    I sink down in my seat, feeling totally dejected. I had been looking forward to them coming, to showing them both around the island, even though I know they both probably know it as well as I do.
    “Oh well,” I mutter. “I’ll cross my fingers for sunshine on Friday.”
    “Lily McLean and Rowan Forrest! I’ve already asked everyone to come and sit at the Smartboard. I did not intend for you two to have an exemption. Will you girls stop rudely whispering and get yourselves over here now! Or do you already know everything there is to know about prepositions? Perhaps you could come over and enlighten the rest of the class?”
    Mrs McKenzie is in full-on sarcastic mode today. The clock hands seem to move extra slowly and by lunchtime I am thoroughly fed up. My last day is not proving to be as enjoyable as I had hoped.
    And then it gets worse.
    ***
    As normal, I go to stand in the queue for my free school meals (I may have mentioned our cash flow issues). Once I’ve loaded up my tray with pizza, potato wedges and pink milk, I go over to join Rowan and David at the table with their packed lunches. Usually I enjoy my school dinner, but today the pepperoni pizza looks rock hard and the wedges are soggy. Only my pink milk looks appealing, and that’s saying something.
    “At least the school dinners should be better at high school,” I say hopefully, jabbing a straw into my milk carton. “We could take this pizza down to the beach and play frisbee with it.”
    “We had better go there by limo then,” jokes David. “It’s the only way to travel apparently.”
    I