Free The Alien in the Garage and Other Stories by Rob Keeley

believed her. But she had a horrible feeling Georgia didn’t.
    Georgia could never keep her big mouth shut. If she found out the lie… This could be really bad.
    â€œI’ll show you some photos of the villa tomorrow.”
    Again, Emma couldn’t quite believe it was her own voice she could hear speaking.
    â€œOh.” Georgia suddenly looked less smug. “OK.”
    That was something, anyway, Emma thought.
    But what on earth was she going to do now?
    As soon as the bell rang, Emma ran.
    â€œDon’t forget those photos tomorrow!” Georgia called after her.
    Emma’s head was spinning.
    There was no going back. She couldn’t tell the girls that she’d made it all up, that she and her Mum weren’t going to a sunny Spanish villa but to Littlecombe, probably with gales, and chip papers blowing along the promenade.
    If she was going to survive, Emma needed photos. And fast.
    Emma could only book the Internet for fifteen minutes in the local library.
    Quickly, she hammered the word “Spain” into her search engine. Then she realised she’d have to say more. She added “Marbella”, hoping it was spelt right, and then “villa”.
    When she saw what came up, and the prices, she nearly fainted.
    She quickly moved her cursor away from “Book this” and up to “Print”.
    â€œThat’s dead nice.” Lauren sounded envious the next morning. “Five minutes from the beach. Is that the view? Oh, that’s gorgeous.”
    â€œIt says this place sleeps ten,” Georgia objected. “Thought there was only you and your Mum going. Bit expensive, isn’t it?”
    â€œThey’re borrowing it from someone, aren’t they?” Amber pointed out. Emma could have hugged her.
    For the time being, Georgia shut up.
    They let it go for a bit after that. There was no more mention of Emma’s holiday that day, or the next. And then suddenly it was the final week, with the end of term disco, and a picnic, and the last Assembly.
    By the final day of term, Emma had almost forgotten about her lie. The printouts of the Spanish villa were squashed right down at the bottom of her schoolbag.
    Then, just before hometime on the last day, when they were all waiting for the final bell like greyhounds awaiting the start of a race, Amber came up to Emma.
    â€œSo when are you off to Spain then?”
    And Emma’s heart sank.
    â€œMonday.” At least she had to give the real dates when she’d be away.
    â€œI won’t see you before, then.” Amber gave Emma a big hug. “Have a good time. See you when you get back. And don’t forget to send us a postcard, will you?”
    Emma held on to Amber for dear life.
    Over Amber’s shoulder, she could see Georgia. And Georgia was smirking.
    â€œThis isn’t too boring for you, love, is it?” Auntie Sandra asked at breakfast on the first day of Emma’s holiday. She had cooked them all a huge meal of scrambled eggs, forgetting as usual that Emma didn’t like them. Next to Emma at the round kitchen table with its checked cloth sat Katie, a year younger than Emma, stuffing herself with toast and peanut butter.
    â€œNo,” said Emma hastily.
    She looked moodily out of the window. It wasn’t raining. Yet. But the sky was cloudy and stormy. It wouldn’t be long.
    â€œWe could go to the promenade after breakfast,” said Katie, through peanut butter.
    Emma nodded.
    She wondered what Amber was doing now. And Georgia. Georgia would be setting off for Africa in two weeks’ time.
    Emma walked down with Katie to the promenade. It was quite early and there weren’t so many holidaymakers about yet. The funfair, with its brightly- coloured rides, wasn’t yet open. The cafes, snack bars and amusement arcade were, and a few other kids were mooching about, buying hot dogs, or trying to get soft toys out of machines with the little mechanical cranes.