Free Better Left Buried by Emma Haughton Page A

hand, her face pale and withdrawn.
    The guy in front moves aside. I glance along the corridor one last time for Lizzie – still nowhere to be seen – then give my name to Mrs Ogden.
    â€œGood luck,” she says, handing me my envelope.
    I resist the urge to open it immediately. Go outside and sit on the bank by the sports pitch and study my name printed on the front in neat capitals. Drag some air into my lungs and slip my finger under the flap and slide it free.
    My eyes jump to the capital letters in bold print. B in music, a D in drama, a D in English and an E in citizenship.
    Oh god. I feel my stomach drop into the ground and have to bite my cheek to take the edge off my disappointment.
    I should have got an A in music at least.
    Shit. I thought the exams went all right, despite what happened with Max. I thought I’d held it together enough to get reasonable grades. Not great, but okay.
    But then I’ve been sleepwalking through my life for weeks now. What do I know about okay any more?
    â€œBad news?”
    I glance up to see Pansy Levinson hovering a few metres away.
    â€œCould have been better.” I shrug. “You?”
    She looks a bit embarrassed, like she doesn’t want to rub it in. “Four As,” she says, her voice sheepish.
    â€œThat’s great.” I force myself to look pleased. Pansy is nice as well as clever and I don’t want to make her feel bad.
    â€œAnyway, you don’t have to worry,” she adds quickly. “You’re going to study music, right?”
    â€œFingers crossed.” My fake composure wavers as I quell another flush of anxiety. I’ve barely done any practice in the two days since the burglary. It’s taken me and Mum and Aunt Helen all that time to clean up.
    â€œI’d better go.” Pansy tucks her results into her bag. “My parents will be on tenterhooks.”
    â€œYou could ring them.”
    â€œNah,” she says, finally letting her mouth widen into a broad smile. “I want to see the look on their faces.”
    When I get home Mum is kneeling by the bookshelves in the lounge, a pile of photo albums laid out in front of her. She’s looking at the pictures taken at the summer house that she and Aunt Helen inherited from our Swedish grandmother. I catch a glimpse of Max around age seven, standing on the wooden porch, smiling and wrinkling his nose up at the camera. In one hand, a fishing net on a stick – the kind kids use; in the other, a glass jar full of water, in which you can just see the dark shadow of a tiny fish.
    Mum climbs to her feet, closing the album. The corners are a bit bashed from where it was thrown on the floor, but the pictures inside seem okay. Thank god. I can’t bear to imagine what she’d be like if we’d lost those.
    â€œI’m going to get them digitalized.” Mum picks up the stack of albums and puts them back on the shelf. “Helen’s offered to do it. Uncle Derek’s bought a scanner and she says it won’t even take her that long.”
    â€œGood idea,” I say. “Then they’ll be safe.”
    Which is more than can be said for the rest of our stuff. Loads got broken, especially in the kitchen. We’ve had to go and buy new cups and plates, bowls and everything. Even a new kettle.
    When Dad called from the rig he said we’ll get it back on the insurance, so it’s not about the money. What hurts are the things we can’t replace. Like the vase Max and I got Mum on her fortieth. And that lovely old clock Dad’s grandfather left him, the one with the little pillars and glass-covered dial that sat on the mantelpiece.
    Strangely, Mum, despite my worst fears, seems to be taking it all surprisingly well – even the devastation in Max’s room. When Dad rang and said he’d come straight home, she insisted he stay put. Told him we were handling it.
    On the coffee table I spot the list we’re making