Free The Wish Pony by Catherine Bateson

Me’ – was empty. He had not one, but three bookcases in his room and the books (science fiction and fantasy, I could tell from the covers) on one of them were two deep. Around, under and on top of the desk lay all sorts of computer parts as well as two working computers. There was a Doctor Who poster on the wall and the famous map, bristling with pins.
    Bailey must have seen me looking around.
    â€˜It’s normally a bit cleaner than this,’ he said. ‘My dad used to yell at me before it got to this stage. But he’s left now, so I can’t be bothered to tidy it up. Yet.’
    â€˜He’s left?’
    â€˜Yes,’ Bailey said crisply and turned back to Magda’s notebook, ‘some time ago.’
    It made sense – Debbie sitting in the dark, the absence of muffins, Magda picking Bailey up.
    â€˜Oh, Bailey,’ I said, ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.’
    â€˜How could you have when you’re the first person – I mean the first person my own age – that I’ve told?’
    I felt as though I’d been handed some kind of award. ‘When did he go?’ I asked softly.
    â€˜Weeks ago. They had a big argument and he just got up and left. But not like the other times when he stormed out. This was different. He wasn’t yelling or anything. So I know he’s not coming back no matter what Mum says. I just know.’
    Magda put her hand on Bailey’s head – she didn’t stroke his dark curly hair or anything, just kept her hand there, for company. Bailey turned the notebook off and then said in a different kind of voice, a grown-up kind of voice, ‘Now, we’re just rebooting this, Magda, and then you try to send an email and have a go at MSN, okay?’
    â€˜Oh Bailey, how wonderful! Thank you.’ Magda’s hand stayed on Bailey’s head while her other hand fossicked around in her coat pockets looking for something. ‘Here it is,’ she crowed. ‘Always be prepared, that was a motto I learnt somewhere years and years ago – an email address.’
    â€˜Right, well you try it now.’ Bailey stood back and I browsed the bookshelves so Magda could write her email in privacy. ‘You can borrow anything you like,’ Bailey offered, ‘you might like some of the fantasy books.’
    â€˜Oh thanks, but I’m still reading The Cuckoo Clock .’
    â€˜Do you only read one book at a time?’
    â€˜Yes, of course. That way I’ve finished it and I know what’s happened. If I didn’t read only one, I’d get confused. I’d mix up the stories. Wouldn’t I?’
    Bailey shrugged. ‘I don’t,’ he said, ‘and I read hundreds at a time. Well, five anyway.’ He pointed to underneath the bed where I could actually count five books lying facedown, all open and in various stages of being read.
    â€˜Terrible,’ Magda said, ‘scatterbrained, that’s what it is. It’s a good thing you’re so smart, Bailey Ferguson, because if you weren’t you’d never get anything done.’
    â€˜He got four awards last year,’ I told her – I thought that was the kind of thing a great great godmother should know.
    â€˜And how many did you get?’
    â€˜Only one. But I only ever get one, or sometimes two if I get the Tried Hard in something.’
    â€˜She almost always gets the Art Award,’ Bailey said, ‘and that’s one of the hardest to get, I reckon, because it’s so subjective. Don’t you think, Magda?’
    â€˜Very true,’ Magda said. ‘Well, that’s that sent. Now which button turns this thing off?’
    I wondered what subjective meant and I was going to ask Mum when I got home but she was lying down. I was about to ask Dad over takeaway chicken dinner – Mum was having hers on a tray – when a sudden wailing noise from the bedroom made both Dad and me leap up and