Free Indigo Blue by Cathy Cassidy

will.’
    ‘Aisha Patel, Jo Ashton and Indigo Collins, are you ready?’
    ‘Go, girl,’ I whisper to Jo.
    ‘I’ll show her,’ she says under her breath. And she does. Jo reads every line loud and clear. She doesn’t stumble, she doesn’t pause, and she even remembers to wave her arm around for emphasis like we agreed.
    Miss McDougall nods, writing something down on a clipboard. She asks Aisha and me to read a chunk of script again, then it’s time to sing, just one verse each, with Mr Lennon on piano to help with the tune. Aisha sings in a sad, clear voice, and I notice the other kids go quiet and watch. My turn. I imagine I’m Dodger, the cheeky pickpocket lad, singing, and put as much fun as I can into it all. I’m grinning all over my face as the piano dies away, and there’s a couple of wolf whistles from the back of the hall that make Jo frown.
    Her turn. She sings like she reads, loud and clear, but she’s off-tune and her voice cracks and wobbles. I catch a glance between Miss McDougall and Mr Lennon, and I know it’s not good news for Jo.
    After lunch, Mr Lennon comes into class to announce the results. Buzz gets Fagin, Shane gets Dodger and Kai gets Bill Sykes. As Mr Lennon announces that Kelly Murphy gets the part of Nancy, I feel Jo stiffen in the seat beside me. I try to send her a not-fair look, but she’s hiding her face in her hands. I hope she’s not crying.
    ‘Because it’s such a tough part, we’ve decided to pick two actors to share the title role,’ Mr Lennon says. ‘We’ll run the play for two nights, with a different Oliver on each.’
    Iqbal? Kevin Parker? Who’s left?
    ‘Well done to our two stars, Aisha Patel and Indigo Collins…’
    There’s a roar of approval and more whistling and cheering from Shane’s corner, and Aisha and I are looking at each other in shock, delight and horror. I want this part, I realize, more than I ever wanted anything. I want it so I can escape from damp basements and soggy little sisters and a mum who suddenly thinks it’s a great idea to ring her ex and get chatting when we’ve all spent the last two weeks hiding from him.
    Then I look at Jo, her face pale and her lip quivering, with hurt or with anger, I can’t tell.
    I don’t want this part.
    I want my best friend back, because I know, surer than anything I’ve ever known, that I’ve lost her. Maybe for good.

Mum’s not well. She stays in bed all Saturday, curled up and crying, and I can’t find any money for milk or bread or cheese or cereal. When I ask, Mum says she’ll sort it, but she doesn’t.
    ‘Mu-um,’ I say, and I can’t help it if there’s no sympathy or understanding in my voice. I can’t help it if I sound hacked off and angry, because I am.
    ‘We need money, Mum,’ I say. ‘Come on, there has to be some cash, somewhere. I need to buy stuff. Misti needs to eat. I need to eat. And if you’re not going to talk to me, not going to look after us, then I need to ring Jane, because I’m scared.’
    My voice has risen to a high-pitched, tantrum-style whine.
    ‘ DO something, Mum!’ I scream. I want to chuck Mum’s mug of stone-cold coffee across the flat. I want to shake her, slap her, wake her up.
    My mum is sick and I’m shouting at her, scaring her, scaring Misti. I’m a spoilt, selfish brat. I feel awful.
    I sink down on the edge of the single bed, shaking. ‘Sorry,’ I whisper.
    Mum just looks at me, her eyes wide, her lips quivering.
    ‘Me too,’ she says. Then she hugs me tight and the tears come again, making a wet patch on my top.
    Misti and I play with play dough and teddies all day, and I heat a tin of tomato soup at lunchtime, but Mum won’t eat any and Misti’s still hungry. I can’t ring Jane because I haven’t any money, and it’s too far to walk to her place, even if I knew the way from here. I’d have to take Misti and I’d have to leave Mum, and neither option sounds great.
    In the end, I hear Ian Turner’s red Fiat scrunch up the