Free Taking Flight by Sheena Wilkinson Page A

bring,’ I say.
    â€˜Do you have a warm coat – a fleece or something? And didn’t you say you had to pick up your football boots?’
    â€˜Oh yeah.’ I dive under the bed for them.
    â€˜Books?’
    â€˜In my schoolbag.’
    â€˜I meant … Oh look, a guitar!’ She must have seen it on top of the wardrobe. I shoved it up there months ago. ‘D’you want to bring it?’
    â€˜Nah. Mum gave it to me last Christmas. It was lying around the house. But I’ve never learned to play it.’
    â€˜You could start. It might give you something to do.’
    She says this like she’s noticed how bored I am at her house. I don’t suppose she’d stop me going out and just walking about but I don’t want to. Which is stupid cause they must be dead safe, those posh streets.
    â€˜Nah.’ I shake my head.
    â€˜OK.’ But she reaches up for it. She sits on the bed and cradles it and strokes the dust away from its front, like she’s stroking someone’s face. ‘Gerard’s guitar.’ It’s a remembering voice. ‘God, he loved that when he was your age. Drove us all mad strumming and trying to sing. He and Gary Brogan were meant to start a band but nothing came of it.’
    I never knew any of that. Mum just said I might as well have the guitar because it was only gathering dust. I thought she gave it to me because it was cheaper than buying me a proper present. I did sort of know it was my dad’s but I never thought of him loving it or anything. Maybe I would have felt differently if I’d known that. Maybe I’d have tried to learn it. I mean, probably not. But maybe.
    I start grabbing stuff fast and shoving it into the bag.
    * * *
    As soon as Mr Dermott says, ‘Right, you lot. Off to assembly,’ Seaneen makes a beeline for me. No one else does. Most of the boys in my class are either friends with Emmet McCann or scared of him. Emmet has connections. Well, his da has. Seaneen Brogan’s OK. It’s just that she’s nosy. And a girl.
    My granny says she’d a great chat with your Colette. So you’re living it up on the Malone Road, then?’ She says ‘Malone Road’ in a pretend posh voice.
    â€˜Yeah. It’s all showjumping and champagne.’
    â€˜What?’ She screws up her face. She has dark stuff smudged round her eyes. Vicky puts that stuff on every morning in front of the mirror in the hall.
    â€˜Joke.’
    â€˜Oh right.’ She feels in the pocket of her blazer. ‘Damn. No fags. You got any?’
    I shake my head. ‘Nah.’ I remember the chips she gave me last week. ‘I’ve got money, though. Colette gave me a tenner. I’ll buy some at lunchtime.’
    â€˜They won’t serve you if you’re in your uniform. I know who’s got some though. Emmet McCann.’
    â€˜Well, I’m not buying off him.’
    â€˜Oh yeah.’ She narrows her eyes. She’s the only person I know with green eyes like a cat. ‘I forgot. Does his da not still go with your ma?’
    â€˜ No . Piss off, Seaneen.’
    â€˜Declan Kelly. Seaneen Brogan. Get to assembly.’ Mr Dermott pads up behind us in that sneaky, teachery way. He mustn’t have heard me saying piss off. Or maybe he just ignored it. Sometimes he lets on to be deaf.
    â€˜Right, sir.’
    He locks the classroom door and follows us down the corridor so there’s no chance of mitching off assembly. ‘Still at your aunt’s, Declan?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’ I don’t tell him it’s going to be for a month. I can just see Seaneen’s ears flapping.
    â€˜Oh, while I remember – I need to have a word with you about your work experience placement. Come to my classroom at break.’
    Bloody work experience. That’s all I need. We shake him off when he sees a couple of Year Eights beating each other round the head with schoolbags.
    â€˜So,