All Our Hidden Gifts by Caroline O’donoghue (books for 10th graders .TXT) 📗

I read “A Date With Destiny”. It turns out Destiny is a horse.

When I reach the back, things start getting really interesting. A couple of cardboard boxes are stacked against the wall, covered in a thick, chalky dust. Pulling the top one down, I open it and find three Sony Walkmans, a packet of Superkings cigarettes, a half-empty bottle of crusty peach schnapps and a pack of playing cards.

Contraband. This must have been where all the confiscated stuff ended up.

There’s also a single hair slide with a little silver angel on it, looking very pure and holy next to the fags and booze. I try it on briefly and then get worried about nits, so throw it in a bin bag. Only one Walkman has a tape in it, so I stick the headphones on and press play. Amazingly, it still works. The cassette starts turning. Holy crap!

A playful, plodding bass line thrums in my head. Dum-dum-dee-dum-de-dum. A woman’s voice whispers to me, childlike and sweet. She starts singing about a man she knows, with teeth as white as snow, which feels like a dumb line. What other colour would she expect them to be?

I listen, clipping the Walkman to my skirt. Most of the songs I don’t recognize, but they all have a grungy, arty edge to them. Songs where you can hear the bad eyeshadow. I can’t remember the last time I listened to something and didn’t know exactly what it was. I’m not even sure I want to find out. It’s sort of cool not to know. I listen to it over and over. There are about eleven songs in all, all either by very high-pitched men or very low-voiced women. I pop open the cover to see that it’s a homemade mix. The only decoration is a white strip label that says, “SPRING 1990”.

I try to lift another heavy box, but the damp cardboard splits at the bottom and comes crashing down on me, smacking me full force in the face. Something must hit against the door because the chair I was using to prop it open suddenly topples over, and the Chokey door slams shut.

I’m plunged into stinking darkness. I grapple around for the doorknob, and realize that there isn’t one. Maybe it’s not a pantry after all. Maybe it’s just a closet.

The music keeps playing in my ears. Now it doesn’t seem fun and bouncy. It’s creepy. Morrissey is singing about cemetery gates. The tape gets stuck as I pound on the door, a little hiccup at the end of the word “gates”.

“HELLO?” I shout. “HELLO, HELLO! I’m STUCK in HERE. I’m STUCK IN THE CHOKEY!”

“… cemetery gAtEs, cemetery gAtEs, cemetery gAtEs, cemetery gAtEs…”

The cupboard, which had felt so roomy just minutes ago, now feels like a matchbox about to be set alight. I have never thought of myself as claustrophobic, but the closer the walls press in on me, the more I think about the air in the room, which already feels so thick and stale that it might choke me alive.

I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry.

I don’t cry. I never cry. What does happen is actually worse. Blood rushes to my head and, even though I’m in complete darkness, I see spots of purple in my vision and I think I’m about to faint. I grapple around for something to steady me, and my hand falls on something cool, heavy and rectangular. Something that feels like paper.

The battery is starting to die on the Walkman. “… cemetery gAtEs, cemetery gAtEs, cemetery gAaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyy…”

And then nothing. Silence. Silence except me screaming for help and banging against the door.

The door flings open, and it’s Miss Harris. I practically fall on top of her.

“Maeve,” she says, her expression worried.

Despite my panic, I still feel smug at how concerned she looks. Take that, bitch.

“What happened? Are you OK?”

“The door closed on me,” I say in a burble. “The door closed, and I was stuck and I…”

“Sit down,” she orders. She fishes in her bag and brings out a bottle of water, unscrews the cap and hands it to me. “Take small sips. Don’t be sick. You’re panting, Maeve.”

“I’m OK,” I say at last. “I just panicked. Is it lunch now?”

She looks really worried now.

“Maeve, it’s four o’clock.”

“What?”

“You mean to say you haven’t taken lunch? You’ve been here this whole time?”

“Yes! You told me to stay here!”

She shakes her head, as if I’m the magic porridge pot that keeps spewing porridge relentlessly until you say the magic word for it to stop.

“Do you know,” she says, walking into the cupboard (I briefly consider closing the door on her), “it’s amazing what you can do when you apply yourself. I had no idea there was so much space in there. You’re a magician. Well done.”

“Thanks,” I reply weakly. “I guess I’ll become a cleaner.”

“I think you should clean up in the bathroom and go home,” she says, and I realize what a state I must look. I’m covered head to toe in dust, my tights are ripped and there are bits of cobweb stuck to my school shirt. “Are you sure you’re OK?”

“Yep,” I say, a little snappy this time.

“I’ll see you in the morning. We can figure out what to do with all this furniture then.” She makes her way to the door, fixing her handbag back on her shoulder. She takes one last look at me, then tilts her head to the side. “Huh,” she says at last, “I never knew you were into tarot cards.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about. Then I look down. There, clutched in my hands, is a deck of cards.

CHAPTER TWO

I LOOK AT THE CARDS ON THE BUS HOME. I CAN’T WORK OUT what the pattern is supposed to be. Some of the cards have titles, like the Sun and the Hermit and the Fool, but others have numbers, and suits. But not hearts, clubs, spades and diamonds. The