The Gaps by Leanne Hall (young adult books to read .TXT) 📗

with rain by lunch so everyone crams into any space they can find on level three, but not our spot, obviously. I sit on the floor and watch the babydoll Sevens in the quad below, squealing their way through puddles of water.

I play a game where every time I blink, one of the girls vanishes. Even I’m spooked when a fork of lightning cracks the sky above the quad. Claire and Milla think I’m a witch, and maybe I am, or maybe some of my lost Wingdonian powers are slowly returning.

Sarah and Ally buzz in the background, talking along to a Learn Italian app, trying to nail the filthiest phrases before the art and design tour to Tuscany and obsessing over how many pairs of shoes they can fit in their suitcases.

Normally I’d roll my eyes at Marley and she’d do it too and that would make their intensity bearable, but Marley’s not here today even though she’s sitting right next to me. She doodles in her diary, sucks on the ends of her hair and looks as miserable as the weather. Around us the rest of the year level festers, eating lunch, watching videos, catching up on assignments. The windows fog up on the inside and there’s no escape from the smell of wet jumpers and perfume and old sneakers.

My phone chirps. Since our phone call on Friday I have been bombarding Chloe with visual inspiration. This time I sent her a photo of the movie version of Miranda from Picnicat Hanging Rock, one where she’s wearing her long white dress and looking out from between two rocks.

Almost, but too pretty, I read.

When I look down the corridor I can see Chloe’s broad back at her locker. As always, she has her hair in that tragic ponytail, and she’s stuck talking to Petra now, which is her bad luck.

We could have said hi to each other, of course, at any point during the day, but we haven’t yet. It’s not a secret telepathic language, but it’s good enough. I’ve kept my foul mood held close to my chest all day, through English, French and a double period of Art where I worked on my brilliant concept of scratching out the eyes and mouths of women on vintage knitting patterns. I’m alone in my head, cut off from everyone. I used to enjoy the aloneness of my head, but today it’s not so good.

‘Who you writing to?’ asks Sarah. Ally hangs off the couch, her hair cascading.

‘Marcel,’ I lie, locking my phone. ‘He won’t leave me alone, it’s starting to get embarrassing.’

‘While you’re on your phone, can you please like the pic I posted this morning?’ Sarah holds up her phone to show me which one she means. ‘I’m sick of your lack of support.’

‘Make Marley do it,’ I say, but when I look across at Marley again she’s silent-crying and there’s an expression of such pure despair on her face that my heart falls out of my chest and bleeds all over the floor.

‘What’s going on, Marls?’ I scoot closer.

‘Don’t,’ she mouths, but it’s too late because we have extra-sensory tear perception and gather in a knot around her.

‘The police came to my house yesterday.’

We have to lean in to hear her. Pleasure and horror mixes on Sarah’s face. ‘Why didn’t you message us?’ she says.

This is the moment I could tell everyone about my dad, but my skin is tight, a membrane hardens around me, a cocoon to keep everything contained.

‘They asked both my parents questions, but they asked my dad the most. And they searched the house and even the rehearsal studios.’

‘What questions?’

‘They wanted to know what sort of pyjamas I wear. They wanted to see my dad’s pyjamas too.’ Marley’s eyes slide about. ‘They asked what size my dad’s feet were, and what kind of slippers he wore. Why would they ask about that?’

I’m silent. My parents didn’t mention pyjamas or slippers. I consider sharing Mum’s list of serial-killer pet names with them, but I quickly shelve the idea. There would be no quicker way to spread the information like wildfire and maybe that’s not what the police intended. I wish someone could be witness to exactly how much I understand the consequences of my actions right now.

Sarah’s brow is furrowed. ‘Think carefully now, Marley. Like, really carefully. Try to forget that it’s even your dad, and ask yourself: is there any chance he could be Doctor Calm?’

It’s all I can do not to slap her. ‘Sarah—seriously? Of course he’s not!’

‘Oh yeah, well, do you know that he videos his victims?’ Sarah stares at me defiantly. ‘Dad’s position means he gets told this stuff.’

Sarah has to turn everything into an I’m Special moment, but I bet most of the parents know about it and not only Gary-Head-of-the-School-Board.

Marley looks up at the ceiling as the tears flow, like a penitent in one of the religious paintings hanging in the Great Hall. I put my arm around her and whisper in her ear, furious and sure.

‘Listen to me, Marls. Your dad is not Doctor Calm. The police are desperate, and they’re probably interviewing anyone they can think of. In fact, I overheard one of the Year Eights earlier saying their dad was interviewed as well.’

‘Really?’ Marley is instantly hopeful and my skin starts to breathe again. I squash the thought that it would be better if it was Marley’s dad, because that means it isn’t mine and he won’t be going to jail for life and we won’t have to sell the family house and be completely ostracised from society.

‘It’s nothing, I’m sure of it. It’s less than nothing. Your dad is your dad. Everything’s fine.’ I’m out of breath. I might have been stabbing the ground with my finger. Sarah and Ally are looking at me strangely. ‘Don’t let anyone see you lose control,’ I say, to Marley, to the others, to myself. ‘I have to pee now.’

But I don’t. I walk around the corner and