Little Darlings Read online

  I get dressed in my usual burgundy rubbish school uniform, but I pack my black outfit and my beautiful leather jacket, carefully wrapped up in a soft towel in a laundry bag. Mum’s back early from her cleaning and catches me before I leave for school.

  ‘Hey, babe, how are you doing?’ she says, dashing in. ‘All set for your big day?’

  Then she catches sight of my bulging bag. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Well, I can’t sing in my uniform, Mum.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, but . . .’ She opens the bag. ‘Oh, Destiny, not your jacket! You can’t take that to school.’

  ‘I’ll look after it, Mum. Believe me, I’m not going to let it out of my sight. But I need that jacket. I have to sing in it.’

  ‘But if one of them kids gets their mucky little fingers on it—’

  ‘Just let them try! I’m wearing it this afternoon – and you’ll see me in it this evening.’

  ‘I can’t wait, babes! I’m so proud of you. Singing in front of a packed audience, just like your dad! I’m so thrilled you’ve got Danny’s talent.’

  ‘I don’t want to take after Dad, I want to take after you,’ I say, giving her a hug.

  She feels so thin – and she’s burning.

  ‘Mum, you’re so hot! You haven’t got a temperature, have you?’

  ‘What? No, of course not. I’m just a bit worked up, that’s all,’ says Mum.

  I look at her worriedly. She’s got dark circles under her eyes. I don’t think she’s sleeping properly. Her eyes look so big, as if they’re about to pop right out of her head. She looks permanently anxious now. I wish I could stop her being so worried all the time.

  ‘If I really do take after Danny then I’m going to be a big rock star, right – and do you know what I’m going to do?’ I say, cuddling her.

  ‘What’s that, babe? Are you going to buy a lovely big mansion like Danny’s?’

  ‘Yep, and guess who’s going to live in it with me?’

  ‘Who’s that, darling?’

  ‘You, silly! You’ll live like a queen. You’ll have a whole suite of rooms, and one of those four-poster beds you like, much better than that one Steve got you, with wonderful velvet curtains and real silk sheets, and you can sleep in every morning because you won’t ever have to do any work again – no cleaning, no sad old folk, no drunks down the pub – you can just lie back like a lady of leisure.’

  ‘Oh, darling, that would be lovely,’ says Mum. ‘But just now I’ve got my old dears to change and feed and water – and you’ve got school. Good luck this afternoon, Destiny. You sock it to them! And for pity’s sake, look after that jacket!’

  This is harder than I’d thought. I lumber the laundry bag all the way to school – going the long way round, of course – and because I’m not as nippy as usual I arrive a minute or two after the bell has gone. It doesn’t really matter. The teachers are mostly glad you’ve turned up at all – but as luck would have it, Mr Juniper is hovering at the door, officiously recording in the late book.

  Mr Juniper is a tall weedy guy fresh out of training college. Maybe it was a training college for Serious Young Offenders, because he’s sooo strict. He yells at everyone, getting so worked up that froth forms on his lips and you have to stand back or you’ll get sprayed. He’s always dishing out detentions, trying to make you stay after school. You just know he would so love it if teachers were allowed to whack us with a cane like they did in the old days.

  ‘You! What’s your name?’ he shouts, starting to froth already.

  ‘Destiny.’

  ‘Destiny?’ He pulls a ridiculous face. ‘You are not telling me that’s your name?’

  ‘Yes. Is that a problem?’ I say. How dare he patronize me just because I’ve got an unusual name.

  ‘Don’t you use that tone with me! Destiny what?’

  ‘Destiny Williams.’

  ‘Well, Destiny Williams, you’re now down in my late book. You will lose a form point.’

  I don’t give a stuff about form points but this infuriates me even so.

  ‘I’m only a minute late, Mr Juniper!’

  He consults his watch. ‘Five minutes and thirty seconds,’ he says.

  ‘Well, half of that time I’ve been here at school talking to you.’

  ‘Stop answering me back in that impertinent way! You’ll get a detention if you’re not careful. Now on your way to your classroom, quick sharp.’

  I walk off briskly, dragging my burden.

  ‘What are you doing with that ridiculous bag?’ he shouts after me. ‘That’s not a proper school bag.’

  ‘It’s my clothes for the concert this afternoon.’

  ‘Well, you can’t possibly drag them around with you all day. Unpack them and hang them up in the cloakroom.’

  I stare at him. ‘Are you mad?’ I say it without thinking.

  He holds me up for another five minutes, ticking me off for insolence and saying I’ve got to do a half-hour’s detention in his classroom after school this afternoon – though he knows I’ve got to whizz home after the school performance to get my tea before coming back for the evening one. Still, it’s a waste of breath arguing with him. I just stand there, letting him witter on, until some other poor kid slopes in even later and he starts picking on him instead.

  I make out I’m off to put my bag on my peg in the cloakroom – but as soon as Mr Juniper’s back is turned I charge off with it down the corridor. As if I’m leaving my leather jacket there! Someone would nick it in five seconds. And I’m not going to bother to go to his poxy classroom after school either. He’ll probably forget all about his detention – and too bad if he doesn’t.

  I manage to get myself and my bag into the classroom without Mr Roberts taking too much notice – he’s in full flow, giving everyone performance tips for this afternoon. But then he starts walking up and down between the aisles – and trips right over my bag. He peers down at it.

  ‘Are you taking in laundry, Destiny?’

  ‘Oh, ha ha. It’s my costume, Mr Roberts,’ I say.

  ‘Well, put it in the PE store cupboard. That’s where everyone else is keeping their kit,’ says Mr Roberts.

  ‘I can’t do that, Mr Roberts,’ I say.

  ‘Can’t – or won’t?’ says Mr Roberts.

  ‘Both,’ I say.

  Mr Roberts stands over me, folding his arms. The whole classroom goes eerily quiet. Mr Roberts is obviously pretty tense about the talent contest – and now, here I am, winding him up.

  He clears his throat theatrically. ‘Here we both are in the classroom, Destiny. I have a simple question for you. Am I your fellow pupil? In which case you can choose to do what I say, according to your general obliging nature or common sense. Am I a pupil in this classroom, Destiny?’

  ‘No, Mr Roberts.’

  ‘What am I, then?’

  Various answers spring to mind, but I’m not entirely daft.

  ‘You’re my teacher, Mr Roberts.’

  ‘That’s right! So therefore I tell you what to do – and you obey. Is that correct?’

  I hesitate. ‘Generally, sir.’

  ‘No, no, Destiny. You obey at all times. So take your cumbersome laundry bag to the PE store cupboard and leave it there.’

  I don’t move.

  ‘Pronto!’

  I don’t know what to do. Mr Roberts isn’t an officious twit like Mr Juniper. You can usually talk to him and explain stuff.

  ‘Mr Roberts, I can’t. It’s too precious.’

  ‘So what exactly is this costume, Destiny? Cloth of gold?’

  ‘It’s – it’s my jeans and stuff,’ I say, not wanting to say outright.

  Some of the kids start sniggering.

  ‘Oh, precious jeans,’ says Mr Roberts. ‘Hand sewn with Swarovski crystals, perhaps?’

  Now everyone’s laughing at me.

  ‘Let’s have a look at these little sparklers,’ says Mr Roberts, and he dives into my bag before I can stop him.

  He brings out the ol