Sarah wakes up in yesterday’s clothes, picks her way past snoring adults, steps over the debris of last night’s party. Her mum is propped up in the corner of the couch, mouth half open, a tourniquet on one arm, the used needle in her lap. Mum’s latest partner leans against her, snoring. Someone grunts. Another farts. There’s nothing in the fridge. The pantry shelves are empty. She pulls on her threadbare blazer and steps onto the street, stomach growling. It’s Monday: Double English with Miss Holmes. History with Mr Smith. Otherwise, the usual ostracism, whispers, and name-calling. Lori Marshall holds her nose as she passes by. At least the bullying isn’t so bad after she gave Sandy Warren a black eye last term. It led to a suspension, of course, and Sarah had to endure more time at home, but the kids at school no longer push her around. She arrives early, and sits quietly at the back of Miss Holmes’ classroom with a book from one of the shelves. It’s the best part of Sarah’s day. Last week, the teacher asked if she’d had breakfast, and gave her a cereal bar and a glass of milk to enjoy as she read. She hopes the teacher will do the same today, only Mr Smith arrives, and the two of them get into deep discussion. Sarah pretends not to notice when they glance in her direction. oOo At home, her Mum gives her a tenner and tells her to get dinner from Joe’s Fish n Chips. They eat in silence, until her mum crumples up her fish and chip paper. “Derek’s left us,’ she says. ‘I’ve only got me benefit money now. An’ what I get from cleanin’.” She lobs the ball of paper onto the coffee table, and leans into the couch. “Mr Tomkins at the newsagents says he’ll give you a delivery round if you convince his wife you’re thirteen. Pass me a beer from the fridge, will yer?” oOo Sarah gives Miss Holmes the homework she completed among crushed cans and empty crisp packets on the tiny table the night before. The teacher glances at the essay and tells her it’s very good, but Sarah can tell Miss Holmes’ thoughts are elsewhere. The teacher takes her by the shoulders. “Listen to me, Sarah. You haven’t got many friends at school, have you?” Sarah shrugs. “Don’t need friends.” “And some of the girls call you names. Do you know why?” Another shrug. “What do they call you, Sarah?” The teacher waits. Sarah finally speaks in a very small voice. “They call me Smelly, Miss.” The teacher opens her desk drawer, and takes out a toiletry bag. “Come with me.” The white porcelain space behind the door marked ‘Staff Only’ seems cleaner, shinier, than anywhere else in the school, and has a fragrance of roses. The teacher leads her to a huge sink and runs the warm water. “I’m going to show you what I want you to do each morning. If not at home, then here.” Her voice sounds different, her words bouncing off tiled walls. She lathers the soap and washes her own face before handing the bar to Sarah. “Now you.” She watches. “That’s good. I’m going to leave you, now. I’ll make sure no one else comes in. I want you to remove your top and do the same, under your arm pits.” She mimes the action. “Understand? Then your neck, and privates. Rinse the soap off.” She kneels, and takes Sarah by the shoulders again. “It’s what I do to make sure I don’t smell. I have to wash off my sweat before it goes stale.” She pinches Sarah’s cheek with a smile. “It won’t kill you. And you’ll smell nice.” She dries her face on a white towel in the corner of the room. “Yours is the big orange towel.” oOo Mr Smith gives back the essays on the Tolpuddle Martyrs. Everyone’s but Sarah’s. “Good work, class!” he says. “Most of you made a really good effort.” Sarah’s heart freezes. She’s sure he’s going to tell her off for writing crap. “This essay stands out as being especially good.” He smiles. “This week’s commendation goes to Sarah. Well done.” He looks up sharply as dissent rises. “Quiet! Whether you like it or not, Sarah here is the hardest worker in the class, and her essays are often the best. I think she deserves your respect for that. And some of you should think very hard about the way you treat her.” He casts a stern look around the sea of faces, and hands Sarah her essay. “Enough said. Let’s get on with today’s lesson.” Sarah feels her face might be hot enough to set her work alight as she reads the teacher’s comments at the bottom of the page. oOo Each morning, Sarah gives herself an all-over wash in the staff toilets, the way Miss Holmes has shown her. She likes the way it makes her feel. More alive, somehow. Alert and ready for the day. She’s been delivering newspapers each evening for a month, and while Mum grabs the money each week, Sarah takes an extra round each morning and keeps that money for herself. She spends some of her first wage on a flannel and soap to use at home. Also some porridge for breakfast, which often doubles up for supper. If Mum’s around, she makes some for her, too. At least they don’t go to bed hungry any more. The first time she washed her school uniform, her classmates laughed at the creases in her blouse and skirt. She learns how to use the iron from the back of the pantry. Each evening, she tidies the table before doing her homework. oOo Six weeks pass. It will soon be summer. Miss Holmes lends Sarah a half-dozen books to read during the holidays. “Only if you want to,” she says. “It isn’t school work, but I think you’ll enjoy them.” Sarah eagerly scoops up the books, a smile lighting up her freshly-scrubbed face. “Thank you, Miss. I love reading, and … we don’t have books at home.” Three days before the end of term, Vanessa Nugent approaches her as she leaves the school gates. “Hi, Sarah. Have you got any plans for the holiday?” Sarah stares at the girl through NHS specs. She can hardly believe her ears; it’s the first time in weeks another pupil has spoken to her with anything but contempt. “Plans? No, I—” “Neither have I,” Vanessa says, falling into step beside Sarah. “Maybe we could hang out. You could come to mine. Maybe go for walks.” Sarah hasn’t ever given much thought to Vanessa Nugent, a quiet, shy girl, who usually keeps herself to herself. “Never thought of you as the outdoor type.” Vanessa is the only other girl in class who’s been called a swot. “Me mum won’t let me out on my own. Will yours?” Sarah’s eyes widen. “Mine doesn’t give a stuff where I go.” There’s a brief silence before the two girls exchange a glance and burst out laughing. “We don’t have to go out,” Vanessa says. “Maybe we could work on our summer projects together.” Her eyes sweep the litter-strewn pavement, and she lowers her tone as if breaking a confidence. “I want to do the best I can at school. It’s the only way I’m going to escape this dump.” They march on until Sarah stops outside the newsagents. “I’ve got to do my paper round now.” “Oh!” Vanessa surveys the shop as though she’s never noticed it before. She adjusts the strap of her satchel. “Well, Okay. Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” “Yes. And… In summer. It might be fun to get together. Thanks.” They exchange shy smiles and go their separate ways. Summer might not be so bad this year.