Authors: Penelope Bush
Me Myself Milly
‘I held my breath reading this bittersweet story of sisters with secrets.’
Karen McCombie
‘Clever, thoughtful and funny.’
Rosemary Hayes
Penelope Bush trained and worked as a tapestry weaver, and is the author of two highly acclaimed novels for teenagers,
Alice in Time
and
The Diary of a Lottery
Winner’s Daughter
. She lives in West Sussex with her husband and son and two mad cats. You can contact her via www.penelopebush.com.
Praise for
Diary of a Lottery Winner’s Daughter
:
‘Delightful . . . an irresistible read.’
School Librarian
‘A good read for girls who are not quite ready for the disturbances of adolescence and are not sure that they are altogether comfortable with what it may involve.’
Books for Keeps
Praise for
Alice in Time
:
‘An amazing book.
Cleverly written, exciting and fast-paced.’
Chicklish
‘An ambitious and successful novel.’
Books for Keeps
First published in Great Britain in 2013
by Piccadilly Press Ltd,
5 Castle Road, London NW1 8PR
www.piccadillypress.co.uk
Text copyright © Penelope Bush, 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
The right of Penelope Bush to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978 1 84812 252 9 (paperback)
eISBN: 978 1 84812 255 0
Ebook also available
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
Cover design by Simon Davis
Cover illustrations by Carrie May
For Bushka
Thanks for the legacy
This week at the counselling session, Mr Jessop – or Ted, as he keeps telling me to call him – suggested I write a journal. He said it in that voice of his which he
probably thinks is calming and hypnotic, but which is actually so monotonous I have trouble staying awake during the sessions.
‘Milly, I think you should keep a journal; a private record of all your hopes and fears. Pour it all out on the page. Say what you’re really feeling.’
Huh, what a joke. He’s not saying what he’s really feeling; what he actually means is, ‘Milly, you come here to talk about what happened last April, only you won’t, so
I’m hoping you’ll write about it instead and let me off the hook.’
Sure enough, he followed on by saying, ‘Perhaps you could write about what happened. You might find that easier than talking about it.’
Is he mad? Why would I write about it if I can’t talk about it? I mean, when you talk, the words disappear into thin air; you say them and then they’re gone. But when you write them
down, they’re solid, on the page, there for ever. I couldn’t do that.
So when he tried to hand me a thick, spiral-bound, hardback notebook, I sat on my hands. He didn’t take the hint and just stood there holding it out towards me.
It was pale turquoise, covered in tiny pink and green flowers and butterflies. It was pretty. And he looked so pathetic, I thought the least I could do was take it.
‘I’ll think about it,’ I lied, shoving it into my bag, and then the timer on his cooker started beeping, which meant it was the end of the session.
I had no intention of writing a journal, but when I got on the bus to go home I started thinking about it. I wasn’t even sure what a journal was. Was it like a diary?
Journal.
It sounded like ‘journey’. An account of some bloke’s expedition to the frozen wastes of the Antarctic, maybe, that he wrote with frostbitten fingers, huddled
in a tent while the wind whipped at the tent flaps. Or a woman in hopelessly uncomfortable Victorian clothing, fighting her way up the Amazon, clutching her leather-bound journal to her corseted
bosom.
Both images, I realised, were from way back in the past when there was still some unknown corner of the globe to be explored. Not like these days when the whole world is there on Google Earth
for everyone to see. I couldn’t decide if that was sadly unromantic or wildly exciting. But, whatever, the word ‘journal’ sounded old-fashioned and a bit dusty, which was so
typical of Ted. If I’d gone to the school counsellor, like the social worker suggested, she’d probably be telling me I should keep a blog.
A few weeks ago, the social worker they’d assigned to me after The Incident came round to say that she thought I needed to see a counsellor. Mum said we were fine, or would be if
‘the authorities’ would just leave us alone and stop sticking their noses in where they weren’t wanted. Mum hates ‘the authorities’.
No one mentioned Lily, who was sitting in the armchair in the corner with her legs tucked under her. But then, it wasn’t Lily who needed a counsellor. It was me who needed one and I
realised, at that moment, that this was the first time in fourteen years I would be doing something significant on my own, without Lily. It was such a huge, frightening thought, but I said,
‘I want to go.’
Mum looked hurt but she couldn’t really forbid me. Lily snorted in that derisive way of hers so I pretended she wasn’t there. Things haven’t been the same between us since The
Incident. That’s what I call the thing that happened last April – ‘The Incident’.
She hates all the attention I’m getting but she can’t do anything about it. It’s not like I asked for any of it to happen. If anything it’s her fault and she knows that,
so she’s keeping quiet. Which is weird for someone so noisy. It’s spooking me.
The social worker was droning on about going to the school counsellor because she was good and it was convenient because I wouldn’t have to travel. That’s when I got to thinking
about going back to school and I was seized with panic.
‘Can I talk to you alone?’ I said to the social worker. Mum took the hint – she’s good like that, mad keen on giving us ‘our personal space and privacy’, and
failing to see the irony. As a twin I never get any personal space, and privacy is also in short supply in our basement flat.
‘I’ll go and make some tea,’ she said, leaving the room.
Lily didn’t leave, even though I glared at her.
My social worker is called Carmel, which sounds suspiciously like ‘camel’. As she has straw-coloured hair and large front teeth, it’s an unfortunate name. Still, I’m
hardly in a position to criticise first names as I was named after a muddy puddle.
I was still glaring at Lily, and Carmel glanced over at the armchair but she didn’t say anything. That’s another problem with being a twin. People tend to treat you as one person
instead of two. Anyhow, I didn’t really care if Lily heard what I was going to say. It was my decision and there was nothing she could do to stop me.
‘I want to change schools – I want to go to a different school and I want you to help me sort it out.’
We both knew it was too much for Mum to cope with at the moment. Lily snorted again but I ignored her. Now I’d had the idea and said it out loud, it had taken hold. I knew I had to do this
if I was going to keep my sanity. Carmel didn’t look so sure.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It’s a big change, and I’m not sure that’s such a good idea at the moment. What about your friends? You’ll need their
support . . .’
‘No,’ I cut in. ‘I need a new start.’
I wasn’t about to explain that apart from Lily there were no friends at school. Not really. That’s another thing about being a twin: you’re a unit and it sort of stops other
people getting close. They assume you don’t need anyone else. Besides, most other girls are a bit scared of Lily. She’s so full on.
I half expected her to make a scene now, about me going to a new school without her. It was a mad idea; one I’d never have had before The Incident. But she must have known that one of her
dramatic tantrums would have no effect on Carmel, so she didn’t bother.
‘Why don’t you wait a bit, go back to school, see how you feel and then if you still want a change we’ll see . . .’
‘No,’ I said again, surprised by my own daring. I’m not used to disagreeing with people or standing up for myself. Lily usually does that for both of us. But then a lot has
changed recently and I suppose I’d better get used to it.
Carmel’s a very forceful woman, though, and I knew that just saying ‘No’ wasn’t going to be enough to convince her it was the right thing for me.
‘Please,’ I said, going for sympathy instead. So much for the new, assertive me. Carmel had been sent here by the police, as part of their Victim Support Unit, so really it was her
job to help me.
‘Please,’ I said again. ‘I can’t bear the thought of people staring at me and pointing and whispering. They’ll know what’s happened, obviously. And I missed
the whole of the summer term . . . I couldn’t bear it, honestly. I really need a new start; somewhere I can just be me.’
I got the ‘new start’ idea from Archie’s mum. I heard her talking to Jeanie upstairs about moving out. ‘I think it’s best,’ she said, ‘after all
that’s happened, that Archie has a new start and we can put it behind us.’ I didn’t blame her. It would be nice to walk away from it all, which is something I’ll never be
able to do.