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“Enough.” Dad’s voice booms in the dining room.
“But, Dad, she —
“It’s Father, not Dad,” he grits out.
I fight the sob trying to be set free. “She said my mum — ”
“Your mother is dead.” He deadpans as if I don’t know that piece of information. “She’s been dead for three years. I’ve been trying to give you leeway, but it’s not working. When will you learn that your mother is in the past?”
“Never!” My vision blurs with tears. “Just because you forgot about her doesn’t mean I will.”
“Astrid Elizabeth Clifford. You’ll stop this instant and apologise to Victoria and Nicole.”
Both mother and daughter smile discreetly.
I lift my chin up even as a tear slides down my cheek. “I’ll never apologise.”
“Then you’ll forget about attending next week’s exhibition.”
No. I’ve been looking forward to it since my accident. He can’t take that away from me. “But you promised.”
“And you promised to try and get along with Victoria and Nicole. If you don’t keep your promises, why should I?”
“I won’t apologise for something they started.”
“No apology. No exhibition.”
“Fine!” I snatch my backpack and throw it over my shoulder. “But for the record, you stopped keeping your promises since I was seven, Father.”
I wait until I’m out of the house before letting the tears loose.
21
Astrid
If you’re the devil, why am I not running? Why am I barging into your hell instead?
* * *
The energy in the stadium is beyond infectious. It seeps under my skin and awakens a part of me I never thought existed.
The crowd’s chants, the girls’ screaming at players, the parents’ cheering from their conservative place down below, Something Like This by Coldplay blasting from the speakers.
It’s all such a huge chaos — aside from Coldplay.
I’ve never been to a football game before, not only because sports aren’t my thing, but also because I never understood the fanatic mindset of most Premier League’s fans.
Today seems like a fraction of the Premier League — a younger brother of sorts. A few thousand spectators fill the school’s stadium, chanting and carrying the royal blue sticks matching the team’s colours.
I’m going to watch till half-time for Dan’s sake and then I’m out of here.
“Ugh, some parasites decided to show up.”
My head lifts up at Nicole’s malicious voice. I can’t help smiling at the slight bruise on her left eye from this morning. She did her best to hide it with makeup, but it’s visible.
Nicole is wearing the team’s jersey and jeans. King’s number 10. Of course. Her friend Chloe is wearing Number 13, Astor.
“If we lose, you’re dead,” Chloe says with a twist in her dramatically red lips.
