1
Home is where the hate is.
I was eight when I figured that out, watching from my bedroom window as my mother and her boyfriend argued in the garden. His name was Gary, and he drank a lot. And not because he was thirsty.
Mum’s words were screeches, Gary’s were slurs, and, for a little while, they were only fighting with their voices. Then he threw the garbage can lid at her, and she crumpled, her knees cracking on the path. Picturing her now, I see her arms held tight against her belly and tears dripping on the flower bed.
Mum says most memories are Post-its on the fridge door of your life. But a few, she says, are tattoos on your soul. This is one of those memories. What I learned is that anything can be a weapon if you know how to use it.
The lid was metal and dented. Gary held it over her, casting a shadow across her pleading face. He yelled things I didn’t understand. Then Mum caught my eye, and Gary turned and smiled and waved.
The worst part? I waved back. I still hate myself for not doing anything—for not knowing what to do.
When bad things happen miles away, it’s easy to say you’d be a hero. But, when it happens to you, especially when you’re eight, it’s not so easy.
Gary’s arms stiffened, then he brought the lid down hard and fast, my mother screaming as it stopped inches from her face. He laughed, tossed it aside, and went to the pub.
All night, Mum made crying noises, tiny ones she whispered over, like she was shushing them to sleep. I lay awake, too scared to touch her, because, sometimes, the easiest things in the world, like a hug or a smile or an “Are you okay?” feel impossible.
In the morning, I watched her secretly, in between cereal bites and toothbrush brushes, and, when she caught me, she smiled a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
My mum had a lot of boyfriends, but some were worse than others.
2
Four tiny holes in my new bedroom door. That’s the first thing I notice.
And then a bigger one on the frame, flaking at the edges, and a curve where the dark wood turns light, a crescent just deep enough for a bolt to slide back and forth.
My stepsister’s door has eight holes, each set of four not quite level, as if whoever drilled them was fixing a mistake. I hunt for holes and find them everywhere, except for Mum and Jay’s room. Their door is perfect, the frame untouched, and that’s when I realize what happened here. Our dream home, the house Mum fell in love with the moment she saw it, was someone else’s nightmare, because these holes aren’t where you’d expect them to be. The locks weren’t on the inside to keep people out.
They were on the outside, keeping someone in.
3
“They’ve taken it off the website,” Mum says, looking up from her phone.
“I should hope so,” says Jay. “We own it.”
“Still, it’s nice that it’s official.”
Jay stares at the piles of boxes, then jangles the house keys. “It’s been official for a while.” But Mum’s not listening. She’s spent so long looking at the place online that she can’t stop.
Although we finally got our “dream home,” no one seems that happy. Mum prefers the tidy house in the pictures, Jay looks exhausted from shifting all our stuff, and my stepsister, Nia, is already moaning about reception and how long it’ll take to get, like, anywhere.
New house, same life. Except that’s not totally true, because this life is a lot better than our old one, before Mum met Jay.
“We should leave the unpacking until tomorrow,” he says, and, even though Mum looks disappointed, she agrees.
Then we all sit in the gaps between the boxes and eat takeout pizza, pretending this isn’t a massive anticlimax. Mum looks at her photos, the ones she took when we visited to measure, and Jay doesn’t try to stop her because that’s how arguments start. Instead, he looks at me and says, “So…what do you think?”
“There are holes in the doors,” I say. “It looks like they locked people in.”
Jay doesn’t respond like I want him to. He just says, “We’ll fix that when we decorate.”
He does that a lot—asks questions and ignores answers. If he could pick a stepson, he wouldn’t be anything like me. Sometimes I catch him giving me the look, and I know what he’s thinking. Why can’t he be like every other person? Why does he have to worry so much and say weird things? It could be worse, because some men get angry if you’re different. Jay just changes the subject.
“When are we getting Wi-Fi?” Nia asks. Because this is far more important, Mum puts her phone down, and the three of them discuss it while I go upstairs.
The doors are brown with swirls and dark knots, but I don’t see the patterns anymore.
I only see the holes.
4
I listen to music until Mum comes in and says, “We’re going to bed, now, if you want to…you know.”
I nod, but don’t reply. It’s better when she doesn’t say it out loud.
She doesn’t ask if I’m okay. We just stare at each other while I watch her settle on a suitable smile. When it comes out, it’s awkward and sags at the edges, but at least she tried.
Jay comes up behind her and says, “Good night, mate. You cool?”
I’m most certainly not. But I sigh and say, “Yep.”
“Okay, then. See you tomorrow.”
They stand there a second too long…and then a few more…until, finally, Mum breathes out and says, “Sleep well, sweetheart.”
Their bedroom door closes, and I hear mumbling behind the wall. I could try to listen closer, but I don’t want to know what they’re saying about me. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. Instead, I go downstairs, feeling my way through the darkness.
It always takes a while to get used to a new house. But, eventually, if we stay long enough, I’ll be able to move from room to room with my eyes closed. I prefer doing this in the dark.
I feel for the front door and push the handle down once, twice, three times. Each time it holds firm, but only after three can I clap. That’s how I know it’s locked.
Moonlight hovers over the kitchen counters, empty except for a kettle and a microwave. I check the back door four times, then clap. Then I touch the windows one by one. On my way back upstairs, I check the front door again, because, sometimes, the clap doesn’t work. It’s supposed to stop my doubts, to remind me I’ve already done this. But it doesn’t always work.
“Clap,” I say out loud.
Then I take a deep breath, go back to my room, and imagine who slept here before me.
5
Mr. Trafford comes into the common room and asks for a tour guide.
“We have a potential new student,” he says. “She’s here with her mother. Who wants to show them around?”
I keep my head down, hoping someone else volunteers. But they all have the same idea, and, when Mr. Trafford looms over me, I know I won’t be able to escape.
“Tom,” he says, “would you mind?”
Teachers at our school like asking rhetorical questions.
“Mrs. Pearce,” Trafford says, “this is Tom. He’ll be showing you around this morning.”
The girl has her head down. Her mother smiles and says, “Pleased to meet you.”
“You too,” I mumble, but I can’t shake the feeling that I know her.
She looks too neat and tidy, like she’s missing all the messy parts that Mum used to hide until Jay said he loved them.
When the woman frowns, I know I’ve been staring too long.
“You look familiar,” she says, but Trafford talks over her.
“Ready to go?”
I look at the girl, and she glances at me, her eyes filled with a sadness I haven’t seen for a long time, then back at the floor.
“Amy’s a little unwell today,” her mum says.
I suddenly feel an extra layer of nerves on top of the usual ones, but I can’t get out of it, now.
“Have you just moved into the area?” I ask.
“Not exactly,” says Amy’s mum. “She’s repeating a year. We’re looking for a fresh start, aren’t we, love?”
When she doesn’t reply, her mum says, “Amy goes to St. Gregory’s. They’ve suggested that a change of scene could bring out the best in her.”
Amy shivers, then stiffens as her mother touches her arm. When she catches me staring, she says, “Don’t worry. Amy can speak for herself.” But she doesn’t. She stays silent for the whole tour.
Sometimes I look at her, then away. “Stolen glances,” they call them, which is a nice way of saying you’re a wuss. Afterward, the woman shakes my hand and says, “You’ve given us a lot to think about.”
Then I stand outside reception, waiting for Amy to turn round, to smile, maybe, or just look at me. All that happens is that her mum, one step behind, lifts her arm and goes to put it around her daughter’s shoulders. But it just hangs there, waiting, then falls back to her side.
At the gate after lunch, Mr. Trafford stops me. “Did you sell the place?” he asks.
“Yeah. I made it sound like Disneyland.”
Some teachers think everything’s sarcastic; others think nothing is.
“Excellent,” he says. “Good job.”
But, wherever Amy Pearce ends up, it won’t be here. It looked like she couldn’t leave fast enough.
And that’s when it hits me. I have met her mother before. We all have.
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