“Right,” Dad said. It’s how he always starts his lectures. “What on EARTH were you thinking when you decided to smash a WHOLE TRAY of glass beakers in your SCIENCE lesson? Of all the ridiculous things to do, Jemima! On the first day back! It’s so…what do you and Jasper say? RANDOM!”
I bit my lip.
“I suppose it was some kind of protest against scientific oppression, was it? Free the sulphuric acid? I mean, come on, Jemima! You actually LIKE science!”
I stared at the painting of the sea above the fireplace. “I don’t like science.”
Dad sighed at full volume. “Good grief, Jemima. You must have fifty books in your room about science!” His cheeks were turning red and he kept putting his hand to his forehead like he was checking his temperature. He sat on the sofa opposite, leaned forward and rubbed his beard. “Mrs Savage said everyone was being weighed today, is that what got to you?”
I could have told him how it felt. To walk up to the scales in silence with everyone staring at me. And about the stupid Banan-ometer on the screen, and Lottie Freeman, and being called Jemima Big. And wondering whether I should even take the Brainiacs test next week because who’d want to see me on TV? But dads don’t care about stuff like that. Not my dad anyway. He’d probably tell me getting weighed wasn’t a real problem. Besides, talking to Dad about anything to do with my body was totally embarrassing. I still hadn’t got over him asking if I needed a “training bra” last year in the middle of Asda. So, I said, “Dad, you could be putting yourself at risk of an early heart attack by being in such a stress about this.”
Dad gave me a full-strength Look. “Jemima. I’m. Not. In. A. Stress,” he said, then inhaled sharply through his nose.
“Okay, well, your cheeks are red. It could be the first stage of a heart attack. I’ll google how to do CPR.” I pulled my phone out of my blazer pocket and Dad let out another long sigh. “You look exasperated,” I said, “which is probably dangerous at your age.”
“Jemima, stop treating this like it’s a joke! Those beakers are expensive! You could have been in a lot of trouble! Who exactly did you think would have to pay for them?”
“I didn’t do it deliberately.”
“Really? Your science teacher told Mrs Savage you deliberately pushed the tray off his desk.”
“Well, he’s lying.”
Dad tilted his head up towards the ceiling like he was praying. Only my dad doesn’t pray. He went on about how disappointed he was for approximately a million years. And said the money for the broken beakers would be coming out of my pocket money. Which would take me ages to pay off because he hardly gave me any. But apparently it wasn’t a mature decision to point that out.
I watched his reflection in the blank TV screen, wishing he could be like those dads you got in TV shows. The ones who give you hugs and tell you everything’s going to be okay. Not the type of dad who jokes with the principal about your hormones and doesn’t care about animal rights and gets in a stress about stupid conical beakers and asks about training bras in the middle of Asda. TV dads are way better than real ones. TV everything is better than real life.
“And, young lady,” he said, “you can help me clear out the garage next weekend.”
“The garage! But it’s really dirty.”
“It won’t be once you’ve cleaned it!” he said, and smiled at me. It was literally like living with Mrs Savage.
I wish I could have told Dad why I broke the beakers, maybe then he would have given me a hug instead of a lecture. And how, sometimes, it felt like there was a giant crater in my heart, so big nothing could ever fix it. I also wish I’d told him that my education is funded by the government so, technically, I shouldn’t have to pay for the beakers. But I didn’t tell him that either. Instead, I went up to my room and wrote a stupid apology letter to Mr Shaw like he told me to.
Afterwards, I lay on my bed and looked up at the ceiling. I was genuinely sorry. But not about smashing the beakers like I’d said in the letter. I didn’t care about glass. Glass wasn’t valuable. It was only made out of sand. There was literally tonnes of it on the beach.
I was sorry I didn’t have a family who understood how it felt to be me.
I thought about Tika, the contestant who won Brainiacs last year. And about her family in the audience who wore special T-shirts with her face printed on them. Who cheered her on even when she messed up on a question and cried with happiness when she made it through each round. That was what I wanted more than anything: an unconditional love sort of family.
It was the type of love I’d probably feel if Mum was still here. She’d come up to my room and tell me not to worry about what Dad said. She’d say it was gravity’s fault the beakers smashed. And the government should pay for them. And who even cares about the stupid Banan-ometer? Bananas aren’t a real unit of measurement. She’d say that Mrs Savage should check Mr Shaw’s science qualifications. Then she’d give me a hug. And tell me everything was going to be okay. And she’d probably be wearing a T-shirt with my picture on it.
It wasn’t until the end of that first week back at school that I found out what the Banan-ometer was really about. It was like this sleight-of-hand trick my grandad used to do when we were little. He was a famous magician called the Amazing Apollo. Well, famous in Clifton-on-Sea. He used to perform at the palladium opposite the pier. His real name was Harry Small, but the Amazing Harry Small didn’t have the same ring to it. He’d show you his empty hands, then pull a coin out from behind your ear, or even your toes if you were wearing flip-flops. I used to believe he’d really found the coin in there. But it was just a stupid trick. He had it hidden in his palm all along.
It was the same thing with everyone at school getting weighed. It had nothing to do with predictions or formulae or bananas or science. They just pretended it did. And I was stupid to even fall for it.
I walked into form on Friday morning with Miki and Mr Nelson said, “Jemima, a quick word, please.” I got this plunging feeling in my stomach, like when you look over the edge of the Plank. Miki and I exchanged glances then I walked over to Mr Nelson’s desk.
He lowered his voice. “Mrs Savage would like you to go straight to the sports hall this morning. There’s a special meeting she’d like you to attend.”
“Meeting?” I asked, scanning my brain for an idea about what it could be.
“It’s nothing to worry about. You’re not in any trouble,” he said. “You’d better hurry.” And the way Mr Nelson smiled at me, I figured it was about Brainiacs. I thought maybe Mrs Savage wanted to make sure I was taking the test, even though she’d said it was optional. Maybe she’d looked up our SATs results or spoken to Mrs Lee or something.
When I got to the sports hall, about twelve people were sitting on the floor. I recognized Harry and Heidi, the twins in my year from Ms Fraser’s class. I’d done the Reading Challenge with them last year. I went over and sat down. Brandon Taylor – Dylan’s older brother – was sitting near them. Brandon used to make fun of me at primary school too sometimes, although he’d never said anything to me since I started at Clifton. He looked up and smiled awkwardly. I looked away.