One More Little Problem by Vanessa Curtis

zillion times but there’s nothing from Sol although there are some nice texts from Fran asking if I’m OK.
    Somehow I didn’t really think that there would be.
    I’m too screwed-up for him now. He’s sorted out his life and got on top of his non-talking problem.
    And I’m still scrubbing at my cheeks with a nail brush loaded up with harsh white soap and I’m still jumping until my feet get sore and I’ve even developed a new symptom whichinvolves tapping ten times on the end of the banister before I do my jumps or else I’ve convinced myself that Heather will die in Slovenia and never come home to rescue me from this horrible school holiday.
    I probably looked like a hopeless case to Sol.
    Wouldn’t blame him if he never got in touch again.
    Monday.
    Caro gets up late but then goes out, refusing to tell me where she’s going.
    She comes back from wherever she’s been at the same time Dad arrives home from school.
    She’s got a look on her face that I recognise.
    It’s kind of smirking and self-important and superior and mysterious all at the same time.
    It’s the same look she used to get justbefore she teased Alice or Lib at Forest Hill House with some devastating insult that would have Alice in floods of tears or Lib speechless with anger.
    ‘What?’ I snap. I am not in the mood for Caro’s nastiness.
    And now Dad’s come home looking a little red around the eyes. Again. He’s bought us a Chinese takeaway as a treat but I can’t help looking at his eyes and wishing that Heather would come back and stop him visiting the pub after work.
    Dad’s missing Heather a lot. He won’t admit it, but I’ve caught him gazing at her photograph all moony-eyed and pathetic when he thinks I’ve gone to bed.
    He’s pining and lovesick.
    Maybe that’s why he has a drink every day after work.
    I decide to try and be more understanding.
    ‘Do any of the other teachers go to the pub with you?’ I say.
    Dad is tipping a bag of prawn crackers into a big glass bowl. He stops mid-pour at that but then carries on, his back to me.
    Caro sniggers.
    Just a tiny sound, but it’s enough to wind me up.
    ‘Could you just manage to stay out of the conversation for once, please?’ I say.
    She makes a mock-scared face at me and dives into a carton of noodles before anybody else has a chance to sit down, sucking them up with her eyes crossed and bits of chopped chicken dripping down her chin.
    ‘Gross,’ I say. ‘Anyway, Dad. You were saying?’
    Dad comes to join us at the table.
    He snaps open a can of lager, even though he’s just been to the pub.
    Caro catches my eye and gives me that odd, knowing little smile again.
    I am going to ignore the can of lager.
    ‘Yes, one or two other teachers go,’ says Dad. ‘Prawn balls, anyone?’
    Caro leans over and helps herself to more than half the container.
    I reach over to her plate and take some back.
    It’s about time that Caro learned some manners, I reckon.
    ‘Ooh, OCD’s got a cob on!’ says Caro. ‘She’d be even crosser if she knew what I know!’
    I ignore her. I dip my clean spoon into one of the containers and then a different clean spoon into each box. That way I avoid the risk of major
Germ Alert
.
    Caro’s not going to let it drop.
    ‘I said, you’d be really angry if you knew what I know,’ she says, louder this time.
    Dad’s got his head down and is wolfingdown food very fast without looking up.
    I swear I see him kick Caro’s leg underneath the table. Hard.
    I decide I’ll pretend I haven’t seen the kick or heard what Caro is trying to tell me.
    ‘Why are prawn crackers so moreish, do you think?’ I say. My voice is high and a bit hysterical.
    Caro gives her evil little laugh again.
    ‘Dunno,’ she says. ‘Why is
lager
so moreish, do you reckon? What makes people drink so much of it?’
    Dad gets up, having eaten his meal in record time, and fills up the kettle.
    There’s a very odd feeling in the air. Like summer has finished early and