The Secret Intensity of Everyday Life by William Nicholson

you know. We all need to keep informed.’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘More to writing newspapers than meets the eye, Jack. No good just saying this happened, and this, and this. You have to tell a story.’
    ‘Yes sir.’
    Old Jimmy has no one to go home to so he hangs around after school for as long as he can and comes in at weekends, which is sad, but Jack feels no pity. He can hear the clatter of running feet in the hall and the rumble of cars in the drive.
    ‘Got to go, sir. My mother’ll be waiting.’
    ‘Off you go, Jack. Off you go.’
    Out into the crowded hall and push through the scrum of blue blazers to the porch where Mrs Kilmartin stands, big as a church. Jack lets himself be carried on the wave of home-going bodies into the open air. So far no sign of Carrie. Jason Ferris’s mother is there with a new Labrador puppy on a lead, drawing a crowd. Jack hesitates by the coned-off section where they’re supposed to wait for their pick-up, checking to see if anyone else from Carrie’s class is out yet. Peter Mackie passes by and idly and for no reason at all hits him on the shoulder, hard enough to hurt.
    ‘Hey! What was that for?’
    ‘Only a joke. Can’t you take a joke? Jacko can’t take a joke.’
    Naomi Truscott comes out with her blazer on, which means Carrie’s class has been out for at least five minutes, and Carrie’s always one of the first. With a lurch of insight Jack realizes she must have gone on ahead, she’ll already be on the far side of the rhododendrons, waiting to intercept their mother’s car before he even sees it.
    He sets off down the drive at a run, and there she is, a solitary figure with a drooping head, and there’s his mother’s car drawing to a stop. Even at this distance Jack can tell Carrie is starting to cry. He is outraged. He runs as fast as he can, fuelled by his sense of the unfolding injustice. As he approaches, Carrie has the car door open and is climbing into the front seat, when she knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that it is his turn in the front seat this afternoon.
    ‘Carrie! Get out! It’s not your turn!’
    His mother fixes him with reproachful eyes.
    ‘Please, Jack. Carrie’s upset.’
    ‘But it’s not her turn in the front!’
    ‘Oh, really. What does it matter where you sit? Now jump in the back. We’re holding up the other cars.’
    Jack is speechless with shock. How can she say it doesn’t matter where they sit? She knows as well as he does how carefully the turns have been negotiated.
    ‘Come on, Jack. Get in.’
    Jack gets in and shuts the door. Carrie looks round and for a second he glimpses her triumphant face and he can’t bear it.
    ‘It’s my turn! It is!’
    His mother weaves the Volvo past the other cars, exchanging friendly waves with fellow parents, looping round the school porch and out towards the main road again.
    ‘Carrie’s upset, Jack. Be more sympathetic.’
    ‘No she isn’t. What’s she got to be upset about?’
    ‘She’s been having problems with Naomi. You know that.’
    ‘No she hasn’t. I saw them playing together in break. They were just fine.’
    He had, too. That is, he had seen them talking together, heads bent and close, and no one walking away.
    ‘Well, I think that’s Carrie’s business, don’t you?’
    ‘But she’s lying!’
    ‘I am not!’ Carrie bursts into tears.
    ‘All right, darling. Jack, please leave her alone.’
    Jack feels helpless in the face of his sister’s outrageous manipulation. How can his mother not see it?
    ‘It’s still my turn,’ he says, clinging fiercely to the one undeniable truth.
    ‘Jack. I don’t want to hear another word. Now tell me how your day has been.’
    He says nothing. She doesn’t want to hear another word. She just said so. He was going to tell her about the Dogman, but not now.
    ‘Did Mr Strachan hand you back your composition?’
    Silence.
    ‘So did he?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Jack hasn’t given one single thought to his composition since getting it back.