The Last Charm. Ella Allbright

a tree. She has fairy wings on her back and stars in her eyes. There’s a paintbrush in her left hand and a charm bracelet around that wrist, which I added recently. In her right hand she holds a magic wand, gold sparkles trailing from it.

      But that was then, and this is now, and I’ll probably never see my creation again. I couldn’t remove it from under the bed without ruining it, and couldn’t bear to do that. It’s so unfair. I really hate Mum sometimes.

      Sighing, I climb out of bed and have a quick wash in the faded green bathroom, then dress in a violet T-shirt and my favourite blue jeans with a sparkly heart on the pocket. Brushing my hair, I put it in a ponytail and feed it through the hole at the back of the baseball cap I wore yesterday, tilting the peak down over my face. I feel like hiding this morning. Maybe if I can pretend I’m invisible, none of this will be real.

      A few minutes later, I step into the kitchen holding Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire to my chest. I’ve read it three times and can’t wait until the next one in the series comes out.

      Dad turns to look at me from his seat at the table, his big hands curled around a cup of tea. ‘Morning, princess,’ he says, ‘sleep okay?’

      ‘Yes, thanks.’ He used to call me princess when I was seven or eight and has started again since Mum left, usually on the days I get really upset. I know he understands how sad and angry I am at leaving everything behind, but I also know it’s not his fault and he’s just looking out for us. No, I blame her.

      This morning he looks rumpled. His clothes aren’t ironed, and his face is creased with lines. I feel guilty. He’s been sleeping on the sofa because there are only two bedrooms.

      ‘Morning, Leila.’ Grandad Ray steps out of the pantry holding a jar of homemade strawberry jam and puts it on the table. ‘I’ll get some toast on. Tea?’

      ‘Yes, please,’ I say, watching as he moves around the kitchen. Everything’s dark in here, even with the overhead light on. The units are dark brown wood, the floor’s covered in a thin greyish carpet with navy swirls, the walls are painted damson, and the table matches the units. I wonder how he sees in here. He’s so old. I heard him telling Dad yesterday that he’s only sixty but feels much older with everything going on.

      I put my book down, careful to keep it away from the crumbs on the tablecloth. I’m quiet as I eat breakfast, lost in my own thoughts until Dad clears his throat and stands up, making me jump.

      ‘I’m off to work now,’ he says gruffly, ‘I have a few last jobs to finish before wrapping up the business.’

      As if it’s not bad enough we had to sell our home, Dad also has to lose the business he set up fifteen years ago. He explained to me that because Mum’s not around to do the books or admin, and he can’t afford to employ someone to do those things or to pay the mortgage alone, we’re moving to Basingstoke so he can work for his friend (who I call Uncle Martin) doing the plumbing for some new housing projects.

      ‘You’ll be all right for the day, won’t you, love?’ Dad’s looking at me with a worried expression on his face.

      I paste on a bright smile and nod. The truth is, I feel adrift. Like Harry Potter when he stays at Hogwarts for the first Christmas holidays because he doesn’t want to go back to the horrible Dursleys. Dad and Grandad are adults and have each other, but I have no one. No one to talk to, no one to tell how scared I am about starting a new school. No one to share my feelings with about whether I’ll make new friends.

      ‘Of course. I’ll probably read or draw, watch TV or something.’ My eyes drift over to the window, aching for fresh air.

      ‘We can always go for a walk later, Leila, if you want?’ Grandad offers.

      ‘Maybe.’ I drop my gaze to the table. ‘Have a good day, Dad.’

      ‘Thanks, love.’ He leans over to kiss me on top of the head, which I try to dart away from because I’m way too old for that now, and then walks to the door, grabbing his tool bag on the way out.

      Grandad Ray and I stare at each other. Even though we’ve lived along the road from him since I was little, we hardly ever came over here before Mum left. I don’t know why. I’d never seen them argue; they just didn’t really seem to talk.

      There’s a knock on the front door and he frowns. ‘I wonder who that is.’ He wanders off as I finish my milky tea and take my cup over to the sink. In the distance I hear him speak. ‘Oh, hello.’

      He’s back a minute later, an amused expression on his face. ‘It’s for you.’

      Turning around, I look at him. ‘Who is it?’

      ‘A young lad. He said he met you yesterday? He wants to know if you’ll come out.’

      ‘Oh.’ I blush, feeling like I’ve done something wrong, or like the boy is calling on me because he’s got a crush. I doubt that’s what it is though. He’s probably lonely because he’s just moved to the neighbourhood. Into my house.

      ‘Do you want to see him?’ he asks. ‘If you do, you could probably spend some time with him here or maybe a short visit to the park? If we agree a time you need to be back by, that is. I’m sure your dad would be okay with it.’

      The thought’s tempting. Eloise is away and I’m lonely without her. I don’t have much else to do and would rather be out and about doing something than stuck inside. Besides, the boy seemed okay – nice – although he did ask a lot of questions.

      ‘Leila? I can send him on his way if—’

      ‘I’ll see him,’ I reply in a rush. ‘Maybe we’ll hang out in the garden first?’

      ‘That’s a good idea,’ Grandad says. Picking up his cup of tea, he tries to hide a smile behind it but fails.

      Blushing again – my pale skin is so stupid – I walk through the dark dining room and into the hallway, pulling open the door Grandad’s left a few inches ajar. The boy is leaning against the doorframe and I surprise him so much he stumbles over the threshold and lands at my feet.

      He looks up at me from the carpet, odd-coloured eyes wide, and shrugs his shoulders, laughing at himself. ‘Hello, again.’

      I giggle. ‘Hi.’

      As he picks himself up, he dusts off his faded clothes and smiles. The action pulls the scar above his lip tighter. ‘I w-wondered if y-you wanted to come out? We didn’t finish chatting yesterday.’

      I shrug casually, ‘Sure. Do you wanna go in the garden? There are some cool trees to hang in?’ My cheeks scald bright red. I must sound like such a baby. I think he’s older than me, so he’s probably used to going down the park with gangs of kids.

      ‘Sure,’ he nods. ‘I’m Jake.’

      ‘I’m Leila,’ I answer shyly.

      ***

      Jake and I end up spending the week together. He’s intriguing, different to other boys I know from school, who are all loud and loutish. He’s quiet, more thoughtful. He also has a confidence I wish I had. He just seems comfortable with who he is and what he thinks about things.

      After that first morning in Grandad’s back garden when we sit in the lower branches of the apple tree, idly chatting and getting to know each other, we spend most days down the local park. We wrap up in parka coats (mine brand new and boxy, his worn out and too small for him) and ride our BMX bikes (mine shiny and bright, his with a broken handle and covered in rust). I don’t say anything or ask any questions though, because I don’t want to embarrass him.

      We talk about films, music, and books when we get to the park. Jake hates school because he says he’s no good at it, but he likes to read at night when his parents think he’s sleeping, borrowing books from the school library. Of course, he’s between schools now. Feeling sorry for him, I lend him one of my Harry Potter collection on the promise he’ll return it on Friday when we leave.