Cleo

“What if bullies get me?” he asked, clutching the stainless-steel band of his watch.

My insides melted. If only I could shadow his every step through the day ahead, monitor each breath that filled his six-year-old lungs, and roar at his adversaries.

“They won’t,” I said, fiercely hoping I was right. But what if I wasn’t? His status as grieving brother had the potential to single him out for special attention from emotionally disturbed retards. “Tell the teacher to call me if you want to come home any time.”

“Look after Cleo for me,” he said, opening the fridge door and removing a jug of milk, too full for his child’s grip. The jug wobbled as he poured the milk into a saucer, slopping a pond on the floor. Cleo arched with delight as the delicious liquid flowed. Her tail uncoiled and her tongue set about its work with crisp strokes.

Rob was sleeping more soundly since he’d moved back to his old room. His nightmares and dreams were less disturbing. No doubt the comfort of a centrally heated kitten had something to do with that.

A sharp tapping on the window jangled my nerves. The unmistakable cheekbones of Ginny Desilva, the most glamorous woman on the zigzag, pressed against the glass. Her perfectly shaped lips were arranged in a magazine smile. She raised three moisturized fingers, waved her glistening talons at us and called, “Hallooooo!”

Ginny was wearing a gold vinyl jacket, false eyelashes, earrings the size of chandeliers and a ponytail that was perched high on one side of her head. My regulation track pants and stained T-shirt didn’t stand a chance.

A boy about Rob’s size was holding Ginny’s hand. He had spiky hair and a pixie face.

“That’s Jason!” said Rob in awe.

“What’s he like?” I hissed through my teeth, while nodding and smiling at Ginny.

“He’s one of the Cool Gang.”

Ah yes. The legendary Cool Gang. I’d heard Rob and Sam talk as if they’d rather paint their willies blue than join the Cool Gang. That was only because the Cool Gang hadn’t asked for their membership.

The only thing cooler than the Cool Gang was the Cool Gang’s parents. They were doctors, lawyers and architects who arranged tennis matches on a rotation basis so they all had a chance to show off the courts in their back gardens. Ginny and her husband, Rick, were Queen and King of the Cool Gang’s parents because they transcended the run-of-the-mill professionals. Rick ran a record company. And Ginny, well, all she had to do was drape herself in fake fur and be Ginny. Journalism had trained me to make snap judgments. Fashion model means way too beautiful and skinny plus shallow plus competitive about physical appearances and men plus dimwitted equals an excellent person for me to avoid. Ginny, in the single conversation I’d had with her when we’d bumped into each other on the zigzag, claimed to be a midwife, though this seemed too outlandish to be true. I’d assumed she was on something at the time.

“Hi,” I said, almost blinded by the sheen of her mahogany hair as I opened the back door.

“Wow! A kitten!” her son yelled before any of us had time to exchange formalities. Weaving around my track pants, Jason burst into the kitchen.

“Rob, you didn’t tell me you had a kitten!” said Jason. “It’s so cute! Can I hold it?”

“She’s Cleo,” said Rob, proudly presenting his pet to Jason. “Her dad’s a tomcat. He was wild. We’re pretty sure he was a panther.”

“Jason adores cats,” Ginny laughed, as we watched Jason burying the kitten in his neck. I was waiting for her eyes to settle critically on my track pants and the lake of milk on the floor (which Rata was obligingly slurping), but she seemed oblivious to our chaos.

“I heard Rob’s going to be in Jason’s class this year,” she said. “Jason was wondering if Rob would like to walk to school with him today, weren’t you, darling?”

Jason nodded, though somewhat dutifully. Rob walk to school with Jason? But the morning was all planned. I’d played it over in my head so many times—mother and son make tragic appearance at school gates. Mother gives son invisible injection of power and protection before son steps boldly into new school life.

“Thanks, but we’re driving,” I said, immediately aware how clipped and ungrateful I sounded. What was wrong with me? Not so long ago I’d been considered a warm, friendly person. When I was at primary school the other kids gave me the nickname “Happy.” There was no danger of a name like that anymore. “Would Jason like us to give him a lift?”

Of course she was going to say no. She’d do it on the grounds of politeness and respect for the hermit shell of misery I’d retreated into. I’d escape with the appearance of having made the offer. She’d decline, and we’d get on with our appropriately separate lives.

“That would be lovely,” Ginny replied, fixing me with brown eyes conveying unexpected warmth and something else. What was it—a fleeting spark of wisdom? “Byeee!”