**The Fool.**
Emily was the downstairs neighbours daughter and a constant nuisance to fifteen-year-old Oliver. That scrawny, dark-eyed girl was often dumped at their flat in the evenings.
Aunt Margaret raised her alonebarely scraping by, working double shifts as a carer, dashing to give pensioners their injections, grasping at any chance to earn an extra quid. She still tried her luck with men, but none stuck. One decent bloke turned out to be married.
The neighbour always appeared at the doorstep without warning, eyes downcast, whispering urgently: *»Veronica, just for an hour or twoI’ll owe you, it’s late, she can’t stay alone.»* Emily would stand there, sulky, head drooping like a wilted flower.
Mum sighed but always took her inbetter than leaving the girl in a dark, empty flat. Dad grumbled about it later, of course.
Oliver paid the price for his mothers kindness, because *he* was the one stuck entertaining the uninvited guest with *»something to watch.»* Emily would curl into the sofa corner, silently enduring whatever violent action film was playing, palms flat on her kneesinfuriatingly meek.
Once a week, Aunt Margaret shoved crumpled five-pound notes into his hand, begging him to walk her newly minted first-grader at least to the cornerthey went to the same school anyway.
That day, Emily glowed like a polished teapot, even muttering a few words on the way: *»We have a party today. I’m reciting Snowflakes.»* Oliver smirked. In that ridiculous knitted cap, the daft girl looked more like a spaceborne germ.
After first period, the usual hordes stampeded towards the canteen for breakfast. Oliver grabbed his cheese sandwichthen, for some reason, turned around.
The little ones in their corner were unusually rowdy. A gaggle of kids had encircled Emily in her frilly dress. Some pointed and laughed; others offered tissues. Oliver edged closer. The worst possible sighther entire outfit was drenched in strawberry yoghurt.
She stood frozen in terror, tears rolling silently.
Out of nowhere, a hyped-up Charlie appeared: *»Oi, Ollie! Move it! Lotties sorting the party»* His voice sounded miles away. *»She* asked *for you! Miss this, and youre done!»*
Lottie… Just talking to her was every lads dream. Now she *wanted* him there. He took a step towards the door. Not his problem, was it? Let them call Aunt Margaret, scrub the dress, whatever.
Deep down, Oliver knew: no one would help Emily. Theyd shove her aside, and shed shrink into herself, silent and invisibleused to it by now.
He sighed, just like Mum, and walked to the table.
*»Miss Thompson, whens the assembly?»*
*»Oh, Oliverhour and a half. Look at her! Trusted her with a reading, and now Hows she meant to go on like this?»*
Emily trembled violently, splattered and pale, like shed been sick. Oliver pried the empty cup from her grip.
*»Ill take her home. Maybe she can change.»*
*»Bless you, love. Go onIll square it with Mrs. Harris.»*
Turns out, there *was* no other dress. Oliver cursed under his breath as he scrubbed the stains, blasted it with a hairdryer, ironed the pink ruffles straight. Skinny Emily, in just a vest and tights, hovered nervously. They sprinted back, his fingers tight around her mitten-clad hand.
He never did chat with Lottie. Skipped lessons, toowent to the first-years assembly instead.
Emily rattled off her poem flawlessly. As her class filed past, she suddenly broke rank, hurled herself at him, and blurted:
*»Ollie If not for you, Id have died today. Proper died.»*
What a fool.
