THE CLUELESS GIRL.
Emily was the daughter of the downstairs neighbour and a constant trial for fifteen-year-old Oliver. That scrawny, dark-eyed girl was often dumped on their doorstep in the evenings.
Auntie Helen raised her alone, barely scraping byworking shifts as a care assistant, rushing to give pensioners their injections, grabbing at any chance to earn an extra quid. She still tried to carve out a love life, but it never stuck. One decent bloke turned out to be married.
The neighbour always appeared without warning, eyes darting guiltily as she whispered urgently, «Veronica, just for a couple of hoursI owe you one. Its late, I cant leave her alone» Emily would stand there, arms crossed, staring miserably at the floor.
Mum sighed but always gave inbetter than leaving the girl in a dark, empty flat. Dad would grumble about it later, of course.
Oliver paid the price for his mothers kindness. He was the one stuck entertaining the uninvited guest, told to put on «something, anything» to keep her quiet. Emily would perch stiffly on the edge of the sofa, silently enduring whatever gritty action film was playing, hands folded primly on her lapinfuriatingly meek.
Once a week, Auntie Helen would shove a crumpled tenner into his hand and beg him to walk the kid at least as far as the cornersame school, same route anyway.
That day, Emily was practically glowing, even managing a few words on the way. «Weve got a special assembly today,» she murmured. «Im reciting *Snowflakes*.» Oliver scoffed. In that ridiculous bobble hat, the daft girl looked more like a spaceman than a snowflake.
After first period, the usual swarm of kids headed to the canteen for break. Oliver was halfway through unwrapping his cheese sandwich when something made him glance back.
A huddle of Year Ones buzzed excitedly in their corner. Kids were pointing, laughing, one even waving a tissue. He edged closer. Worst possible sightEmilys party dress was drenched in strawberry milkshake.
She stood frozen, trembling, tears spilling silently.
Out of nowhere, a breathless Jack grabbed his arm. «Ollie, come on! Lotties asking about the partyshe *wants* you there, mate!» His voice sounded distant. «If you dont go now, its too late!»
Lottie. Just talking to her was every lads dream. And now she was asking for *him*? He took a step toward the door. Not his problem, was it? Let them call Auntie Helen, let them scrub the dresswhatever.
Deep down, Oliver knew no one would help her. Theyd shove her into a corner and forget. And shed shrink into herself againsilent, invisible, used to it.
He sighed, just like Mum always did, and turned back.
«Miss Thompson, whens the assembly?»
«Oh, Oliverhour and a half. Look at the state of her! Trusted her with a poem, and now this Hows she supposed to perform?»
Emily shook like a leaf, smeared and pale as if she might be sick. Oliver pried the empty cup from her grip.
«Ill take her home. Maybe shes got another dress.»
«Youre a lifesaver, love. GoIll smooth it over with Mrs. Carter.»
Turns out, there *was* no spare dress. Oliver muttered every curse he knew as he scrubbed out the stains, blasted them dry with the hairdryer, ironed the frilly pink folds straight. Emily fidgeted in her vest and tights. They sprinted back, his hand clamped around her mittened one.
He never did talk to Lottie that day. Never made it to lessons, eitherjust sat through the Year One assembly.
Emily rattled off her poem without a hitch. As her class filed past, she suddenly broke rank, flung herself at him, and blurted into his jacket:
«Ollie if it wasnt for you, Id have died today. Proper died.»
Bloody clueless girl.
