and stared, fingering the deckle edge.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Nothing,” said Mum. She tried to crumple it up, but it was too stiff.
Dad looked up from his newspaper.
“Is that a wedding invitation?” he said. “Let's have a look.”
“It's nothing,” Mum repeated, but Dad reached across and snatched it from her.
“Good lord! Becky's getting married,” said Dad.
“My cousin Becky?” I said. “Is she the one who used to be best friends with Angela?”
Dad usually frowns at me when I mention the first Angela, because he doesn't want to set Mum off—but now he just nodded.
“And we're invited to the wedding?” I said. I got up and peered over Dad's shoulder. “To the ceremony. And the wedding breakfast. Doesn't that sound weird? It's not a real breakfast, like bacon and egg, is it? And a disco in the evening. So … are we going?”
“I don't think so,” said Mum.
“I think we ought to go,” said Dad.
“You go if you want. But I don't think I can face it,” said Mum, rubbing her eyebrows with her thumb and forefinger, the way she always does when she has a headache. “Angela and Becky were just like sisters.”
“So why shouldn't we see Becky married?” Dad said. “I've hated the way we've barely seen the family all these years. I know it's painful, I know it brings back memories— but life goes
on.
It's not fair to me to cut me off from my family. And it's not fair to Angela either.”
“Not fair to
Angela
?” said Mum. It took her a second to realize he meant me.
“I don't
want
to go to Becky's wedding,” I said.
I didn't want all the family looking at me, shaking their heads, whispering. I was sure they'd all compare me with the first Angela. I knew they'd say I wasn't a bit like her.
“There,” said Mum. “That settles it.” But she lookeddoubtful. She picked up her teacup, but then put it down without a sip. The cup clattered in the saucer. It was obvious her hand was trembling.
“We'll all go,” Dad said firmly.
“Oh please, don't, both of you,” I said, getting up from the table. “I'm going to school.”
I rushed off before I could get caught up in the argu-ment. I tried to forget about it at school. I mucked around with Vicky and Sarah, I got told off for talking in class, I got the giggles in singing, I played the fool on the hockey pitch doing a sword dance with my hockey stick, I wrote a very rude but very funny joke on the toilet wall—while Angela hovered above my head, her wings creating a cold breeze.
I didn't get the bus home with Vicky and Sarah. I walked right through the town and out to the cemetery instead.
I don't know why.
Maybe I want to talk to Angela. And yet here I am as-saulting her, slapping her stone angel around.
“I'm sorry,” I whisper, and I reach out and hold the angel's hand. Her fist stays clenched. She wouldn't want to hold hands with me. The bad sister.
I'm very late home. Mum is at the window, white-faced. She's already phoned Dad and he's come rushing home from work.
“Where have you
been
?” Mum says, bursting into tears.
“How could you be so thoughtless?” says Dad.
Mum can't bear me being even ten minutes late, be-cause she's so scared there will have been another accident.
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm
sorry,”
I gabble. “Look, I went to the cemetery, OK?”
“Oh, darling,” says Mum. She gives me a hug.
Even Dad looks sheepish.
I feel guiltier than ever. They think I'm so devoted to my dead sister. They have no idea I sometimes can't stand her.
“Let's have tea,” says Mum.
“What's happening about Becky's wedding?”
“We needn't go. I'll write a note to explain—and we'll send her a nice present,” says Dad.
“Well. Maybe we
should
go. I think I was being a bit… selfish,” says Mum. “We should wish Becky well. Angela— you know,
Angela
—she'd have wanted to go, wouldn't she? And it's right, we have this Angela,
our
Angela, to think of.”
“But,” I said, “I don't want
“What is it?” I asked.
“Nothing,” said Mum. She tried to crumple it up, but it was too stiff.
Dad looked up from his newspaper.
“Is that a wedding invitation?” he said. “Let's have a look.”
“It's nothing,” Mum repeated, but Dad reached across and snatched it from her.
“Good lord! Becky's getting married,” said Dad.
“My cousin Becky?” I said. “Is she the one who used to be best friends with Angela?”
Dad usually frowns at me when I mention the first Angela, because he doesn't want to set Mum off—but now he just nodded.
“And we're invited to the wedding?” I said. I got up and peered over Dad's shoulder. “To the ceremony. And the wedding breakfast. Doesn't that sound weird? It's not a real breakfast, like bacon and egg, is it? And a disco in the evening. So … are we going?”
“I don't think so,” said Mum.
“I think we ought to go,” said Dad.
“You go if you want. But I don't think I can face it,” said Mum, rubbing her eyebrows with her thumb and forefinger, the way she always does when she has a headache. “Angela and Becky were just like sisters.”
“So why shouldn't we see Becky married?” Dad said. “I've hated the way we've barely seen the family all these years. I know it's painful, I know it brings back memories— but life goes
on.
It's not fair to me to cut me off from my family. And it's not fair to Angela either.”
“Not fair to
Angela
?” said Mum. It took her a second to realize he meant me.
“I don't
want
to go to Becky's wedding,” I said.
I didn't want all the family looking at me, shaking their heads, whispering. I was sure they'd all compare me with the first Angela. I knew they'd say I wasn't a bit like her.
“There,” said Mum. “That settles it.” But she lookeddoubtful. She picked up her teacup, but then put it down without a sip. The cup clattered in the saucer. It was obvious her hand was trembling.
“We'll all go,” Dad said firmly.
“Oh please, don't, both of you,” I said, getting up from the table. “I'm going to school.”
I rushed off before I could get caught up in the argu-ment. I tried to forget about it at school. I mucked around with Vicky and Sarah, I got told off for talking in class, I got the giggles in singing, I played the fool on the hockey pitch doing a sword dance with my hockey stick, I wrote a very rude but very funny joke on the toilet wall—while Angela hovered above my head, her wings creating a cold breeze.
I didn't get the bus home with Vicky and Sarah. I walked right through the town and out to the cemetery instead.
I don't know why.
Maybe I want to talk to Angela. And yet here I am as-saulting her, slapping her stone angel around.
“I'm sorry,” I whisper, and I reach out and hold the angel's hand. Her fist stays clenched. She wouldn't want to hold hands with me. The bad sister.
I'm very late home. Mum is at the window, white-faced. She's already phoned Dad and he's come rushing home from work.
“Where have you
been
?” Mum says, bursting into tears.
“How could you be so thoughtless?” says Dad.
Mum can't bear me being even ten minutes late, be-cause she's so scared there will have been another accident.
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm
sorry,”
I gabble. “Look, I went to the cemetery, OK?”
“Oh, darling,” says Mum. She gives me a hug.
Even Dad looks sheepish.
I feel guiltier than ever. They think I'm so devoted to my dead sister. They have no idea I sometimes can't stand her.
“Let's have tea,” says Mum.
“What's happening about Becky's wedding?”
“We needn't go. I'll write a note to explain—and we'll send her a nice present,” says Dad.
“Well. Maybe we
should
go. I think I was being a bit… selfish,” says Mum. “We should wish Becky well. Angela— you know,
Angela
—she'd have wanted to go, wouldn't she? And it's right, we have this Angela,
our
Angela, to think of.”
“But,” I said, “I don't want
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