Ruby Ali's Mission Break Up Read online

  Contents

  The Break Up

  New Beginnings

  Operation Odd Socks

  Operation Glue

  Creepy Crawlies

  The Surprise Prankster

  Pizzagate

  Sweet Bowl of Mash

  Smashed Screen

  Another Mission

  THE BREAK UP

  “Why can’t I come with you?” I mumble, clutching my old stuffed rabbit, Bug, to my chest.

  My sister Alisha’s head shoots up from the bin bag she’s packing.

  “Ruby!” she snaps. “We’ve been through this. You repeating yourself isn’t going to change the fact that you can’t be with me. We have to go our separate ways. You’ll get fostered by a good family who like little girls. You’re only twelve. This is the best thing for you.”

  “I…”

  She cuts me off. “And don’t you think you’re a little old for Bug now?”

  My mouth falls open. How could she say that? She knows what Bug means to me. Alisha looks like she wants to add something more, but she changes her mind and looks away. Perhaps the hurt on my face is too obvious. Her lips press together in a straight line and she busies herself with her packing again. I can tell she’s upset because she’s stuffing her clothes in, rather than folding them neatly. Neither of us have many belongings as the care system only pays for our essentials.

  I am finding it hard to accept that she is separating from me. Now that she’s eighteen, Alisha’s not allowed to stay in care anymore. She’s going to move in with her new friend, Julie, who rents a house with five others at an address which I’ve secretly memorised.

  It also means she is leaving me behind. I stare down at her as she shoves the last of her clothes into her bin bag. Her silky long black hair falls forward like a curtain, half concealing her face as she presses down on the load so that she can tie a knot at the top. Strangers have always said that she’s an older version of me. The only difference, these days, is the make-up caked on her face. Black kohl rims her brown eyes, and her lipstick is a plum shade. When she first wore the colour, I told her she looked like she’d eaten blackberries.

  “Julie likes it,” had been her reply.

  I’d rolled my eyes. Of course, Julie would like it. She is a goth, after all. Oh, how I hate her influence on my sister’s life. With the knot securely tied, Alisha gets to her feet. Is this it? My heart begins to beat frantically in my chest.

  She is leaving.

  She is really leaving me.

  I lunge forward to throw my arms around her waist. I am terrified to be without her. I’ve never been without her.

  “You promised we would always be together!” I wail.

  “And we were together,” she says softly, recognising my panic. Her earlier impatience is no more, and she tries to soothe me. Ever so gently, she unwraps my arms from her middle and holds my hands. “Rubes, I need to make my own way in the world. I can’t take you. Please understand. It isn’t allowed.”

  I look up at her pleadingly. “When have you ever followed the rules?”

  She drops my hands. “How many times must I explain it to you? The system won’t pay me to look after you. I’m not a foster carer.”

  “What if nobody else in the world wanted me?” I ask. “Would they let you have me then?”

  “Yes, well maybe,” she says vaguely, glancing at the white clock on the wall.

  I say nothing as she places a kiss on my forehead. I can tell she is feeling emotional too. How can she not be?

  “I’ll come and see you as soon as I’m settled,” she promises. “And in a year or two, you can move in with me when I have a good job and flat.” Then, without giving me a chance to say anything, she picks up her bin bag and walks out of the door without turning back even once.

  I stare at the white door with the big poster of fire instructions nailed to the centre. I know the list of what to do in the event of fire by heart, but I re-read it anyway. The focus helps me swallow the lump that has formed in my throat. I can’t allow myself to cry. If I do, it will be the first time Alisha won’t be with me to wipe my tears. And I am terrified of crying on my own.

  After taking several deep breaths to control the butterflies zooming around in my tummy, I turn to the window and wait for her to appear below. Alisha takes her time to emerge out of the big Georgian house that is the residential home for children. It is called Sunshine House. I imagine she is saying goodbye to the workers in the office. We, the Ali sisters, have been in and out of Sunshine House for years. Somehow, our time with foster families never seemed to last very long. Our last foster stay ended two weeks ago because Alisha hated it and we’ve been living here since.

  I glance at my own bin bag, packed and knotted to take with me to my new foster home. The thought of living with strangers without Alisha fills me with dread. For comfort, I bury my face in my rabbit. The fur is matted and stained with dirt, but I don’t care. Bug was the last thing Mum gave me. When he lost his right ear, I promised myself that Bug would never end up in the hot spin of Claire’s horror machine ever again. Or anyone else’s for that matter. I remember that day well. I was nine years old, and it is scarred into my memory.

  “Please not Bug,” I pleaded.

  I was no match for Claire’s big strong hands. “It’s dirty!” she insisted, furiously grabbing Bug from me. “Rabia!”

  She was the only foster we’d ever had who insisted on calling me by my full name, even after I’d told her loads of times that I preferred to be called Ruby.

  That day, poor Bug had not only lost his ear, but Mum’s scent, which had lingered on it for years. Alisha tried to comfort me by saying that the scent had evaporated a long time ago.

  “It’s gone, Rubes, just like Mum.”

  I hadn’t agreed. It had been the first time I’d thrown a tantrum. I had screamed, thrown objects and refused to eat for days until our social worker was summoned. That was Poonam, who affectionately introduced herself as Poo to every child. I think it was to make the bewildered, scared children relax and laugh. I’d certainly giggled when she’d lifted me as a six-year-old into her arms for the first time and said, “Hello, I’m Poo.”

  Poo hadn’t been too pleased when she had picked us up from Claire’s home to return us to Sunshine House. “I’d expected that behaviour from Alisha,” she’d admonished in the car. “Not you, Ruby.”

  “I told Claire I didn’t want Bug to go in the washing machine,” I said tearfully. “She didn’t listen to me and now Bug’s lost his ear.”

  Poo’s voice softened. “Did you rescue his ear from the machine?”

  I nodded. “It’s in my pocket.”

  “I’ll sew it back on for you when we get back to Sunshine House,” Poo offered. “And then Bug will be just like before.”

  “What about Mum’s smell?”

  Poo had no comeback for that.

  “That Claire only takes in kids so she can scrub them clean,” Alisha said. “She was always shouting at me for the littlest things like mud on my boots or rainwater dripping off the umbrella in the hallway.”

  “And I suppose you never played any pranks on her, angel that you are?” Poo said in a sarcastic voice.

  Alisha met Poo’s eyes in the rear-view mirror and widened them innocently. “Who, me?”

  Poo tutted. She knew us better than anyone else in the world.

  ***

  Alisha finally appears outside. She doesn’t look up, even though she must know that I’m standing there to wave a final goodbye.

  I have spent the last six years of my life looking out of windows and standing by doors waiting for my big sister after school. The difference this time, though, is that she isn’t coming
home to me, but rather walking away from me. It’s not her fault. I can see that now. It is the system that forbids us to be together. It is the system that must be beaten.

  And so, as she walks away for the final time from Sunshine House, the plan to break away from my next foster family forms in my mind: Mission Break Up.

  NEW BEGINNINGS

  Poo pulls her car up outside Number 65 Drummond Street. The house is semi-detached with a drive big enough for two cars, although only one is parked on it. The front is painted a pastel colour, just like the other houses on this road. This one is green, and there is a mixture of pink, yellow, blue and purple. The entire line-up reminds me of a packet of fruit pastilles.

  “This is it,” Poo says, turning in her seat to face me.

  I have known Poo now for as long as I knew my mum. Six years, and in all this time she has hardly changed. She still wears colourful, patterned dresses over skinny jeans and converse trainers. I think she has all the colours of converses you can buy because she can match the colour to her dress on most days. Today her converses are red to go with her poppy patterned dress.

  All the children attached to Sunshine House adore Poo. She is like a fun aunt with her casual clothes, bright red lipstick and short brown hair.

  “Ruby,” Poo says gently, “this is a new chance for you to make a new home.”

  I say nothing.

  Her mouth sets in a straight line. “You’re no longer in Alisha’s shadow. She’s not here to cause chaos.”

  I shrug. “Whatever.”

  “I mean it, Ruby,” Poo’s voice is suddenly firm. “No pranks. No tantrums. If you mess this one up, I’ll really struggle to find someone else to take you on.”

  I lower my head to hide the small smile on my lips.

  Within the next five minutes, we are sitting in the living room of the big house.

  I gaze at my new foster carer, Cheryl. She looks to be about thirty-five and has short brown hair and brown eyes. Her husband, Jim, looks a little older and has the same colouring. They are both dressed in jeans and t-shirts.

  These fosters look like kind people, the type whose smiles are warm and friendly. They even have lots of those little lines around their eyes, which must mean they spend a lot of time laughing. Poo told me in the car that they were experienced carers. They had fostered babies and toddlers before, all of whom had gone on to be adopted.

  When I was six and adorably cute, Poo had tried really hard to have me adopted. There had been interest from several couples, but Alisha was having none of it, and she instructed me to be as disgusting as possible to put them off. I had talked with my mouth full of food, peed in my knickers, stomped my feet and screamed when I was greeted with a hello. I became the opposite of the little angelic girl in my care plan photo. The one with the cute oval face, big brown eyes and pigtails. The interest soon fell away. In the end, some little babies came into care and the couples jumped at the chance to raise brand-new humans, instead of horrid little girls like me.

  Of course, I wasn’t normally disgusting. It was an act so I could stay with Alisha. She had promised we would never be separated. Well, she’d broken that promise now, and here I was sitting in awkward silence with Poo and two strangers.

  “Would you like to see your room?” Cheryl asks.

  “Yes, Mrs Brown, I would like to see my room,” I reply on cue.

  She flashes perfect white teeth at me. “Oh, you don’t have to call me that. Cheryl will do.”

  “No formalities in this house,” Jim adds.

  Gosh, I hope they’re not the free-living type who like to go litter-picking at the weekend and refuse to have any plastic in the house. Alisha and I have experience of those type of fosters too. Predictably, our stay didn’t last long. Alisha made sure of it by buying cling film from the pound shop and wrapping it around all the food in the fridge. She called it our right to protest litter-picking-forced-labour. Poo had pretended to be furious when she’d arrived to pick us up, and then laughed in the car all the way back to Sunshine House.

  Poo is not laughing right now. She looks deadly serious as she stands up. “Right, I shall leave you all to it. You have the numbers for emergencies.”

  “We do,” Jim says. “Thank you, Poonam.”

  Poo turns to me and I can see the concern in her eyes. “Be a good girl, Ruby. This is a lovely home and Jim and Cheryl are really pleased to be looking after you.”

  “Thank you, Poo,” I manage in a dull voice. I just can’t muster up fake enthusiasm. It was always Alisha who did the talking. I only ever had to stand behind her.

  The dread in my chest is heavy as I watch the last familiar face I know drive away. I’m here now with strangers and I must start all over again with my new “family”. Alone.

  “Let’s go to your room,” Cheryl says.

  I nod and follow her up the stairs. Jim remains in the living room.

  My bedroom is large and cheery with yellow stripey wallpaper and big windows that add light. There is a big bed, double wardrobe and a dressing table. There are even some books on the shelf. I do enjoy reading and look forward to going through them.

  Cheryl hovers near the door. “Would you like a hand unpacking?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m fine,” I mumble. “I don’t have many things to unpack.”

  “Hazard of always moving around, I suppose,” Cheryl says.

  I give her my you-really-said-it look. Yes, it’s true that foster kids move around a lot, but there’s no need to rub it in.

  I think she gets the meaning of my look because she suddenly looks flustered. “Right, I’ll be in the kitchen,” she says. “Come down when you’re ready. I’ve made a delicious meat lasagne.”

  I bite my lip. So, she has not even read my care plan.

  “I’m quite tired,” I say. “Would you please leave a tray outside for me?”

  “A tray?”

  “A cheese sandwich and a glass of milk.”

  Cheryl looks like she wants to object, thinks better of it, and then closes the door behind her. I collapse on the bed to stare up at the ceiling. Gold and silver stars glitter down at me. They were probably glued on for the younger children fostered before. I count ten stars in total and then sigh heavily at my situation.

  Joining new fosters in the summer holidays is the worst thing ever. It means that I’ll be forced to spend most of the time with them. Alisha and I once lived with a couple who wanted us to read books, watch documentaries on Netflix and even cook together. It had all been too much. Alisha had resisted and kept us locked in our rooms. That had been fine because we’d had each other’s company.

  Being holed up on my own here is going to be very different. To tell the truth, I imagine it is going to be really, really lonely. Then my eyes fall on the bookshelf. I get up to see the covers. Well, at least I’ll have the stories for company until I can execute Mission Break Up.

  OPERATION ODD SOCKS

  My hair is a complete mess.

  It is so long and there is so much of it. Washing it takes ages as does drying and detangling it. I slam the comb down on the dresser and scowl at myself in the mirror. Alisha always combed my hair after it was washed.

  And now I am having to do it myself!

  I think about just tying it back and leaving the detangling for another day.

  “Ruby?”

  I glance over my shoulder. Cheryl is standing by the open door.

  “Can I come in?” she asks.

  I shrug.

  She perches on my bed. “You have lovely hair,” she says. “Long and thick. What I wouldn’t do for it.”

  “It’s Asian hair,” I say. “We all have hair like this.”

  Cheryl leans forward. “You haven’t combed it properly. There are still knots.”

  I shrug again.

  “Would you like me to comb it?”

  I look up in surprise. I don’t know how I feel about that. Alisha never al
lowed anyone else to come near me. Ever. She had done all the caring for me herself. But she isn’t here now.

  A part of me wants Cheryl to help with my hair, but another part wants to keep her at a distance. After all, the mission is to break with the fosters. I can’t let Cheryl’s niceness confuse me and stop me from achieving Mission Break Up.

  “No, I’m fine.”

  A disappointed sound escapes her. I can tell I’ve hurt her with my flippant refusal. Well, it can’t be helped. She should be looking after babies and toddlers who need care, not separating twelve-year-old girls like me from their flesh and blood.

  Cheryl gets up to leave. “I just remembered I’ve got some washing to put out.”

  I stare at my face in the mirror when I’m alone again. What am I to do? I can’t let Cheryl touch me, but I can’t comb my hair either.

  There is only one solution.

  I go down to the kitchen for a pair of scissors. Finding some big silver ones in Cheryl’s sewing basket, I return to my room and sit straight-backed in front of the mirror.

  This is it.

  Taking a deep breath, I begin to chop.

  Chop.

  Chop.

  Soon, long strands cover the grey carpet around my feet. I snip a bit more here and there. My new hairstyle is a jagged cut around my shoulders. It looks terrible but I feel relief. I won’t have to worry about my hair anymore.

  That evening, I go down to dinner with my hair in a small ponytail. Cheryl stares at me in shock.

  “Your hair,” she mumbles.

  “I like it short,” I say with a shrug.

  “It doesn’t look very even,” Jim says, peering at me before turning to Cheryl. “Why don’t you take Ruby to the hairdressers tomorrow?”

  Cheryl nods. “Would you like that? Sandy, my hairdresser, could tidy it for you.”

  I don’t have to think about it. I don’t want the fosters to do anything for me. It would distract me from Mission Break Up. “No.”

  Cheryl’s face falls, but she doesn’t say anything.

  “What’s for dinner?” Jim asks, changing the subject.

  “Pesto pasta,” Cheryl replies.

  The vegetarian dish is the reason I’ve agreed to come down. I wolf my plate down and eat extra amounts even though my tummy is full. Alisha taught me to stow away food like a hibernating animal in case our next meal was delayed. I notice Cheryl eyeing me with concern.