Dandelion Clocks by Rebecca Westcott Read Free Book Online Page B

what I need to do to improve it, so today I have resorted to the only option available to me. The homework is to do with some magic cube (nothing remotely magical about it as far as I can see) and I have taken the drastic action of drawing all the cubes again and colouring them in with the nicest felt tips that I could find – had to search in my old art box for ages to find any that hadn’t run out. If she isn’t happy with it tomorrow, then I can do nothing more. I have utilized every mathematical and non-mathematical skill that I have and I am now empty of ideas – so this had better work …
    I walk into the kitchen and instantly stub my toe on the big cardboard box that is, for no reason whatsoever, sitting in the middle of the floor.
    ‘Isaac Ellis!’ I roar, hopping around the kitchen in agony and clutching my foot.
    ‘What?’ asks Isaac, who is sitting at the table. He takes one earphone out of his ear. Evidently I am not important enough today to have his full attention.
    ‘Do you think it is remotely possible that you
could
not
constantly leave this stinking pile of old junk in the doorway?’
    ‘Yes, it is possible that I don’t leave it there constantly. Yesterday I left it in the bathroom,’ he says, turning away from me. This conversation is boring him.
    ‘Yes, well, maybe, if I find it in my way again, I’ll leave it outside for the bin men,’ I spit. I know this is unwise, but I am fed up with the way we all have to tiptoe around Isaac and what he wants. It’s so unfair – the minute I leave so much as a shoe on the floor in the hallway I’m told to tidy it up.
    ‘Olivia,’ warns Mum, casting a look at me, but I am too cross to pay attention.
    ‘I could actually break my neck if I fell over that box of old tat.’
    Isaac takes both earphones out now and turns off his iPod, very slowly. He rarely loses his temper, not since Dad taught him how to count to twenty before saying anything if someone is upsetting him. I watch him, seeing him counting in his head, and wonder what he’ll do when he gets there.
    Isaac’s box is very precious to him. The box itself is nothing special but it is full of really important things that Isaac can’t do without. He’s had it forever
and every now and then he’ll add something to it, but he’ll never take anything out. I can’t see why he wants any of it. It’s all old and a bit manky – stuff like a Coke can that Dad gave him when they went to watch football. (The one and only time
that
happened, Isaac totally spun out with all the crowds and they ended up sitting in the car for most of the time. I’d have thought he’d want to forget that event, personally.) There’s a bit of clay that’s moulded into some weird shape: I don’t think even Isaac knows what it is, but apparently it’s necessary for his very survival. Then there’s stuff like a badge saying
Happy Second Birthday
and a totally disgusting feather that he plucked off a dead bird in the garden. Like I said, none of it makes any sense to anyone other than him. But Mum says that it doesn’t hurt anyone and makes him feel secure, so we mustn’t make a big deal of it.
    Isaac’s obviously counted to twenty because he gets up and walks over to me. I hold my breath. Isaac isn’t often violent but we’ve had some fairly big fights in the past. This time, though, he just picks up his box.
    ‘It’s not tat,’ he mutters, and goes through to the living room.
    I feel awful. I know it’s wrong to try to wind
him up, but he does get all the attention round here and sometimes I just can’t help it. Mum sighs at me, but gives Isaac a big thumbs-up when he comes back in and sits down at the table.
    ‘Good choice, Isaac. Well done for ignoring your sister,’ she says pointedly.
    Yes, all right – I feel bad enough already. It would have been easier if he’d had a meltdown. Now I just feel a bit rubbish.
    Dad comes in and the rest of our meal passes as uneventfully as a meal in the Ellis