Rainy Day Sisters by Kate Hewitt

through the window, her cheek stuck to her pillow by drool, and the clock on the bedside table glaring at her accusingly. It was four minutes past eight.
    She bolted upright as if she’d been electrocuted, then scrabbled for some clothes. There was a terrible taste in her mouth and she could feel her hair sticking up in about eight different directions. Talk about a bad hair day.
    A bad everything day, she decided when she clattered downstairs and grabbed a banana from the bowl on the kitchen table. Both Juliet and the dogs were gone. Lucy grimaced at her reflection in the hall mirror; she’d pulled her hair into a messy bun and grabbed the first clothes she’d found, which had been her lemon skirt, an aqua top, and the purple tights that had seemed to offend Juliet. Not the most coordinated of outfits, and Alex Kincaid would probably have something to say about it, but for once in her life she was past caring.
    She was late enough that pupils and their parents were already heading up to the school in a steady stream, so Lucy joined the harried mothers pushing strollers or checking their phones or both. A few gave her distracted smiles, and as she turned up the little lane, someone waist-high reached for her hand.
    â€œMorning, Miss Bagshaw.”
    Lucy blinked down at Eva, the little girl who had scraped her knee the day before.
    â€œHello, Eva,” she said, and squeezed her hand lightly. “How’s the knee?”
    â€œMummy gave me a plaster.” She pointed to a garishly colored Band-Aid with a picture of a cartoon character.
    â€œThat looks like an awesome Band-Aid,” Lucy said, and Eva giggled.
    â€œShe said you had a funny accent,” Eva’s mother said with a little laugh. She looked like Eva, with an elfin face and wispy blond hair. “You’re American.”
    â€œActually, I was born in England, but I know I don’t sound like I was. And I thought you guys were the ones with the funny accents.”
    Eva’s mother laughed, and Lucy smiled, her heart lifting. It didn’t take much to get her to start hoping again.
    â€œWe don’t get many Americans around here,” Eva’s mother said, and stuck out her hand. “I’m Andrea.”
    â€œHi,” Lucy said, and shook her hand. “Lucy Bagshaw.” She remembered what Eva had said about not having a dad, and wondered if she’d ever get to know Andrea well enough to hear her story.
    They chatted all the way into school, and her bad mood had cleared away with the clouds by the time she arrived in the office. Maggie pressed a mug of tea in her hand and gave her a wink. “I told Mr. Kincaid you were in the loo when he asked where you were.”
    Lucy grinned back. “You’re a saint, Maggie Bains.”
    â€œI just don’t want you to get fired on your second day,” Maggie replied with an answering smile. “I’m going to Newcastle, remember.”
    Lucy took a much-needed sip of tea and sat down in front of the computer. The children were coming into the office with the morning registers; Maggie had explained yesterday that two children from every classroom brought the morning registers to be logged into the computer.
    Now Lucy took them with a smile for each of the children, from the too-cool-for-school Year Sixes to the brand-new kindergarten—or Reception, as they called it in England—pupils, only four years old, who held out the registers with wide eyes and trembling hands.
    Around her the school was humming to life; Maggie had set the photocopier whirring away, and teachers were dashing in and out of the staff room with piles of papers and mugs of tea. A hassled-looking mum brought in a late Year Four and then gossiped with Maggie across the opened glass partition for the better part of half an hour.
    Lucy hunted and pecked her way through the registers, logging each present, absent, or tardy with painstaking slowness. She knew her way around