The Other Side of Summer by Emily Gale

beside me.
    ‘Text from Dad,’ she said. ‘We’re having dinner next door.’
    ‘Again?’
    ‘Guess so.’
    ‘No way, I’m not going. Sophie drives me crazy.’ Wren’s elbow delivered an instant dead arm, and I noticed the lanky figure on her other side: Milo, Sophie’s big brother. He had an earphone in the ear closest to us and gave me a crooked half-smile. I figured he hadn’t heard me.
    The sea of students washed me closer to the school exit. I couldn’t wait to breathe again.
    ‘You don’t have to hang out with Soph tonight,’ said Wren. ‘Does she, Milo?’ Wren really had dialled the sisterly hatred back to almost zero, and held it there.
    ‘Course not. But my mum can be persuasive …’
    Milo was awkward, with hair black as a raven’s all swept forward onto his pale face. I liked him. He was kind, he spoke softly and seemed to live in his own space, like I did. It didn’t surprise me: his parents were horrible. I’d overheard them in the garden once, when I’d been sitting in the lemon tree. Mr Witkin was complaining about something Milo had or hadn’t done and then out of the blue he’d said, ‘Why’d you have to name him after a bloody chocolate drink anyway, Jules?’ And she’d whispered back, only it was so loud and low it was more like a growl, ‘He’s not on the spectrum because of his name , Michael. Maybe if you were a better father …’ And from then on I understood that Milo wasn’t ‘normal’ enough for his family. Mr Witkin probably wanted a tough, sporty boy for a son. He’d have loved Floyd. Instead, the Witkins acted like they’d adopted my dad.
    ‘So just hang out with us, Summer,’ said Wren.
    I never thought I’d say this but I hated the change in her. It felt like another betrayal. At least she was still thesame to look at. Still had the most messed-up hair you’d ever see, like someone had dumped a laundry basket of black clothes upside down on her head.
    In the middle of my thoughts, my eyes caught on someone that made my heart snag. A woman right down the other end of the corridor. It was Mum, side-on. It was Mum! She was talking to Mr Connolly, the principal. Mum! She was here! Why was she here? How did she …? What did she …? It didn’t matter. I walked faster, kicking the heel of a girl in front.
    ‘Ow! Careful!’ The girl’s ponytail caught me in the face as she gave me a dirty look.
    I started to say sorry but the only word in my head was ‘Mum’ and out it came.
    ‘What?’ said Wren. ‘What about Mum?’
    I ignored her. Mum was in my sights, not hers. I had to get to her first. People’s heads were getting in the way. I couldn’t get past the crowds.
    Then Mr Connolly turned and walked away and, with her head bowed, Mum walked towards us. I held my breath.
    Even after the moment I knew it wasn’t her.
    Even after I’d rapidly counted every single difference between this woman and my mum.
    Even after she’d looked straight into my eyes and away again.
    Wrong eyes, longer chin, too pale. Not Mum.
    I breathed out, and hoped I’d got away with the stupid mistake apart from a funny look from Wren. This wasn’t the first time it had happened. I’d seen her many times. Gran and Mal, too. I’d seen kids from my old school, cousins we hadn’t visited in years, old teachers, friends of Wren’s and Floyd’s, the woman from the corner shop … They were flesh and blood ghosts. In supermarkets, on the tram, in the background of a news story on television. It hit me the same every time: that heart-soaring moment of possibility – it’s really them; it is! – followed by reality sinking in like water into sand.
    It scared me, how much I’d hoped this woman was Mum. I felt stupid for letting the anger go like a helium balloon. But I grabbed the string again and held it even tighter. People weren’t reliable. My own eyes weren’t reliable. I just had to hope that the one thing I could depend on, the Ibanez Artwood, would make it to this