Page 55 of For the Love of Animals

Houdini the Hamster

CHAPTER 1

AS THE LAST child left the classroom, I slumped down in my seat and surveyed the aftermath of the Loxton Academy’s Christmas party—the kind of chaos that only twenty-three entitled eight-year-olds high on sugar and the promise of a fortnight off could create. Wrapping paper was strewn everywhere, some little brat had drawn a wonky reindeer on a table, and sticky orange soda dripped out of an overturned can.

I’d been well prepared for today by my colleagues. Horror stories of the traditional end-of-term party abounded in the staffroom—everything from a meltdown among five-year-olds over who got the last mince pie to a punch-up over which happy, jolly Christmas tunes to play in the background.

When I heard about the party, my first question had been, “Why? Why even hold a party if it’s so awful?”

There had been six other teachers sipping tea around me at that moment, and every single one of them rolled their eyes.

“Tradition,” Maria explained. “Mrs. Loxton hates change. That’s also why she makes the kids wear those stupid straw hats in summer and the scratchy scarves in winter.”

“And it’s not like the kids’ll do any work on the last day, anyway,” Tim added.

It was all right for him. He taught PE and therefore managed to escape the fun on the pretence of tidying the equipment cupboard.

And no, the children wouldn’t do any work, but it was the twenty-second of December, and I still wanted to spend my evening watching the Strictly Come Dancing special and drinking wine rather than clearing up empty crisp packets and picking bits of pastry out of the ancient carpet.

When I first landed the job at the Loxton Academy, I’d been… No, thrilled was the wrong word for it. I’d been desperate. Desperate to get away from my old life. The school had a fantastic reputation and always topped the exam tables, but the harsh reality of dealing with spoilt rich kids every day had left me crying into my cocoa on more than one occasion.

“It’s not all bad,” Maria said. “Every year, the parents get more competitive over whose kid gives the best gifts. Last Christmas, I got three spa vouchers and a mountain bike.”

“A bike?”

“Joey Thompson’s father owns a nationwide chain of bicycle shops,” Tim explained. “We all got bikes.”

“I think I’d rather skip the party and the gifts.”

I hadn’t sat on a bike since I fell off and scraped my knees on my eighth birthday, and the idea of showing off my wobbly bits at a spa filled me with dread.

“Oh, Cara,” Maria giggled. “Lighten up. It can’t possibly be as bad as you think.”

Yes. Yes, it could. And as I surveyed the aforementioned pile of gifts, which stretched from the edge of my desk all the way to the wall twenty feet away, I wondered how on earth I’d manage to fit everything into my Nissan Micra. I’d have to make at least four trips, and as for the surfboard…

“Miss Taylor?”

A quiet voice made me look up, and I saw Utah de Witt. Yes, his parents really named him that, and to make it worse, his middle name was Striker. Can you guess his daddy was a footballer? Utah himself was a sweet kid, though, a bookworm, and my favourite because he never caused trouble.

“Is something wrong?”

Mrs. de Witt flipped a curtain of blonde hair away from her face and teetered forwards on four-inch heels, carrying a box that looked to be two feet square. Oh dear. Tell me that wasn’t another Christmas gift?

“Nothing’s wrong, nothing at all. I just got delayed buying your Christmas present, so we’ve come to drop it off before we head to the airport.”

“Are you going somewhere nice?”

“The Bahamas. I read an article last week that said tanning beds cause cancer, so we thought we’d go and lie in the sun instead.”

Okaaaaay. “Well, have a lovely trip, and thanks so much for thinking of me.”

“It was Utah’s idea, wasn’t it, sweetie?” She ruffled his hair, and he jerked his head away. “He overheard you telling one of the other teachers you’d be spending Christmas on your own, so we thought we’d get you a little friend.”

Excuse me? “A…a friend?”

“Every girl needs one.”

Her words washed over me as another wave of loneliness hit. Since my scummy ex-boyfriend moved in with my ex-best friend and I fled from my ex-home, I’d done my best to block out my past with boxes of chocolate and endless stacks of badly completed homework. I hadn’t been looking forward to Christmas even in my brighter moments. Tears prickled behind my eyelids, but I blinked them away as Mrs. de Witt deposited the box on an empty desk and backed out of the door before I could ask any more questions. What on earth had she bought?

---