Alana Oakley by Poppy Inkwell Page B

any Ideas. Miss Beatrice made a big effort to regain her composure, and dried her eyes. “You must think me very foolish and sentimental. Tell me more about these songs you write. What are they about?”
    Alana opened her notebook to show the teacher her songs.
    â€œ Dream on ; To hell and back ; Whatever’ . Hmm, they’re very creative titles,” Miss Beatrice said with false cheer. “It looks like we share a love of music.”
    There was a long silence.
    Alana took back her notebook. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your favourite things, Miss Beatrice. I’ll come back later.”
    â€œYou don’t have to go,” Miss Beatrice cried. “We could…” a soft, rose colour flooded her cheeks, “… sing together?”
    â€œNo offence, but I don’t really, exactly … like musicals.” Alana suppressed a shudder with difficulty.
    â€œYou wouldn’t have to. We could come up with a list of our own favourite things. Maybe set it to some rock? Work in a guitar solo or two?” she smiled winningly, hands clasped as if in prayer.
    Alana shrugged. She supposed she’d done stranger things. And this definitely fitted in with her New Year’s resolution of doing Something Different every day. Alana found a seat and got her pen ready. They took turns to contribute lines to the song while Alana experimented with different sounds on the guitar. Miss Beatrice hummed the melody as she wrote and was already looking chirpier. Alana felt her own mood lighten despite herself. The first draft of their composition looked something like this:
    Miss Beatrice: Book-swaps, composers and winters in Britain,
    Alana: Bright gerbera petals and songs that I’ve written,
    Alana: Rock, Jimi Hendrix and my guitar strings.
    Miss Beatrice and Alana: This is a list of our favourite things.
    Miss Beatrice: Fluffy, pink pom-poms and cute-looking poodles,
    Alana: Soccer, photography, weird, funny doodles,
    Miss Beatrice: Musicals, Broadway, the songs that we sing.
    Miss Beatrice and Alana: This is a list of our favourite things.
    [Guitar solo]
    Alana: When I miss Dad,
    Miss Beatrice: … and St Bernadette’s,
    Miss Beatrice and Alana: When we’re feeling down,
    Miss Beatrice and Alana: We just have a look at our Favourite Things List,
    Alana: And then we don’t need to drown.
    â€œYou know I’m all for a bit of melodrama, but how about we change that last word to ‘frown’?” Miss Beatrice suggested.
    Alana nodded her okay and then put her foot on the distortion pedal. She leaned back and readied herself on the guitar. “From the top?”
    Maddie closed the door of the music room gently. “I don’t know, guys,” she confessed to Sofia and Khalilah, who were waiting outside. “I reckon if we tell Alana that the school Coach Kusmuk was going to transfer to has burned down, it might send her over the edge.”
    Another school fire?!

CHAPTER 18
    Playing with fire
    The matches were forbidden. The boy’s dad had made that very clear. It wouldn’t hurt just to touch them, though, he thought. The boy, just eight years old, reached out a hand and eased one of the sticks out of the box. Flimsy, he would have said if he’d known the word. They didn’t look powerful. Or scary. Or something that could hurt. No harm to light just one, was the boy’s next thought. He scratched it against the rough edge of the tiny box, hearing the rasp, feeling the suck of air. The acrid smell of chemical filled his tiny nostrils before a flame burst out – impossibly bright and hot. The boy dropped the match, suddenly frightened. The flame died. Silly, he admonished himself. It’s not scary. He reached for the box again.
    Hours, or was it minutes later, the boy had no idea, the boy’s father returned. But the boy didn’t hear him come – caught in the wonder of making magic. Hundreds of charred slivers,