The Brilliant Light of Amber Sunrise Read Online Free Page B

into each other.
    The teachers sprang to their feet and began ­running toward them. The only time our school ever really pulled together as one was in such situations, when we formed the Human Barrier, like demonstrators at an antiwar protest. As soon as the teachers stood up and began running toward the eye of the storm, everyone in the dining room pushed their chairs back a foot, so that each adjacent seat at the long rows of tables was touching, creating an ­impenetrable ­obstruction that, try as they might, nobody could pass. Eventually they gave up, red in the face and ranting like madmen, and took the long route to the scene of the crime, all the way aroundthe perimeter of the dining tables, by which point the girls were back on the floor, pulling each other’s hair.
    Mr. Thompson was the first to get to them. His fierce grasp on their arms immediately caused them to stop the fight and slump back, panting, glaring daggers at one another.
    â€œYou two are so bloody expelled,” he whispered to them as he yanked them through the dining room and out the door nearest to his office.

    As the girls were dragged from view the sounds of the fight were still ringing in my ears. I felt myself become distant from them, as though I was observing my own body from up above, like Peter Pan trying to claw back his own shadow.
    â€œWhoah, you’re hemorrhaging!” I heard Jacob say, but couldn’t see him anymore. My vision became narrower, like a black lens tightening around an image, until there was nothing but darkness.
    I went to touch my face, and beneath my nose felt warm and damp.
    â€œOi, dinner lady, brother down!” Jacob yelled from what seemed like a great distance.
    I felt myself grow lighter and lighter, until all I remember feeling was the welcome slap of the floor against the side of my face.
    â€œOH MY GOD, HE’S KILLED HIM!” someone shoutedas more and more footsteps echoed around my head.
    After that it all went dark.
    I woke up three hours later in hospital.

    They took blood samples, which I barely noticed, and also some bone-marrow tests, which weren’t quite so easygoing.
    Along the hospital corridor they had a chipped mural of tigers and elephants. In the waiting room there were posters of fund-raisers, and photographs of bald kids in head scarves smiling as soap opera actors handed over giant checks with plenty of zeroes.
    Mum was silent the whole time. She just stared at the pile of magazines on the table beside us.
    I walked over to the vending machine and pressed for a hot chocolate, watching carefully as the jet spat brown dregs all the way to the rim of the cup, and then wincing as the lavalike liquid scalded my fingers through the too-thin plastic. I had no intention of drinking it; I just wanted something to do. The literature was the same as it had been in every other waiting room. There were two pamphlets on osteoporosis, a doodled-on leaflet about antibiotics, untouched puzzle books, a well-thumbed copy of a fishing magazine, and three back issues of Woman’s Own . I spent a moment pitying the unfortunate who met the National Health Service’s intended demographic, but my ­sympathies would only stretch so far and eventually all I had to ­entertain me was Mum, whosebanter was thin on the ground that day, and the hot chocolate, whose retrieval had been a short-lived thrill. So I sat and watched as the steam moved from thick plumes to sinewy wisps, and eventually cooled to nothing.
    At one point I could see Mum’s body shaking a bit like she had hiccups, even though I knew she didn’t, so I put my hand in hers. She flinched but didn’t look at me. Just gripped my palm tightly as a fat tear formed and then rolled down her cheek, taking a dark line of mascara with it like debris in a landslide.
    â€œCan we have takeout tonight?” I asked.
    She told me I could have whatever I liked, but her voice was hoarse and she had to keep