[CHARLOTTE SKELTON] March 6, 2010

The bird who got the worm.

By Charlotte Skelton.

It smelt like paper; Glossy, new, untouched paper. That smell had haunted me now; ever
since mum was accused of plagiarism and theft. She was found guilty and taken to prison. She
loved to write, always had. So said dad, “Hera you love your pen more than me sometimes!”
They don’t really argue, were a close family; correction we were a close family.

It’s ironic how people say ‘a blessing comes in disguise’ when for our family, a curse came in
the disguise of blessing. The curse coming in the form of an accomplished fraud that went by
the alias of Foster. She had long silky blonde hair that shimmered like sunlight, which matched
her charming 100 watt smile. Her skin was as smooth as a statue, not a blemish in sight, with
perfectly rosy cheeks just below her big brown eyes; the devil incarnate.

The car ride to Ripon was the longest silence me and dad had ever had. Artemis had just
turned nine two days ago and was twirling the hair of her new Barbie whilst watching Hannah
Montana on the portable DVD player. She looks so much like mum that it’s hard not to think
about her, rotting in a cell, when I look at my baby sister. She has curly brown hair, down to her
waist, just like mum, soft olive skin, just like mum. Her features: the big blue eyes with mile long
lashes, rosy red lips in a cupid bow shape, perky button nose and the soft gentle curve of her
jaw, like the one mum has that I use to stroke when I was younger. I don’t look like my family,
it’s weird. Sometimes, dad says I inherited my great grandma’s features: a pale complexion soft
as snow, wide emerald eyes (very rare), a correctly proportional nose and eye brows that are
naturally shaped with a ‘flick’. My face is a mixture of a square near the forehead and a heart
towards the chin, with my dark chocolate hair straight and framing my face. I also inherited my
grandmother’s name, Athena.

Dad was pretending to be busy with the air conditioning, which wasn’t a problem with me
since I didn’t want to talk. I was still angry: angry at Foster, at dad for letting them just take her;
mum for writing the stupid book in the first place, my so called friends for disowning me in my
time of need and the whole world. I was just so mad at everyone. However there is one person,
I realized, that I’m not upset with in anyway. Artemis. Me and Baby sis as I called her are the
closest people in the world, I would die if anything happened to her, she was the one I felt the
most sympathy for in the whole family, she didn’t realize what had happened and now she had
to grow up without a mum.

It all started with mum’s sequel that she had promised the publishers after her first, ‘Younger
than five best seller’, ‘Tiny Caterpillar in a tree, O how you wonder what you’ll be.’ The
publishers had gave mum a lot of money to produce this ‘original’ new book, and that’s when
she got writer’s block and decided she needed help in creating it and organizing it. Foster

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appeared two days after she’d put a small 5cm by 5cm add in the job pages of the local
newspaper. Foster had seemed like the perfect person to help mum, she said that she had read
mum’s first book and that she understood mum’s style of writing. Furthermore her résumé was
the most impressive mum had ever read, it said Foster had experience in: novel writing,
accountant working (yeah definitely had experience in that field), book keeping, speed typing,
graphics, masters degree in English from Oxford and a whole list of astounding achievements
she had accomplished by the age of 28.

Mum had stupidly hired her without a background check.

Big mistake.
She entrusted Foster with the bank account for the project.
All of it, including the Publisher’s money.
I think mum was stressed at the time and so dumped all her responsibilities on her
‘trustworthy’ (yeah right) assistant, which o so very kindly took care of payments that went…
somewhere. The bank account withheld a generous donation of £500,000 from my favorite
bookshop, Waterston’s, their children in learning project. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for those
children, who had baked with their mum’s to raise money and done all sorts of fund raisers, so
that Foster, I imagined, could lounge on a beach and drink Martinis with the sun shining like
liquid gold on her skin. I did begin to wonder at one point on exactly how much mum did do to
contribute to ‘her’ book. She let a lot of Foster’s ideas contribute to the book ,however the
lawyers explained mum’s thoughts were manipulated by foster, so that what mum thought was
her idea was actually Fosters which had been stolen from another book, ‘The bird who got the
worm.’

Foster was an ‘A’ class con-woman. And mum had hired her.

Dad pulled the car to a stop by a small cul-de-sac of houses in the shape of a rainbow. He was
looking for number twenty seven, Fox Grove.
Our new ‘home’.
All of the houses looked almost the same; they all had the same white fence and the
honeysuckle by the door climbing the album bricks to the tip of the grey slate roof, bending
around the white wood windows. They looked like something out of the US TV series Desperate
Housewives. Ours, number twenty seven. It was the one with the sold sign, standing against the
big empty flowerpot, in the center of an extremely floral garden.

The new house was fairly sized, there was a great place to read, our backyard lead on to a
patch of trees where I found a lovely little tree house that looks abandoned, from the ground.

It was seven pm by the time I arrived home, even though I had left at four. After helping dad
furnish the ‘family’ room, which consisted of: two beige patterned sofas with extra large brown
cushions, an LCD television, a retro silver lamp hanging near the sofas, a few family photos, an
ugly looking tall plant next to the grey marble fireplace, some curtains and a coffee table with a
vanilla candle placed central. I then went upstairs, got my book and headed for the woods.

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When I had gotten to the tree house I believed it was deserted, just like me, so I began to
climb. The tree house was a small box shape with what looked like two miniature floors, made
out of what looked like plywood, it was set in to a, tall broad looking, tree covered in moss,
looking very old. But when I reached the top I realized I wasn’t alone… however not before I
settled into a comfy spot in the corner. I lifted my head and realized that, across from me, sat a
boy. A really attractive boy. I nearly jumped out of the box shaped porthole; he gave me such a
fright!

He wore a polo top the colour of a meadow and jeans the shade of a July night’s sky. His hair,
so blonde, was swept over his face in a massive fringe and his skin was flawless, with a perfect
flush of cheeks. His eyes made me freeze, so I couldn’t speak, they looked so green, just like
mine! The exact same shade, he's the only person I've met with my eyes. He had a small metal
cross just below his collar that shone when he cocked his head to the side to look at me, the
look of confusion and surprise replaced with a look I could only describe as overly intrigued. The
first thing to escape my lips was “s-sorry, I …” but I couldn’t finish, I couldn’t move, his stare
made me feel like nothing I’d ever experienced before. It sent a tingle down my back and a
blush to my face whilst I could do nothing but get lost in his eyes. The boy then got up, as far as
he could without his head reaching the top of the tree house, I guessed he was over six foot (at
least) with big muscles and wide shoulders that made a ‘V’ like shape with his waist. He spoke
with ease that shocked me,
“No no. I was just leaving, you stay.”
There was an eerie silence before I noticed the book in his hand, “Wuthering Heights?” But it
came out more like a question. The boy, I noticed, went a slight tinge pinker in the cheeks
before saying,
“um...yeah, I like to read it here to relax after ... well to relax.” Even I noticed the hesitation in
his voice, so I looked down. He must have noticed, “It’s a great place to read...”

We talked for hours about all sorts: books, films, clothe shops in the area, Ripon High school
(where I’d be attending in two weeks time) where Wilson goes, absolutely all sorts. I learnt that
his name was Wilson and that he went to the school I would be attending, that he lived on the
opposite side of the wood patch, that he stayed with his grandmother and that he loved to
read, just like me.

When I got home, dad was washing a dish in the kitchen whilst Artemis continued playing
with her Barbie, at the old oak wood table, over a plate that seemed to have the remains of
casserole on it. I picked up a tea towel and started to dry, dad looked up and did his ‘I’m being
strong for the kid’s’ smile. Dad told us that the police officer on mum’s case had rung in to ‘see
how we were doing’ aka ‘remembered anything that would help’. Police investigator, Wills -
Jack had gotten nowhere with mum’s case. She had been found guilty! Foster had disappeared
without a trace months ago.

I went to sleep early, I wasn’t hungry and I couldn’t be bothered to unpack so I climbed in my
newly made bed and fell asleep thinking about Wilson. He had moved here five months ago
apparently and his mum lived ‘who-knows-where.’ He said he was my age, eighteen, I

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wondered if he wanted to leave home any less than I did, he had a cheeky smile, good fashion
sense, seemingly sensible, smart witty and I couldn’t wait to see him again.

I woke up halfway through the night in response to Artemis climbing in bed with me. She had
started to do this a lot over the several months mum had been gone. I snuggled close to her
and we fell asleep, sisters forever.

When I got up I decided I’d make breakfast: eggs, beacon, toast, beans, everything. I set the
table with place mats and cutlery, a flower in the centre along with a bottle of orange juice and
four glasses. Dad was the first one down, surprisingly, as Artemis was busy deciding what to
dress her Barbie in. She really is a bit old for a Barbie but it comforts her so we don’t say
anything, dad and I.

After breakfast I fought the urge to run straight to the tree house telling myself that it was
stupid and that he would probably be at school, having totally forgotten me. As it turned out he
was there and as the delighted beam of his smile peeked through his face, it reassured me, he
hadn’t forgotten me either. We both smiled and I said “mind if I invade your personal space
again?”
He winked.
It was apparently half term and there was nothing he’d rather do.

For the first time I was happy, genuinely happy. We talked further and it was exciting but
scary how fast we were becoming so close. There is definitely...something between us.
Afterwards we decided that Wilson would show me around Ripon and ‘I wasn’t allowed to say
no’, so we ended up traipsing round anywhere for five hours; being eighteen, typically the tour
ended in a ‘Milkshake’ bar and we joked around even more. Something was bugging me
though. When he paid, the wallet he got out, or should I say purse, was pink and Radley with a
key ring that proclaimed ‘world’s best mum!’ in bubble writing. Wilson didn’t know I saw him,
but I did and I can’t just forget can I, I had just gotten back from the lady’s room and he saw me
and gave his cheeky lop-sided grin. I smiled, nervously.

I got home. Dad sensed I was behaving weirdly but clearly decided not to comment, so I ran
upstairs laid on the floor and began to think. If only mum was here.

I’d decided that I was going to ignore it, there would clearly be an explanation and it wasn’t
any of my business...jeez get a grip Athena! I often spoke to myself in my head, a sort of
therapy.

The next day I skipped breakfast and decided to go to the tree house. I got to it, passed it,
carried on walking to a clearing just beyond the edge line of the wood patch and looked out at
another cul-de-sac of houses. Although, this one was like the oxymoron of ours, the same area ,
yet different worlds, that’s how it seemed anyway. As ours was clean, respectable and just like
a TV show, this one (Wilson’s) was a tip! It was desolate. All the houses were dirty and broken.
Just behind it was the bus station and emergency services; where we walked the day before...
why did we go the long way? We could have cut through...

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 [CHARLOTTE SKELTON] March 6, 2010

I didn’t have time to ponder, as just then Wilson- now shortened to Will- coming out of a front
door, distracted me from my thoughts. He was followed by a poorly dressed woman in:
absurdly baggy trousers, a stained inappropriate white blouse, a denim inconsistent jacket and
a pair of incongruous trainers. What a bizarre combination it was. The smell of the woods was a
mixture of pine trees, moss and city pollution (the kind you can never wash out of your hair, no
matter how many times you try). I don’t know why I kept myself hidden. It was just a feeling
when I saw the woman, who had to be Will’s grandmother. She wore no wedding ring on her
pale-worked hands. Her hair was in a loose bun at the back of her head and she looked a lot like
Will: the same eyes (my eyes), except hers were a different slanted shape. Her face was tired
and she had bags under her eyes, but thinking back she didn’t look like a very old ‘grandma’. I
was confused.

I took one last look at the house with a blue rotten fence, in disarray ‘garden’ and walls with
chipped bricks the colour closer to green than the brown they were meant to be. The house
was smaller than ours and had what looked like a hole in the roof, it crept me out, there was an
unsettling quality to it and it didn’t make sense that, well dressed Will, could actually live there.

I ran back home and went straight to the box, yet to be unpacked, and fished out my laptop,
pink with a pear on it, and logged on. I knew what I was doing, I had spent hours searching for
information on Foster, I typed the name Wilson Jacklegs and clicked search. Immediately his
picture came up and I double clicked it. It read,
‘Wilson Jacklegs: A honars student at Ripon High with specialities in: Mathematics, English
literature, computer design and manipulation and junior psychology. He is loved by teachers
and students throughout the school. A, Ripon High, Model pupil.’
It was singing his praises, so the next day I decided I was going to talk to him, I had already told
him about Mum and Dad, Artemis and Foster, I had felt that I could trust him, I don’t know why
I was being so distrusting.

It was five days since I had seen Will, but today I was hopeful. I woke up early and made
breakfast even though it was Thursday and dad was already at work. I dropped Artemis at the
neighbours as she had a play date with her new friend. The phone rang, but I let it go to the
machine as I was eager to see will, but as I was shutting the door I just heard dad’s voice say,
“Athena!” really loud, I couldn’t tell if he was scared or excited. Then I heard one of, I assumed,
his colleagues’ go,
“Longford we have to go get her...” I shut the door.

There was Will with his backpack on, standing casually yet somewhat, anxious to be
moving ...it seemed. He held a piece of paper in his hand and he held it up to me so that I could
see the letter from...his mother and the attached photograph...
My heart sank. Wilson, not noticing, said “For years she’d disappear from my life all together,
when some bloke came on the scene. Or she’d get some crazy new Get-Rich-Quick scheme in
her head and that would be the last I’d see of her for months till she’d come back with her tail
between her legs and ‘whisk’ me away from where ever she’d left me.” Then, “I reckon she’s

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spent some time inside for fraud and theft too.”

He had no idea!

I stood staring blankly at the photo in his hand, he blurted, “what do you think? Pretty special,
isn’t she?”
Pretty special alright!
I was looking at a head-and-shoulders photograph of a smart, youngish woman, carefully made
up, her silky blonde sunlight hair escaping attractively from jewelled clips, cascading down her
torso.
It’s Foster.

I still remember the intense feeling of my head racing. Foster, Wills mum? It can’t be true.
“Athena?” Will’s stare was strange. “Are you alright?”
I swallow. “Yeah. She’s...” something flickers inside me, a minute bubble of hope all ready
destined to ‘pop’ because Will said he doesn’t know where his mum was. “It’s a shame you’re
not in touch with her.”

He grins, “I am now. She sent me this letter... (He flashes the letter) I’ve been to see her.”
The little bubble is suddenly a tsunami.
“Where?” It escaped my lips as I thought it.
“New York.” He replied eagerly.
“Big place. Big enough to lose yourself in.” Get him to talk. Don’t seem too interested!
He snorted.
“Where does she live, a nice area?” my mind was reeling. What am I going to do? Tell dad, the
police? I was thinking so hard I must have looked weird, and apparently I’m not the only one to
think this as just then Will said,
“Athena, some things wrong, what is it?”
“ That’s Foster!”

Wilson stood there for 40 seconds with his mouth gawping in shock, the remains of a ‘Galaxy’
bar in the corners of his mouth. “You’re joking?” As if I’d be joking about this! I did feel
wretched for him though...I mean his mum! He saw the remorseful look on my face, he ignored
it. “Are you sure?” Seriousness to his voice.
“I recognized her straight away from that photo.” I had said it in the most gentle voice I could, I
was so anxious.
He turned, I couldn’t see his face “O my!” He raised his head “mum what the hell have you
done this time! What are you going to do?” He kept his back to me.

I took a deep breath, “Of course I have to tell the police!”

He looked horrified.
ok, I’m not comfortable with this either: I mean it’s not exactly a good position to be in, telling a
guy, a mysterious, sometimes scary and confusing guy( you like). That his mother’s the person
who put your mother in prison but it’s my mum I have to think about now. I wanted to say.

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He stared back down at the picture, considering (not for long), before turning round with a
nod. “You’re right. But there is another option.”
“Excuse me?” My tone was firm. I was not going to ignore this strange fact like I had with the
purse!
“I’ll persuade her to confess instead. That way the police may go easier on her.” I couldn’t
believe what I had heard.

He stood up straight. “Come on then, let’s go.”

“What now?” He looked eager. “What about dad?”
“Leave him a voicemail or note, say you’re staying at a new friend’s for two or three nights.” I
wasn’t sure...would that work? I was eighteen after all.

Will had looked so normal in his: Nike High-tops, check flannel shirt, white ‘Top man’ vest,
jeans and as always the metallic cross around his neck. Yet he seemed to have a slightly too
excited notion about him. “Look if we get a move on, we can catch the plane this afternoon.
Think what amazing news you’ll have to tell your dad when we get back!”

I had scribbled a note for dad (he didn’t have his mobile anymore...I didn’t know his work
number) and grabbed my ‘over-night bag’ before I had time to change my mind. We had
headed off down the road and I had peered back to look at the house, I had, had, a nostalgic
feeling, seeing Artemis in the neighbour’s window, I waved and blew her a kiss.

We got to the Airport just in time to hear our plane being called to board. The queue was
about a mile long. I didn’t pay much attention; Will was pulling me along so fast my mind was
once more a blur. Suddenly we were at the terminal, and the flashing board read ‘Last call for
New York 9040176’ in bright LED lights. Will rummaged in his backpack and pulled out two
tickets, then handed them over to the air hostess who showed us her lovely white teeth.

Will had started to pull me again. We entered the plane with seconds to spare, collapsing into
our seats, which were two rows apart, Will nearer the front on the left in an aisle seat and me
closer to the door on the right in an aisle seat so I felt a draft. What will dad think when he
read’s my note? You should stop thinking, Athena. If this is going to help free mum (whilst
keeping the boy really like happier), then do it!

Will delved into the depths of his backpack and pulled out two chocolate bars and a few cans
of fizzy drink. Will had sat in the empty seat on the row next to mine. We talked and munched
as we decided what to do when we got to New York. He grinned at me reassuringly when the
intercom said that they were sorry for the delay but that the plane wouldn’t take off for half an
hour. We sat back and relaxed, as much as I could. He fell fast asleep. Thanks Will, great
company you are, I hate flying!

Bored I leaned over to my right to reach for a newspaper a customer of the airway’s had
abandoned. I glanced through it, hardly interested in: a missing dog, new law bill for health
insurance, car fuel prices ‘on the rise’ and other uninteresting news. It was the paper Dad got in

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the mornings at work.

I gasped.

I’m staring at a picture of Foster surrounded by police men. The headline reads in block
capitals,
WOMAN ARRESTED
IN LONDON FOR
BOOK SCANDLE.
FRAUD.

My mind went crazy. I should wake Will. His mum’s already been arrested, no making it
easier for her, it’s too late. All his plans have come to nothing, a wasted journey. He woke up,
then, and did his cheeky grin (that I’d secretly loved), saying, “All right?”
I nodded, folded the paper, put it back in the holder and said quickly “I need the loo.”

I needed to sort things out in my head. So many things didn’t make sense. I locked the toilet
door and sat down.

We had nearly missed the plane. If we hadn’t jumped the queue we would have missed it.
We didn’t have time to buy the tickets. At the time I had thought we’d buy them on the plane!

But I hadn’t thought at all! Because if I had I would have realised Will had prepared for this
journey very thoroughly: the cans, chocolate and the tickets with him.

He knew we were going to go to New York. He had it all planned. Why? My thoughts were
interrupted.

The intercom said five minutes until take off. I realised the paper said London. This was
pointless! I have to get off. Now, he’s smart Athena, clearly he is and you read the internet fact
file, ‘psychology’ it had read. Nothing fancy, do a simple one hundred and eighty degree turn. I
looked back down the plane. I could see the back of Will’s head. I turned and jumped out the
closing plane door and sprinted up the terminal as I heard the air tight doors close on the plane.

I was lucky. I got into a taxi and headed back to Ripon. Don’t panic, Athena, just slow down
and go through everything step by step.
Fact: He must have known already that his mother was ‘Foster’.
Question: How long has he known?
Answer: He must have put two and two together, I supposed, when I had told him about her
and the role she’d played in the whole scheme that had sent mum to prison. I should have kept
my mouth shut!
Question: What was the point of this ‘wild goose chase’ in the first place?

My head was in circles. None of this made sense. If only I hadn’t seen that stupid photo.

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I groaned really loudly, the taxi driver looked in his mirror wearily (it was the same one we
had on the way to the Airport), ‘computer-manipulation’ the fact file on the internet had said.
Will had taken the photo from the paper, used the computer to make it a head and shoulders
version of Foster.
Fact: His mother isn’t ‘Foster’. He had pretended.
Question: Why?
Answer: So you’d go away with him.
Oh my, this was all so freaky.
Question: what did he have in mind?

When I got out of the taxi, I had a posse of people standing in our front garden staring at the
taxi in relief: Dad and Artemis, the neighbours, Will’s grandmother and a group of police.

I was surrounded with hugs. A police officer says “where is he?” There was no point in lying,
and at this point I was so frustrated at Wilson. Frustrated and besotted at the same time.
“He’s on a plane to New York.” The police officer took out his mobile,
“We’ll have him when he steps of the plane.” Dad, in between tears,
“What, ever were you thinking of!”
“We were going to see someone who I thought could help free mum.” He stares,
“Who?” I took a glance at Will’s grandmother, (Above awkward.)
As gentle as I could say it, “Will’s mother.”
“What!” Mrs Jacklegs’ face made a confused angry look. “What on earth... I’m Wilson’s
mother!”
There was silence.
“Athena, Athena!” I heard Artemis’ voice; finally she had made her way squeezing through the
sea of legs. “Mums free, mum’s free!” I fell into an inner bliss.

Occasionally, I think I see him. Once I dreamt I saw him on our street with a girl, leading her to
the tree house. Poor thing doesn’t have a clue what she’s letting herself in for. A psycho. But in
the fuzzy, half asleep confusing sate between waking up, I was wishing it was me...

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