First Day of My Life Read online

  Praise for The Art of Being Normal

  Winner of the Waterstones Children’s Book Prize

  Sunday Times Children’s Book of the Week

  Shortlisted for the YA Book Prize

  ‘A life-changing and life-saving book’ Philip Pullman

  ‘A sensational, heart-warming and life-affirming debut’ Juno Dawson

  ‘The sort of book I hope will change lives. Amazing’ Non Pratt

  ‘Please, please, please read The Art of Being Normal! I want to scream from the rooftops about it!’ Lucy Powrie

  ‘Impressive and affecting’ Guardian

  ‘Passionate and gripping … a powerful tale of a teenager’s struggle with identity’ Telegraph

  ‘Heart-warming, and ground-breaking’ Independent

  ‘Life-affirming’ Marie Claire

  ‘A compelling story with a ton of heart’ BuzzFeed

  ‘Incredible and heartbreaking’ Express

  ‘Life-affirming, powerful and heart-warming’ BookTrust

  ‘A revelation’ Books for Keeps

  ‘Wow’ Fiona Noble, The Bookseller

  Praise for Paper Avalanche

  One of The Times’ Biggest Children’s Books of 2019

  ‘Pacy, instantly absorbing’ Guardian

  ‘Relatable characters and well-crafted dialogue make this a thoroughly engaging read’ Financial Times

  ‘Poignant, thought-provoking and intensely readable, this is UK YA writing at its best’ The Bookseller

  Praise for All About Mia

  ‘Absorbing, hilarious … witty and touching’ Guardian

  ‘This zingy rites of passage novel is filled with warmth and insight’ Financial Times

  ‘Mia is a chaotic, charming character and one of the most irresistible teenage voices I’ve read in a long time’ Fiona Noble, The Bookseller

  ‘A tumultuous but poignant tale about family, friendship and being a sister’ Sun

  For Mum, Dad and Helen

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  PART ONE: FRANKIE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  PART TWO: JOJO

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  PART THREE: RAM

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  PART FOUR: FRANKIE, JOJO AND RAM

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Lisa Williamson

  Copyright

  Prologue

  OPERATOR: Emergency. Which service? Fire, police or ambulance?

  CALLER: (breathless) Police!

  OPERATOR: Connecting you now.

  POLICE CALL HANDLER: You’re through to the police. What is the address or location of your emergency?

  CALLER: (hysterical) Someone’s taken her! Someone’s taken my baby!

  POLICE CALL HANDLER: Can you repeat that please?

  CALLER: My baby! She’s gone! Please, you need to help me!

  Caller breaks down in tears.

  POLICE CALL HANDLER: OK, I need you to listen to me. Can you tell me your exact location?

  CALLER: (inaudible – voice muffled)

  POLICE CALL HANDLER: I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. Can you say that again, please?

  CALLER: I’m in Newfield. Newfield, Nottingham. The BP garage on Larwood Avenue. Please, you need to do something. They’ve got my baby.

  POLICE CALL HANDLER: A unit is on their way. Can I get some more details from you? What’s your name?

  CALLER: It’s Caroline, Caroline Sinclair.

  POLICE CALL HANDLER: OK, Caroline. When did you realize your baby was missing?

  CALLER: Just now. I came back to the car and she was gone. I was only inside for a few minutes. Oh God …

  Caller starts crying again.

  POLICE CALL HANDLER: How old is the baby?

  CALLER: (inaudible)

  POLICE CALL HANDLER: Caroline, how old is the baby?

  CALLER: She’s twelve weeks.

  POLICE CALL HANDLER: And what’s her name?

  CALLER: It’s Olivia.

  Caller becomes hysterical again.

  POLICE CALL HANDLER: Try not to panic, Caroline. A unit will be with you very soon.

  CALLER: Tell them to hurry, please! I just want my baby back. I just want my baby.

  PART ONE

  FRANKIE

  Chapter 1

  ‘Jojo, it’s me. Where the flip are you? I’ve got to be at the salon by midday, remember? If you’re not here by eleven, I’m going without you, OK?’

  I hang up and place my phone face down on the table.

  ‘Still here?’ my eighteen-year-old brother Luca asks, making me jump.

  ‘It’s not polite to sneak up on people,’ I tell him as he lumbers into the kitchen, wearing nothing but a pair of grimy-looking boxer shorts.

  ‘As if I’d waste my time,’ he retorts, opening the fridge, then letting out a lingering belch as he peruses the contents.

  ‘You could at least put a T-shirt on,’ I say, scrunching up my nose in disgust.

  ‘Are you joking? It’s thirty-three degrees already,’ he replies, shutting the fridge and opening the freezer below. He sticks his hand into the almost-empty bag of ice cubes and pulls out a fistful, stuffing them into his mouth.

  ‘I hope you washed your hands.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not,’ he says, grinning as he crunches down on the ice.

  ‘You’re disgusting.’

  ‘Why, thank you,’ he says, performing a little bow.

  I drag one of Mum’s rubbish magazines across the table towards me and pretend to concentrate on an article about a woman who’s convinced her goldfish is actually her dead husband, while Luca bangs about making toast.

  Mum and Dad purposefully had Luca and me close together (there’s just eighteen months between us), in the hope we’d get on. Their plan backfired spectacularly. In fact, Mum reckons if bickering were an Olympic sport, the two of us would have a clutch of gold medals by now.

  I didn’t think it was possible, but just lately Luca’s been even more of a pain than usual. He picked up his A level results last week, and despite barely revising got more than enough points to secure his place at Bristol. He’s been lording it about ever since, making out he’s God’s gift to academia.

  ‘You know what your problem is, Frankie?’ he says, leaning against the sink while he waits for his toast to pop up.

  ‘Enlighten me,’ I say, rolling my eyes.

  ‘You’ve got no tolerance.’

  ‘Now that’s where you’re wrong. I’ve got no tolerance for you, Luca Ricci.’

  ‘Nah, you’re the same with everyone. No wonder Jojo’s ditched you.’

  ‘Erm, excuse me?’

  ‘I heard
you leaving that arsey voicemail just now.’

  I close the magazine. ‘So you were eavesdropping on me?’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Frankie, you’re not that interesting. I had no choice. You’ve got a voice like a foghorn.’

  ‘It’s called projection,’ I snap. ‘And for your information, I wasn’t being arsey, Luca, I was being direct. Jojo’s nearly an hour late.’

  I gesture at the oven clock. 10:59.

  ‘Maybe she went to school without you,’ Luca suggests, slathering butter on his toast.

  ‘And why would she do that? We had an arrangement.’

  Jojo was due to call for me at 10 a.m. From here, we were going to walk to school together, pick up our GCSE results, then celebrate/commiserate* (*delete as appropriate) over a McDonald’s breakfast before my shift at the hair salon, reconvening in the early evening for a party at our classmate Theo’s house.

  ‘We had an arrangement,’ Luca repeats in a high-pitched voice.

  I chuck the magazine at him. He dodges out of the way just in time, leaving it to land in the sink.

  ‘When are you going to uni again?’ I ask, standing up.

  ‘You’ll miss me when I’m gone.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ I mutter, hoisting the slightly soggy magazine out of the washing-up bowl.

  I deposit it on the table and glance back at the oven. 11:00.

  ‘Looks like you’re on your own,’ Luca says, wiping his buttery fingers on his boxer shorts.

  ‘Oh, piss off,’ I reply, picking up my phone and marching out of the kitchen.

  ‘Good luck!’ he yells after me. ‘Something tells me you’re gonna need it!’

  *

  Swearing under my breath, I slam the front door behind me and set out across the green that separates our row of houses from the main road. Not that it’s especially green right now. We’re in the midst of a massive heatwave, and every patch of publicly owned grass in Newfield, the town where I live, has been bleached a dirty shade of yellow.

  I thought it was amazing at first. After a damp, miserable start to the summer, I rejoiced at the rocketing temperatures and record hours of sunshine. Fast-forward seventeen days and I’m well and truly over it. I’m over waking up every morning covered in a sticky layer of sweat. I’m over the constant noisy whir of the fan next to my bed. I’m over wearing the same shorts and vest-top combinations. But most of all, I’m over feeling knackered all the time. I’ve only been walking for a few minutes and already my breathing is heavy and laboured, sweat trickling down the back of my neck. I stop walking and remove a bobble from around my wrist, sweeping my already damp long dark-brown hair into a messy topknot.

  Today must be one of the hottest days so far. The air is thick and syrupy and the tarmac so hot it shines like liquid. I squint up at the sky, an ominous shade of dull blue dotted with sickly yellow clouds, and wonder if today might be the day when it finally breaks and we get the thunderstorm the weather forecasters keep promising is just around the corner.

  I cross the road, and then take a left down Temple Street, before turning onto Larwood Avenue.

  Only it’s blocked off by a length of police cordon tape.

  I frown. If I don’t go down Larwood, I’ll have to go the long way round, and I’m cutting it fine as it is.

  I glance behind me to check no one is looking before diving under the cordon.

  I’ve walked maybe two house lengths when I hear footsteps behind me.

  ‘Oi! Where do you think you’re going?’ a voice calls.

  Reluctantly, I turn round.

  A police officer is striding towards me wearing a deep frown. ‘And what do you think you’re playing at?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m going to school,’ I reply with a shrug.

  ‘In August?’

  ‘It’s GCSE results day.’

  ‘I don’t care what day it is. Did you not see the cordon?’

  ‘The cordon?’

  ‘Yes, the cordon.’

  He points. I turn around and pretend to notice the cordon tape for the first time.

  ‘Oh my God, I totally didn’t see it there,’ I say, shaking my head in wonderment.

  The police officer folds his arms across his chest and sighs. ‘Funny that, considering I watched you duck right under it less than thirty seconds ago.’

  ‘Did you really?’ I say, blinking in confusion. ‘Wow, I literally have no recollection of doing that.’ I laugh a tinkling laugh. ‘I must be more preoccupied with my results than I thought.’

  I give him my very best smile. (For the record, I have a great smile. ‘Dangerous’, according to my ex-boyfriend Ram. Like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, according to Maxine, my boss at the salon.) The police officer just glares back, somehow immune to its usual powers.

  ‘Can I go now?’ I ask. ‘It’s just that I’m kind of running late.’

  He sighs. ‘Go on, then.’

  I smile – maybe he’s not so bad after all – and thank him, before continuing up the street.

  ‘Er, what do you think you’re doing?’ he calls after me.

  I turn back to face him. ‘You said I could go.’

  ‘Yes. Back the way you’ve come. This street is a crime scene.’

  ‘A crime scene?’ I ask, screwing up my face.

  ‘Yes.’

  I peer up Larwood Avenue. Apart from the cordon tape, a few police cars and some official-looking people milling about, nothing appears to be out of the ordinary. No blood splatters or chalk outlines or forensics tents.

  ‘What sort of crime scene?’ I ask.

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘But if I don’t cut down here, I have to go all the way around.’

  ‘Not my problem,’ the police officer says, walking me back towards the cordon.

  Chapter 2

  By the time I get to school, most people have been and gone and the foyer is empty apart from Mr Devi, the head of Year Eleven, and Mrs Schulman, the deputy head.

  They’re sitting at a table in front of the entrance to the main hall. They look weird in their off-duty summer clothes. I can see Mrs Schulman’s lacy bra straps peeking from beneath the straps of her sundress, while Mr Devi is wearing a pair of truly hideous salmon-coloured shorts and some Velcro sandals so ugly I can barely bring myself to look at them.

  ‘Frankie,’ he says as I approach. ‘Great to see you. Having a good summer?’

  ‘Yes, thanks, sir,’ I reply automatically.

  The truth is, although I’m not having a bad summer exactly, it’s far from the life-defining fun-fest I imagined it would be. It hasn’t helped that for three weeks of it, Jojo has been ill with a horribly contagious virus. I hadn’t realized just how many of my summer plans revolved around her until she suddenly wasn’t available.

  There are two boxes on the table. One marked A–M, a second marked N–Z. While Mrs Schulman delves into the second box, I attempt to peer into the first. Only three envelopes remain, but the box is too deep for me to make out whether one of them is addressed to Jojo or not.

  ‘Here we are,’ Mrs Schulman says, handing me my envelope. ‘Ricci, Francesca.’

  I thank her and take it outside, sitting down on the steps. The concrete is hot against the back of my thighs.

  As I turn the envelope over in my hands, I can’t help but think back to the last time I opened something so official-looking.

  It was back in April and I’d just got home from school. The letter was propped up against the fruit bowl on the kitchen table, the Arts Academy’s distinctive logo printed next to the postmark. My heart racing, I rang Jojo straightaway to check if she’d got her letter too, then we put our phones on speaker and opened them together on the count of three.

  I can still remember the growing heat in my cheeks as I read the contents, my disappointment red-hot. And the cooling numbness that quickly replaced it when Jojo said the three little words that I’d been so sure were destined to be part of my script.

  I got in.
r />   I shove the memory away and slide my finger under the flap of the brown envelope, pulling out the computer printout tucked inside.

  My eyes scan the list of grades.

  A three in maths.

  Fours, fives and sixes in everything else.

  Except drama.

  For drama, I got a nine.

  The very top grade. Literally, the best you can get.

  ‘Typical,’ a familiar voice says. ‘The second I finally nip off for a loo break, you turn up.’

  I look up. My drama teacher, Ms Abraham, is standing over me, wearing a denim pinafore dress over a white vest top and a pair of canary yellow flip-flops.

  I like Ms Abraham a lot. She’s older than she looks (I know for a fact she’s at least forty), but she still manages to be cool and fun at the same time as being a really good teacher. Before she did her teacher training, she was a professional actor in London, although she claims she never quite hit the big time. She reckons the closest she got was understudying Naomie Harris at the National Theatre.

  ‘But that’s massive,’ I said when she told us one lesson. ‘Why didn’t you just keep going?’

  She just shrugged. ‘Dreams change, Frankie.’

  I looked around the draughty drama studio and pulled a face. ‘No offence, miss, but this is not my idea of a dream.’

  That earned me a poke in the ribs from Jojo. Not that Ms Abraham seemed to mind what I’d said. She just smiled an enigmatic smile and told me I’d get it one day.

  ‘What are you doing here, miss?’ I ask as she sits down beside me, tucking her dress between her legs.

  ‘Just helping out,’ she says. ‘It was absolute bedlam earlier.’ She nods at the piece of paper on my lap. ‘Congratulations on that nine, by the way.’

  ‘Oh, thanks,’ I say, shoving it back in the envelope, suddenly self-conscious.

  ‘You should be really proud,’ she adds. ‘You worked bloody hard for that.’

  I don’t say anything.

  ‘I mean it, Frankie,’ she insists. ‘Do you know what percentage of students manage a nine in drama?’