Sherry Ashworth - Disconnected

HarperCollins Children's Books An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd, 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Collins 2002

Text copyright © Sherry Ashworth 2002

Sherry Ashworth asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

HarperCollins Publishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9780007333783

Ebook Edition © MAY 2016 ISBN: 9780007393466

Version: 2016-05-16

For Avril Bruten

Cover

Title Page DISCONNECTED SHERRY ASHWORTH

Copyright Copyright Copyright Dedication Prologue To Mrs Dawes, my English Teacher To my mother To Taz To Mrs Dawes (2) To Dave To Taz (2) To Taz (3) To Dave (2) To Taz (4) To My Mother (2) To Lucy To Lucy (2) To Taz (5) To Jan To Dave (3) To Mrs Dawes (3) To Taz (6) To the Examiner To Lucy (3) To Dave (4) To Taz (7) To Taz (8) To Dave (5) Keep Reading About the Author About the Publisher HarperCollins Children's Books An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd, 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk First published in Great Britain by Collins 2002 Text copyright © Sherry Ashworth 2002 Sherry Ashworth asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. HarperCollins Publishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication. Source ISBN: 9780007333783 Ebook Edition © MAY 2016 ISBN: 9780007393466 Version: 2016-05-16

Dedication Dedication Dedication Prologue To Mrs Dawes, my English Teacher To my mother To Taz To Mrs Dawes (2) To Dave To Taz (2) To Taz (3) To Dave (2) To Taz (4) To My Mother (2) To Lucy To Lucy (2) To Taz (5) To Jan To Dave (3) To Mrs Dawes (3) To Taz (6) To the Examiner To Lucy (3) To Dave (4) To Taz (7) To Taz (8) To Dave (5) Keep Reading About the Author About the Publisher For Avril Bruten

Prologue Prologue It’s hard to know where to begin, or how to describe what happened to me. I’m not even sure who I want to talk to. Or what I want to say. But maybe if I try to put all the different parts together it will make some sort of sense to me. So here’s my story, and it’s for each of you to whom I owe an explanation. But, remember, I’m not sorry.

To Mrs Dawes, my English Teacher

To my mother

To Taz

To Mrs Dawes (2)

To Dave

To Taz (2)

To Taz (3)

To Dave (2)

To Taz (4)

To My Mother (2)

To Lucy

To Lucy (2)

To Taz (5)

To Jan

To Dave (3)

To Mrs Dawes (3)

To Taz (6)

To the Examiner

To Lucy (3)

To Dave (4)

To Taz (7)

To Taz (8)

To Dave (5)

Keep Reading

About the Author

About the Publisher

It’s hard to know where to begin, or how to describe what happened to me. I’m not even sure who I want to talk to. Or what I want to say. But maybe if I try to put all the different parts together it will make some sort of sense to me. So here’s my story, and it’s for each of you to whom I owe an explanation.

But, remember, I’m not sorry.

Thinking of you makes me want to write down what I have to say. Do you remember the advice you used to give us when we wrote essays? Spend a long time on the introduction, as it’s the first thing that gets read. Never answer the question in the first sentence. Make it clear what you’re writing about by restating the question in your own words. You taught me how to be analytical. So here goes.

The question is, why did I throw away everything I had and end up as I am now? And as for the answer, I’m not even sure I know myself, but writing it might help me work it out. And it begins with me.

Me. Catherine Margaret Holmes. 16. Did well at GCSE. A good girl, nice family. Sensible. Prefect material. I remember how you used to smile at me encouragingly in lessons and say, “Well done, Cathy!” I used to hate that because I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, and I just knew they were thinking, teacher’s pet. I knew you liked me because of the way you nodded when I spoke and used to write those glowing reports for my parents. I liked you too because you liked me and even though the other students in the class teased you for those baggy cardigans you used to wear and the cup of strong coffee you used to take with you everywhere, I never joined in. Well, I did a bit, because you have to, really.

What I liked about you most was the way you got all lit up when you were talking about Shakespeare or poetry. You read things that none of us understood with your voice trembling with passion, then looked at us with your eyes shining, and we thought you were crazy. I can remember twitching with embarrassment for you but liking the way you were getting turned on. I tried to learn those lines you read…

Not poppy, nor mandragora,

Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world,

Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep

Which thou owed’st yesterday.