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“Can I look after it?” Iggy said, screwing her eyes tight shut to keep out the shampoo.
“I’m very careful. I was very careful with Gruffles.”
“Gruffles was a hamster,” I said, with my mouth full of toothbrush.
“So?” Iggy said. “He was very precious and I didn’t break him.”
“Babies are a bit different to hamsters.” Dad rinsed the bubbles from Iggy’s hair. “And anyway, you’ll be at school.”
“True,” said Iggy. She climbed out of the bath and Dad wrapped her in a towel.
Iggy said, “Do you like helping others and taking care of other people’s children?”
“Why?” Dad said. “Is this a trick question?”
“Definitely,” said Mum.
Iggy shook her head. “Well, do you?”
Dad looked at me and Mum. “What did I miss?”
Iggy said, “We were thinking about adopting somebody smaller than me.”
“No we weren’t,” said Mum.
“We were talking about it,” Iggy said.
“You were talking about it,” Mum said. “We were talking about Rwaida adopting somebody smaller than you. That’s what we were talking about.”
Iggy looked up at Dad. “That’s why she won’t be my teacher any more.”
“Have you met your new teacher yet?” he asked.
Iggy looked glum. “Yes.”
I told them his name was Trevor. “But he likes to be called Mr Hawthorne.”
“Like a prickly old tree,” Iggy said.
“Oh dear,” said Dad. “Don’t you like Mr Hawthorne?”
Iggy gave Dad a withering look from inside her towel. “I can’t like him,” she said. “He’s not Rwaida and he’s got a moustache.”
“Grandad’s got a moustache,” Mum said.
“Not a big brown twirly one,” said Iggy. “Grandad’s moustache is smaller than Mr Hawthorne’s. And Grandad doesn’t wear cowboy boots.”
“Cowboy boots?” Mum and Dad smiled at each other.
“Yes,” Iggy said. “He’s got a twirly moustache and he plays the guitar and he wears cowboy boots. I love Rwaida. I’m never going to love Mr Hawthorne.”
“I’m not sure I’m loving him either,” said Dad.
“He is very different from Rwaida,” I said.
“Just wait and see,” said Mum.
Dad picked Iggy up in her towel and put her over his shoulder. “Bide your time. Wait for the right moment, and then show him who’s boss.”
“OK,” said Iggy.
“Not helpful,” said Mum.
On the way downstairs to the kitchen, Iggy’s chin began to wobble and her eyes filled up with tears. “I’m scared to have a teacher who isn’t Rwaida.”
Mum kissed her on the nose and said, “What are we going to do with you?”
“A biscuit would help,” Iggy sniffed.
A biscuit usually does.
At the kitchen table, Iggy blew on her hot milk. “What if Mr Hawthorne doesn’t know that it’s my turn to wipe the board on a Tuesday? What if he forgets I always collect the register on Fridays? How will he know where everybody sits? What if he tries to change stuff? What if he doesn’t like me? What if he only picks boys for all the good jobs because he is one?”
“Don’t worry, Iggy,” I said. “It’ll be OK.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Mr Hawthorne is actually just as nice as Rwaida, but in different ways.”
Iggy shook her head. “I’ve heard he is very strict and he doesn’t let you talk in the line and there is no calling out or going to the loo when you need to.”
“Well, then you will have to be quiet in the line and not call out or go to the loo all the time,” Dad told her.
“I know,” Iggy said. “That is exactly what I’ve been worrying about.”
“Mr Hawthorne was my teacher once or twice when my real teacher was away. He is actually a lot nicer than he looks,” I told her. “He’s very funny really and he’s got lots of good reading voices.”
“What does that mean?” Iggy said, through her biscuit.
“Well, when he’s being a giant, he sounds enormous and when he’s being a mouse, he sounds small and furry.”
“How does he do that?” Iggy said.
“I don’t know. He just does.”
Iggy raised her eyebrows and picked the crumbs off the table.
“What else does he do?” she asked.
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