Lifesaving for Beginners

probably because I have my hands over my eyes and ears.
    ‘Milo?’
    I shake my head but I don’t think I can be quiet for much longer. It feels like there’s something inside me. Like a volcano or something. We learned about Etna in school the other day. Miss Williams said that Etna is one of the most active volcanoes in the world.
    ‘Milo? Milo, don’t. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shouted at you.’
    I’m crying now. Like a girl. Not like Carla, though. She never cries. Not even when the girls call her a tomboy and don’t invite her to their birthday parties. They say she wouldn’t like it on account of the fact that they put make-up on their faces and make their hair go curly with a special machine. I don’t think Carla would like it either, but you never know, do you? You never know with girls.
    I don’t think I can stop. I have my fingers across my eyes now but it’s no use. I’m roaring crying and I can’t stop. If Damo saw me, he’d give me a dead arm and call me a gay, which is just about the worst thing you can be, Damo says.
    ‘Milo, stop. Please. It’s not your job to fix things. I’m supposed to do that. I know I’m doing a terrible job.’
    I can’t say anything because of all the crying I’m doing, but if I could, I’d say, ‘You’re not doing a terrible job.’
    Faith pulls me by the arms to the other side of the kitchen and sort of pushes me onto the couch. She holds one of my hands for a second but then she lets it go.
    ‘Mam would lambast me if she were here.’
    I try not to but I cry a bit harder, all the same. I suppose I’ve always known that Mam’s not coming back. Not ever. I know that. I’m nearly ten. I’ll be ten in three days. Christmas Day. I’ll be ten on Christmas Day, which is the one day of the year when I can eat Christmas cake and birthday cake. At the same time, if I want to. Mam said she got me for Christmas. When I was a kid, I used to think that I came all wrapped up. Like a present. Of course I don’t think that anymore. People know a lot more things when they’re nearly ten. I know that Mam will never lambast Faith and not just because she never lambasted Faith or any of us, but because she’s never coming home. Not ever. I’ll never see her again and I know that Mrs Appleby says I can close my eyes and see her face in my head and remember her like that, but it’s not as easy as that. Closing your eyes and seeing her there, in your head. I can see her most of the time but sometimes I can’t and I’m worried about that. Like maybe she’s leaving my head as well, and I don’t want her to, but I don’t know how to keep her there.
    Anyway, if Mam were here, everything would be different. It would. I wouldn’t be crying for a start. No way. And Faith wouldn’t know that Mam isn’t her real mam and that her real mam is somebody in Ireland called Kat, which is short for Katherine, who doesn’t want to be anybody’s mother even though she is. Even though she is somebody’s mother.
    And there wouldn’t be crumbs on the floor all the time, or scrambled eggs stuck like glue to a plate, or a drooping, smelly Christmas tree in the sitting room three days before Christmas Day. And Faith wouldn’t have dirty, tangled hair. She would have shiny, clean hair and she wouldn’t be here all the time, making a mess in the kitchen or getting me to answer her phone and telling Rob she’s in the shower again.
    I say, ‘She wouldn’t lambast you.’
    Faith sits on the couch beside me. She says, ‘I know.’ And then she starts crying. We’re like a tag team in a relay race because now I’m not crying. Now I’m trying to think of something to say that will make her stop. She’s crying like somebody who might never stop and I’m glad I can’t see her face because of all the dirty, tangled hair round it. I think, if I saw it, it might set me off again and I hate crying because it gives you a headache and makes you dehydrated because of all the water that comes out of you. I stand up and pull some kitchen paper off the roll so Faith can blow her nose when she stops crying.
    She stops and I hand her a piece of kitchen roll. She says, ‘I should be doing this for you, not the other way round.’
    I say, ‘’Sall right.’
    Faith says, ‘No. It’s not all right. You’re the one who’s upset. Christ knows, you’ve every right to be.’
    ‘I’m fine now. I’m not sad anymore.’
    She looks at me funny. Like I’m one of those cryptic