'Aurora Borealis' by June O'Sullivan

The bus stops and we get off. At the junction the driver will turn left and we need to go right. Mid-afternoon on a spring weekday and everyone is where they should be. Except me. I should be in school. I wish I was. I know how to stay on the right side of trouble there. At home there’s no right side.

Mammy walks down the street, sticks her thumb out and my cheeks burn. We are hitching. The very thing I’ve been warned not to do. That’s only for girls who want to save their bus fare for cigarettes and are willing to risk too much in return.

A car stops. A lady, car free of childish mess, fake lemon scent swinging from the cardboard tree under her mirror. She watches Mammy out the side of her eye. Mammy watches me in the mirror. Under her left eye is the aurora borealis of a bruise. We are learning about that in school. It’s almost beautiful.

The lady talks. ‘Dirty rain. Tomorrow should be better.’

The lemony air is heavy with things that no one says. She leaves us out in the next town. We are still not where we need to be.

‘Why didn’t you let her drop us to the house?’ I ask. I’m tired. I still have my nightdress on under my clothes.

‘There’s no need for everyone to know our business,’ Mammy says, pincering my hand and marching me along.

At the house everyone behaves as if they were expecting us. Nobody asks about Daddy or the bruise. Nan eyes Mammy through the duelling haze of their cigarettes.

‘You’ll go back tomorrow.’ It’s not a question.

Mammy stares at her hands, wings clipped. I tell Nan about the aurora borealis.