**The Little Nitwit.**
Emily was the downstairs neighbours daughter and an absolute nuisance to fifteen-year-old Oliver. That scrawny, dark-eyed girl was often dumped at their flat in the evenings.
Auntie Margaret was raising her alonebarely scraping by, juggling shifts as a care assistant, dashing off to give pensioners their injections, snatching at any chance to earn a few quid. She even tried datingno luck. One decent bloke turned out to be married.
Shed appear at the doorstep without warning, avoiding eye contact, whispering urgently: *”Victoria, just for an hour or twoI owe you one, its late, how can she stay alone?”* Emily would stand there sulking, head drooping like a wilted flower.
Mum would sigh but take the girl in anywaybetter than leaving her in a dark, empty flat. Dad would grumble about it later, of course.
Oliver bore the brunt of Mums kindness, because guess who got saddled with the uninvited guest to watch *”something, anything”* on telly? Emily would perch on the edge of the sofa, silently enduring whatever action film was on, hands neatly foldedinfuriatingly well-behaved.
Once a week, Auntie Margaret would shove a crumpled fiver into his hand and beg him to at least walk the new Year One pupil to the cornerthey were heading to the same school anyway.
That day, Emily was glowing like a polished teapot, even muttering a few words: *”Weve got a show today. Im reciting Snowflakes.”* Oliver smirkedin that ridiculous bobble hat, the little nitwit looked more like a space-bound germ.
After first period, kids swarmed the canteen for breakfast. Oliver was about to grab his usual cheese toastie whenblast ithe glanced back.
The little ones were buzzing louder than usual. A crowd had gathered around Emily in her frilly dress. Some were laughing, pointing; others offered tissues. Oliver edged closer. Worst possible sighther outfit was drenched in strawberry yoghurt.
She stood frozen, silently crying.
Then, out of nowhere, hyperactive Jake barged in: *”Oi, Olly! Move it! Lucys sorting out the partyshe actually asked for you!”* His voice sounded miles away. *”Come on, or youll miss out!”*
Lucy. Just chatting with her was a pipe dream for any lad. And now she wanted him there? He took a step toward the door. Not his problem, surely. Let them call Auntie Margaret, scrub the dress, whatever.
Deep down, Oliver knew: no one would bother with Emily. Theyd shove her in a corner, and shed shrink into herselfquiet, invisible, used to it.
He sighed, just like Mum, and turned back.
*”Erm, Miss Thompsonwhens the Year One show?”*
*”Oh, Oliver, in an hour and a half! I gave her a solo, trusted her, and now this How can she go on like this?”*
Emily trembled, splattered and pale, as if she might be sick. Oliver pried the empty cup from her death grip.
*”Ill take her homemaybe shes got another dress.”*
*”Oliver, youre a lifesaver! Go on, Ill sort it with Mrs. Carter.”*
Turns out, there was no spare dress. Oliver cursed under his breathscrubbed the stains, blasted it dry with a hairdryer, ironed the pink frills straight. Skinny Emily, in just her vest and tights, hovered nervously. They sprinted back, his hand clamped around her mitten-clad fist.
He never did chat with Lucy that day. Skipped lessons, toowent to the Year One show instead.
Emily rattled off her poem like a pro. As her class filed past, she suddenly lunged from the line, flung her arms around him, and blurted:
*”Olly, if it werent for you, Id have died today. Proper died.”*
Little nitwit.
