Chapter One: Ivy

'Once upon a time…can happen any time' that was what it said in the book I was reading last night– I was trying to finish it. Eventually, I did; at 2.30am.

I was still lying in bed when my alarm clock went off and my favourite song was on 'Starry Eyed' by Ellie Goulding. A mother had decided to put it on for her daughters 13th birthday. My ears turned into hawks, wondering whether it would be myMum. No.

I carried on listening wondering whether there would be any other dedications and that was proved wrong too.

I suppose many people would find me rather weird if I told them about me setting an alarm in the Christmas holidays, on Christmas Eve, which is your birthday.

Many people would have also thought I was weird because I hate my birthday. Aside from the fact that it is the night before Christmas day it is because I have no blood related family. But I am fostered, by a retired lady called Marion– I will explain more about her later in the story… My Story.

I never slept properly once I finished my book, I would be kidding myself if I told you that I was imagining another plot to the book I was reading 'A Cinderella Story'.

MY STORY

These are some of the things you need to know about me:

Name: Ivy Johnson

Parents: I have no idea; although I was fostered by Marion Bean.

Place of Birth: Dustbin.

Friends: Beth and Aimee

Enemies: None that I know of

Birthday: 24th December 1998 – TODAY!

I was not your average teenager and this is my story!

If I could ask one question and get a true answer it would be 'Do happy endings come true?'

If I could ask another question it would be 'Why did my Mum leave me?'

Beth and Aimee always get embarrassed when their Mums give them a big soppy kiss in front of the boys and then shout; "Love you!" all the way from the car park.

Secretly, I wished that I could have a Mum who did all that – at least it was better than no mum at all!

Aimee moaned last week because her parents wouldn't give her the money to buy this leather jacket she saw in New Look. I just thought to myself, 'I wish I could have your problems.'

I think when you have a loving family (who would give the world for you) you take it all for granted. I didn't really get to know my mum.

I could hear the clattering of bowls coming up the stairs, it was Marion; my foster mother. I tried my ultimate best to flatten my bed head hair before she walked in.

Marion's heart is definitely in the right place, it is mine that isn't. Marion likes everything to be in pristine condition and it has to be up to her – very – high standards. I have only just persuaded her to wear leggings and skinny jeans but whenever I mentioned jeggings her face went blank.

Marion was a retired history teacher, which was one of my favourite subjects. But now she has a part time job showing tourists around the local art and history museum/gallery. One of my favourite exhibitions is the outside gardens. They are unique and some exhibitions were designed by the younger generation. Marion thought they were a waste of space and couldn't/wouldn't give them the time of day.

She knocked on the door and entered. This was the beginning of my thirteenth birthday. I hated my birthdays. I wouldn't tell anyone that though. Aimee and Beth would have thought I was seriously weird. I try so hard to fit in with them I found myself copying them.

They have all started sighing whenever I said sorry.

"It's kind of creepy," said Beth.

"You don't have to keep saying sorry to us. We're your friends," said Aimee.

They were my friends and I badly wanted them to stay my friends. They're the nicest friends I've ever had. They thought I was nice and normal too, give or take a few slightly strange ways. I'm going to do my best to keep it like that. I was never going to tell them about me. I would have died if they found out.

I had got so good at pretending I hardly knew I was doing it. I was like an actress. I've had to play lots of parts. Sometimes I was not sure whether there was any real me left. No, the real me is this me: shy little Ivy showers, thirteen years old. Today.

I don't know how I'm going to handle it. It's the one day when it's hard to pretend.

Marion asked last week if I wanted to do anything special. I just shook my head, but so emphatically that my face was hidden by my hair.

Aimee has a sleepover for her thirteenth birthday. We watched a spooky movie (which was rated 15) and a comedy which gave us the most terrible giggles.

Beth had a proper party, a disco in a church hall decked out with fairy lights and candles to try and give it some atmosphere. There were boys too but only Beth's brother and his friends and a few totally sad guys in our year. Still, it was great.

I loved all my friends' birthdays. It's mine that is the problem. I just want to get it all over and done with.

"Are you sure you don't want a party?" Marion asked for the several time that week.

I could just imagine the type of party Marion would have organised: charades, pin the tail on the donkey, sausages on sticks and fruit punch, like way back when she was young.

Maybe that's not fair. I'm sick of being fair. I'm sick of her. That's so mean. She's trying so hard.

"Perhaps you and I could go out for a meal somewhere?" she suggested, like it would be a big treat.

"No honestly, I don't want to make a big fuss of my birthday," I said yawning as if the whole subject simply bored me.

Marion was no fool. "I know birthdays must be difficult for you," she said softly like a social worker would.

"No, its okay, I'm okay," I insisted. "I just don't want to make a big fuss about it."

She swallowed. Then she looked at me sideways. "I take it presents aren't making too much of a fuss?" she said. "I like the sound of presents," I said, snapping out of my sulks.

I looked at her hopefully. I'd hinted enough times. Surely Marion had interpreted the gift that I had been longing for."What are you giving me?"

"You have to wait and see," whispered Marion.

"Give me a clue, please!" I begged.

"Absolutely not," replied Marion firmly holding her head in the sky.

"Is it…?" I gestured, holding one hand to my ear.

"You'll have to wait and see," said Marion, but she smiled broadly.

I'm sure I've guessed right. Even though, she's moaned and groaned about them enough.

Marion woke me up with a birthday breakfast in bed. I don't actually ever want to bother with breakfast, but I sat up and tried to look enthusiastic.

Marion poured far too much milk on my cornflakes but she's added strawberries too, and she's put a bunch of baby irises in a champagne flute which matched the willow patterned china. There was a present on the tray, a neat rectangle, just the right size.

"Oh Marion!" I said, Marion leant forward and was going to hug until… I dodged quickly abandoning her eagerness.

Milk splashed all over the sheets as the tray tilted.

"Careful Ivy!" Marion snapped, and snatched the present to safety.

"Hey it's mine!" I said, and took the perfect present away from her.

It felt a little light. Maybe, it was one of those really neat ones. I undid the ribbon and ripped off the paper. Marionautomatically smoothed the wrapping paper and winded the ribbon around her finger it was like she was a robot and was programmed to do these sort of things. I took the lid off the cardboard box, only to have found another cardboard box; too small, surely.

"Go on, open the next box," said Marion.

"Is this a joke," I questioned.

"I didn't want you to guess too easily! It is the next one, Ivy, open it." Marion urged. "After all, I think you know," she chuckled to herself.

So I opened it. It was the last box. There was a present inside. But it was the wrong present.

"It's earrings." I said in a rather blunt voice.

"Do you like them? I asked the young lady in the shop; what would be a brilliant birthday present and she suggested those moonstone earrings, they are emerald moonstone earrings. I thought they would bring out the green in your eyes." Marion babbled. Well, she thought wrong!

I barely heard her, I felt so disappointed. I was sure she was giving me a mobile. It was like hitting straight into a brick wall when I realised: she smiled when I gestured…then I realized. She thought I was pointing to my newly pierced ears.

The fancy earrings are a peace offering. She made such a fuss when Aimee and Beth egged me on one Saturday and had my ears pierced one Saturday in Claire's Accessories. You would have thought I'd have had my tongue pierced the way she carried on.

"What's the matter?" Marion asked. "Do you like the moonstones?"

"Yes. They're lovely. It's just…" I lied through my teeth and I was not a liar. "I thought I was getting a mobile phone."

Marion looked at me, not blinking. It was so silent you could have heard a pin drop. Then, Marion broke the silence. "Oh Ivy, you know what I think about mobiles," she sighed.

I knew alright. She had gone on and on about all of these stupid brain tumour scares and the whole big bore nuisance. As if I care! I just want my own mobile like every other girl my age. Beth got a mobile for her thirteenth birthday and so did Aimee. Most girls get a mobile for their thirteenth birthday, if not before.

I felt like I was the only one anywhere without any means of communication. I couldn't natter or send funny text messages or take calls from my friends. I couldn't join in. I was the odd one out.

I always was.

"I wanted a mobile!" I wailed likea baby.

"Oh for God's sake, Ivy," moaned Marion. "You know perfectly well what I think about mobiles. I hate them!"

"I don't!"

"They're an absolutely outrageous invention – those ridiculous little tunes twinkling everywhere and an idiot announcing 'Hello I'm on the train' as if anyone cares!"

"I care. I want to keep in touch with my friends."

"Don't be silly. You see them every day."

"Beth is always sending texts to Aimee and she sends them back and they're always laughing away together and I'm always left out – because I haven't got a mobile. Do you know how that feels?"

"Well, that's tough Ivy," she lectured. "You'll just have to learn to live with it. I've told you and told you –"

"Oh yeah you've told me all right." I interrupted.

"Please don't talk to me in that silly little tone, it's incredibly irritating."

"I can't help it if you think I'm irritating. I don't see why that is so terrible to want a mobile phone when it's what every single teenager in the entire world owns."

"Don't be so ridiculous."

"Why is it so ridiculous? I want to be like my friends. Aimee and Beth have both got mobiles. Why can't I have a mobile?"

"I've just told you why."

Yes, well, I'm sick of you telling me this and telling me that. Who are you to tell me all this stuff? It's not like you're my mother."

"Look I try –"

"But I don't want you to!"

My mouth said it all on its own accord. There's suddenly a silence in the room.

I didn't mean it.

Yes I did.

Marion sat down heavily on the end of my bed. I looked at my green moonstone earrings.

I could say I'm sorry. I could say sweet things to her. I could eat up my cornflakes. I could screw my earrings into my ears and give Marion a big hug and kiss and tell her I just love the moonstone earrings.

Only I wished they were a mobile phone. I don't see why that was so wicked. I mean honestly, a mobile! Doesn't she want me to keep in touch with my friends?

Maybe she wanted me all to herself. Well, I didn't want her.

I got up, I left my breakfast tray, and I went into the bathroom, locking the door on Marion, I wanted to shut her out of my life.

I didn't want to wear her silly little moonstone earrings. I was into fancy earrings months ago, when I kept nagging to have to my ears pierced. Can't she keep track of things? I am so sick of her and the way she never manages to get things right.

I got washed and dressed. Marion went downstairs (I heard the staircase creak). I wished that I could sidle out of the house without having to face her. I don't see why she always has to make me feel guilty. It was not my fault. I didn't ask her to take care of me.

I was not going to wear those earrings. I didn't want those twinkly little girly earrings clogging up my ear lobes. I was sick of thinking about herand her feelings.

She bent down by the front door picking up the post. My heart leapt. There were three birthday cards – but not the one I was looking for. Thought it was silly, she didn't even know my address. Maybe she didn't even know my name. How could she ever get in touch?

Marion was watching me; her face was all creased up with sympathy. This made me feel worse.

"Ivy, I know it's hard for you. I do understand."

"No you don't. You can't possibly seem to understand what it is like growing up in care. I wouldn't put a dog in care!"

She pressed her lips together until they disappeared. Then she breathed heavily through her nose like a horse.

"I know this is a difficult day for you, but it is no excuse to shout at me. You're acting like a sulky little brat. You haven't even thanked me properly for the earrings."

"Thank you!" It came out more rudely than I intended. I felt tears of shame prickling my eyes. I didn't want to hurt her.

Yes I do.

"I'm sick of having to say please and thank you and having to act all prissy and posh. I don't want to be like you. I just want to be me," I said as I barged past her and through the door, off to meet Aimee and Beth – shopping. I didn't even say goodbye.

I didn't want to think about Marion anymore because the whole situation made me feel so bad. I walled her right at the back of my mind. They were a lot of people squashed up there in the dark.

I thought about me. I didn't know how to be me when I was myself. There was only one person who could tell me and she had me no way of getting in touch.

I went into the newsagents (on the corner of the road). Peter looked away from his newspaper, smiled and then returned to the headlines.

"Hi Ivy," Peter muttered, he still didn't look up from the Manchester United football controversy section from yesterday.

I walked past the chocolate – and felt the temptation. I looked at the newspapers in the neat black and white row. The Time's is the one which had the personal column. We used to divide it up between us, me and Beth and Aimee, and we had to analyse each section.

I couldn't really search through the whole paper looking for it. Peter had pinned little messages around the magazine section, up on the shelves.

I am not a lending library. No looking without purchasing.

So I purchased. Peter pulled a funny face and laughed.

"Are you getting all serious and intellectual, Ivy?"

"That's right," I said.

I gave Peter the money for the newspaper. He peered at the coins and gave me my change,

There was no message either – I wasted £1.00! I leant against the wall, where all the graffiti was. My teeth were chattering, after all it was December and Christmas Eve; Christmas fever in the air. I was actually surprised the newsagents was open for business.

Some of the messages in the personal column would be cryptic jokes. They made no sense to me whatsoever. But there was nothing from her. No 'Happy Birthday – I always think of you on Christmas Eve,' did she think of me at this festive time of the year? I always thought of her, 365 days a year, 24 hours a day. I didn't know what she was like, of course. But I could imagine.

Whenever, we had history and we had to imagine what it would feel like to be a Roman Centurion or a Tudor Queen or a London child in the Blitz. I could have always pretended I was there and I wrote it all down and Miss Stanten gave me excellent marks. Even though, I was imagining so hard I forgot about the real world.

But it was alright at that school. Everything was fine. I had catched up – I was in all of the top sets; it wasn't like some of the other schools I had attended where they thought I was really thick or they knew all about me and the kids teased me and called me names.

Oh my days, I sound as if I should be playing a violin, sooo sorry for poor little me.

I was not poor, though I was little. No-one knew about me at this school I was just Ivy and in Year 8 and I attended Oulder Hill Community and Language School. People only knew me because I was the girl with long hair who hung round with Beth and Aimee.

No-one thought I was odd, but I did get teased for being a bit of a cry-baby. I sniffled in class when we were told about homeless children who didn't have any parentsin refugee camps. I was still blubbering at break time. Beth had her arm around me and Aimee was mopping my eyes with a wad of tissues.

When a teacher walked past and got all fussed and asked if I was unwell. Aimee said, "It's just Ivy, she always crying, we all call her Ivy Showers."

That was my nickname, it was much better than SnowFairy, it was much, much, much better than Dustbin Baby.

That was the real me. I was in the newspapers. I suppose it was a special claim to fame. Not many people make the front page the day they were born. But then again, not many people get chucked out like rubbish. One look and it was 'No way, don't want this baby, let's chuck her in the dustbin!'

Funny kind of cradle. A pizza box for a pillow, newspaper as a duvet, and scrunched up tissues served as a mattress.

What kind of mother would dump her own baby in a dustbin?

No, I'm not being fair. I didn't think it was just that she probably couldn't stand the sight of me, she was probably scared silly. Maybe no-one else knew about the baby and she didn't dare tell anyone.

She didn't cuddle me close. She opened the dustbin with one hand and dropped me in with the other.

Then the lid went down.

I had lost her forever.

So there I was, in a dustbin in the dark.

What did I do?

Cry of course, I was Ivy Showers.

I had a mouth like a polo mint and lungs like the size of tea spoons, but I did my best. I wailed and shrieked and yelled, my face was screwed up, my knees against my chest my fists were flailing.

But the lid was on top. My little bleats were muffled. Who would be listening anyway? She was gone. Non-one ever came down that alley anymore.

I didn't give up. I cried and cried until I looked like araspberry, the veins stood out on my forehead my wisp of hair was damp with effort. I was damp with effort, because I had no nappy. I had no clothes at all and if I stopped crying I would have become dangerously cold.

I cried even though, in the back of my head, I knew she was not coming back. Why would she? I cried until my throat hurt. I cried though my eyes were shut and I was getting so tired that all I wanted to do was to give up and sleep. But I was not going to. I cried…

And then someone tugged at the lid.

"Kitty are you trapped inside? Hang on, I'll get you out."

Sudden light. Pink blur. A face. Not her, a man. No, it was a boy. Frankie he worked the evening shift at the Pizza Place to help out while he's at college, though of course I didn't know that yet. He was just someone who had come to my rescue as I wailed desperately for help. My hero!

"A baby!" He backed away warily as if I was dangerous; his mouth was hanging wide open. He dropped the rubbish he had heaved from the kitchens. He shaked his head as if he couldn't believe what he had just witnessed. Then, he touched me with one finger tip, checking whether I was real.

"You poor little thing!" His hands went right round, rather clumsily, but very gentle. He lifted me up and carried me. I waited for him to drop me back in the dustbin. But he tenderly tucked me down his t-shirt, in the warmth, even though I was damp and dirty.

"There now," he said, cradling me, then he hurried back up the alley into the kitchens, he looked as if he suddenly grown a beer belly.

"What have you got here, Frankie?" asked one of the regulars – Alice. She was old enough to be Frankie's mum but they were justfriends.

"A baby," he said, really quietly so he didn't startle me, even though here were clattering and crashes which came from all corners of the restaurant.

"Oh sure," she said. "What is it? Did someone chuck a doll in the dustbins?"

"Look," said Frankie, he leant forward so she could she down his shirt.

I murmured as he shifted. I tried to clutch on to his skin with my fists.

"Oh my Lord!" Alice shrieked, so loud that everyone came running.

There was babble all around me and there were fingers poking at me – checking whether I was real.

"Don't! You're frightening her. I think she's hungry." said Frankie. "Look at her little mouth. It's like she's looking for something."

"Something you haven't got Frankie!"

"What about some milk?" said Frankie. "We could heat her up some milk!"

"She's too little. New born. We'd better call an ambulance," said Alice. "And the police."

"Police?"

"Well, someone's dumped her, haven't they? Here, Frankie, let me take her."

"No. I want to hold her. I found her. She likes me – look."

I did like Frankie. If I couldn't have a mum he could definitely do for a dad. I started shrieking wildly when the ambulance crew took me out of his shirt. I wanted his warmth, his skin, and his care.

"See, she does like me," Frankie said proudly as if he was my father. He tucked me back inside his shirt and came in the ambulance with me.

He stayed at the hospital whilst the paediatrician checked me all over and waited while a nurse bathed me and then wrapped me up.

"Hey, Frankie, you can give the baby her first feed," the nurse said.

She sat him down and put me back in Frankie's arms. I liked it better inside his shirt against his skin but this way still felt good though. I couldn't snuggle properly in my new stiff sleeping suit. Frankie touched my mouth with the rubber teat of my feeding bottle. I fastened on to it as once.

I didn't need showing how to suck. I knew straight away. Once I started I couldn't stop. Everything blurred. I forgot my mum. I forgot the hospital nurses and doctors. I even forgot Frankie. It was just the bottle and me; I wanted to suck forever. And then I slept… and when I woke Frankie wasn't there.

I cried. He didn't come back. Nurses came and went.

Maybe, I thought, this is the way it was. No-one ever stays. But the magic bottle appeared regularly so I concentrated on that.

Then, suddenly some familiar hands scooped me out of my cot and I was back down a shirt, my cheek was against skin– Frankie's skin. This was for the newspapers. I think I even made it on to the television too. Hopefully, my mum saw it.

Did she keep the photos when they were published the next day in the newspapers? Did she snip out the features?

Dustbin Baby

College student Frankie Hart, 17, found a surprise waiting for him when he did his evening shift at The Pizza Place in the High Street yesterday. He heard a high pitched wailing coming from the bins at the back of the popular restaurant.

"I thought it was a cat," said Frankie. "I got the shock of my life when I took the dustbin lid off and saw the baby." Frankie has two younger brothers of his own and has done his fair share of babysitting – so he had no qualms about looking after the baby, keeping her warm by tucking the tiny infant inside his shirt.

Frankie accompanied her to Fairfield hospital, where doctors examined the baby and said she was in perfect health in spite of her ordeal in the dustbin. They believe she was only minutes old when she was abandoned.

Her mother will be in need of medical attention. She is urged to contact Fairfield Hospital as soon as possible, where she can be reunited with her daughter.

The baby was naked, not even wearing a nappy, and so far no clues to her identity. There was a ruby necklace which was found with the baby.

She is pale white, with light brown hair and weighs a healthy 6lbs. Nurses at the hospital say she is adorable. She's been named Ivy because she was found on December 24th.

"I certainly thought someone was playing a practical joke on me," beamed Frankie, cuddling little baby Ivy in his arms. "If her mum doesn't want her I wish I could look after her!"

I wished it too, Frankie.

I wish you were still seventeen. But wishes don't come true – I have learnt that all too well. I wonder how we would have got on. I was still little, the smallest girl in every class I was ever in, and that took some serious counting.

I was skinny too, though Marion had been trying desperately to fatten me up. She was particularly keen on milk: on my cornflakes, mushed up with muesli, whipped into Angel Delight, baked into rice pudding, stirred into cocoa, shaken with ice-cream. She was so inventive and it seemed so mean to screw my face up and shudder, but I hated milk now, even though I used to suck the stopper off my baby bottles. So, I am seriously small, Frankie, but you could hardly tuck me inside your shirt now.

I wonder what it would feel like. I wonder if you've got a hairy chest now and a real beer belly. You're 31. You have probably got your own children.

You looked lovely in the photo in the paper. I have looked at it so many times it is a wonder there is any image left. I had peered at it so closely that your face and mine blurred into thousands of little dots on the yellowing page. You can only see my head. The rest of me was inside your shirt.

My eyes were open and I was looking at you. I was a little squinty from all the flash bulbs but I was looking up and you were looking down at me. You had this lovely smile. Maybe the photographers told you to look that way so it would make a great picture. Maybe you really felt it. Though if that was really the case, why didn't you keep in touch? Maybe you really tried to see me. Maybe you weren't joking when you wished you could look after me.

They don't let seventeen year old boys look after baby girls. It was weird. If my mother had gone rushing to the hospital begging to be reunited with me, they would have probably have let her look after me. Even though she through me in the dustbin and shut the lid on me. But that's because we were related. Blood was thicker than water. She was the only blood related person that I knew about and yet of course I knew nothing about her.

I couldn't stop thinking about her. Well, not all of the time. I was happy then. I had got a new life. Lots of people liked me. I had a home. I loved my new school and my best friends Beth and Aimee.

That morning, I wondered what they were giving me for my birthday. Beth gave me a book. It wasn't a kid's one. Probably a sad detailed romance with a dark imaginative cover. She might have had to read it first. But I wouldn't have minded. We would go into a coffee shop and discuss snippets in depth.

Aimee gave me pens and pencils from Paperchase – which I loved!

I received a notebook that same week for my birthday, an Italian notebook to be precise. It was left in the children social work office – head-quarters- in Manchester and the package was addressed to me.

Lunch will be especially good too. At school, we all took pack lunches and mine was especially boring. (Marion went for the wholemeal bread with cheese, carrots, yoghurt, banana and sultanas – I was a very special kind of monkey). But, since we weren't at school we would go to Nice Ice – which sold milkshakes and ice cream.

However, when we were at school and it was one of our birthdays, me, Beth and Aimee had this tradition of nipping out to the bakery and buying big cream doughnuts.

My mouth watered just thinking about the milkshakes and doughnuts as I walked to the shops. I never did eat my birthday breakfast. I wanted to see Beth and Aimee. I wanted my birthday to be fun like everybody else's birthday. But I'm not like anyone else. I'm me.

I walked on, past the school, past the shops, past Nice Ice. I hurried in case anyone recognised me. I can't go shopping. I can't go home. I have to go back. Back to where my story began.