The twenty-five Silverton stories

In Silverton, where tigers wear rocket skates and pigs can fly, speed is everything. Which is why, on an ordinary Tuesday, three streets from home, a shop window stopped Ava dead.

A scooter wheel. Glowing. Turning all by itself in the middle of the window, on a small velvet cushion, as though it were extremely important.

Ava “Louis. LOUIS. That wheel is GLOWING.”

Louis “It says eight coins.”

Ava “I have eight coins. I have EXACTLY eight coins.”

Ava's hands did the thing her hands do. Out in front of her, fingers spread, as if the wheel might float over on its own if she got them ready in time.

Her ears had gone hot as well. Ava's ears always go first. Yours might do something completely different. Mine make a small beeping noise, which is no use at all in a library.

The wheel turned. It did not stop turning. Say it with me, the way the wheel does it.

Child readsRound and round it goes.

Louis “The Speed Cup is Saturday.”

Ava “I KNOW the Speed Cup is Saturday.”

Louis knows she knows. Louis says things anyway, on the off-chance one of them lands. Occasionally one does, weeks later, and he never gets told.

Louis “Your old wheel still goes round.”

Ava “It SQUEAKS, Louis.”

Louis “It squeaks and goes round.”

This is the thing about Louis. He is not trying to win. He says the true thing and then waits, which is far more annoying.

Ava looked at the glow. The glow, being a glow, looked extremely good. Her feet had started doing a small impatient dance without asking her first.

Both wheels do the same job, in the end. Your turn again.

Child readsRound and round it goes.

Mum “You have got eight coins, love. What were they for?”

Ava “They were for... they were for...”

And there it was. The bit where you find out that your coins already had a plan, and the plan was quiet, and the glowing wheel was extremely loud.

A wheel is a wheel. It goes round, it holds up a scooter, and on Saturday it will be doing that whether it is lit up or not. This one just happens to be doing it in a window, on a cushion, on its own little stage.

So. Eight coins. One wheel that glows. One wheel that squeaks and works. A race on Saturday.

I am not going to tell you what Ava did next. You have got a grown-up sitting right there. Do it with her.

From the bookTap. Tap. Pause.

In Silverton, where tigers wear rocket skates and pigs can fly, there are three days to go until the Silverton Speed Cup. You can hear that it is three days. The whole track is clicking.

Three days to the Speed Cup, and every single child at that track has a stopwatch. It sounds like rain, if rain had thumbs. Here is the noise. Say it with me.

Child readsClick. Click. Click.

Zion “I have TWO.”

Zion did have two. One on each wrist. He held them up above his visor so everybody could see them, which is Zion's favourite part of having anything at all.

Ava “What is the second one FOR?”

Zion “It is for the other times.”

Ava “What other times?”

Zion “The ones the first one is not doing.”

Nobody understood that, very possibly including Zion. He clicked them both anyway, and everybody looked, and Zion had a lovely afternoon.

Ava's ears went hot first. They always do. Then her feet started running on the spot without checking with Ava about it. Yours might do something else entirely. Mine hover two inches off the ground, which is no help whatsoever in a queue.

Mum “A stopwatch is four coins, love.”

Ava “I have four coins. I have EXACTLY four coins.”

Mum “And you can count in your head. You are the fastest counter I know.”

Ava “Counting in your head does not CLICK.”

Four coins on Ava's money-band. One stopwatch. And a head that already counts faster than anybody in Silverton, silently, for nothing.

Louis “The Cup has a clock. A big one, on the wall.”

Ava “It is not MINE, Louis.”

Then Bennie went past holding one. Bennie is a budgie, and quite small, and even Bennie had a stopwatch, and Bennie clicked it, twice, on purpose. Go on. Your turn.

Child readsClick. Click. Click.

Ava's feet went faster. Wanting is like that. It gets louder when everybody else has already got the thing.

So. Three days. Four coins. One clicking thing she could hold in her hand, and one head that already does the job and makes no noise at all.

That is where I stop. Ava has not decided yet, and neither have you. There is a grown-up sitting right beside you. Go on.

From the bookTap. Tap. Pause.

In Silverton, where tigers wear rocket skates and pigs can fly, the fastest thing on Spend Street is usually Ava. On Thursday, it was a sign.

FASTER LACES. MAKES YOU FASTER.*

A sign in the shoe shop window said FASTER LACES, and then MAKES YOU FASTER, and then a star. The star at the end was very, very small. Smaller than a crumb. Smaller than the sort of crumb anybody would bend down for.

Ava “LOUIS. LACES. THAT MAKE YOU FASTER.”

Louis “There is a star.”

Ava “A what?”

Louis “A star. At the end. A little one.”

Louis is right, and this is a good habit to have on Spend Street. Say it with me.

Child readsLook for the little star.

Behind the counter, the brown owl in the purple jacket had a sign of his own. NO REFUNDS, it said, in letters about nine times the size of the star. I notice signs. Noticing signs is one of the four things I am for.

Ava “How much are they?”

The owl “Six coins.”

Ava “I have six coins. I have EXACTLY six coins.”

Ava's chest went first this time, pulling her towards the glass with the rest of Ava following on behind like it had not been invited. Have you ever felt that? It turns up in different places on different people.

Louis “What is the star for, please?”

The owl “Ah. The star is the small print.”

Ava “What does the small print say?”

The owl “It says this.”

RESULTS MAY VARY. LACES DO NOT CONTAIN ANY ACTUAL SPEED.

Ava “But that bit is TINY and the fast bit is HUGE. So the fast bit must be more true.”

I would like it on record that this is not how printing works. I would also like it on record that I have never won an argument with Ava on Spend Street, and I have tried on four separate Thursdays.

There is a star on nearly everything, once you start. One more time.

Child readsLook for the little star.

Zion “Those are the fast ones. Everybody knows.”

Six coins on the label. Six coins on Ava's band. And up went the want, the way a want does when somebody loud agrees with it.

Laces that say, in enormous letters, that they make you faster. A star the size of a crumb that says they do not. And a shop that will not be giving anybody their coins back.

I could tell you what Ava did next. I am not going to. There are two of you sitting there. Sort it out between you.

From the bookTap. Tap. Pause.

There are exactly two ways to get from Ava's front door to the Speed Cup track.

The short way goes along Spend Street, where every window is lit up and something in one of them is always turning slowly round on a cushion. Ava has never once got to the end of Spend Street without stopping. Not once. Not ever.

The short way goes past every window in Silverton, which is the whole problem. Louis has a view about it, and he says it every single morning.

Child readsNot that way!

Ava “ELEVEN minutes, Walbot. Eleven. That is nearly a year.”

It is eleven minutes.

Ava “That is what I said.”

Louis “You could come the long way with me.”

Ava “I could go the short way and simply not look.”

Louis “You have never once not looked.”

Ava “I have never once TRIED.”

That is Ava's best argument. It is completely true, it proves absolutely nothing, and it is one of my favourite things about her.

Ava “And the short way has the wheel window AND the trainer window AND the window with the enormous rolling boot brush.”

Louis “That is why the short way takes you longest.”

Ava “That is NOT a real fact.”

It is, I am afraid, an extremely real fact. Last Tuesday the short way took Ava twenty-six minutes. The long way takes nineteen. I know. I was hovering above her the whole time, being ignored.

So the long way is the quick way, which is ridiculous, and Louis is going to say it again anyway.

Child readsNot that way!

Mum “How many coins are on your band this morning, love?”

Ava “Seven.”

Her hands had already gone out towards the door handle. Hands do that. They start the plan before the rest of you has finished having it. Ava's hands are particularly bad for it. Yours might do something completely different.

Zion “Coming the short way? There is a NEW thing in the window.”

Ava “A new what?”

Zion “A new THING.”

Zion did not know what it was either. He did not need to. He had said the word new on Spend Street, which is quite enough for anybody.

So this is the whole thing, and it is happening in a hallway. One door. Two ways. Seven coins that do not yet know which street they are going down.

This is the bit where I hover politely and say nothing at all. The door is still shut. Over to you two.

From the bookTap. Tap. Pause.

In Silverton, where tigers wear rocket skates and pigs can fly, I fly as well. On Tuesday, I flew into a lamp post.

I would like it understood that I am fine. Completely fine. Fine in every possible way, apart from my left arm, which now does this whenever I lift it above my screen. Say it with me. Do not enjoy it too much.

Child readsWobble, wobble, wobble.

The lamp post is also fine. I went back and checked, at night, when nobody was about.

Ava “Walbot. Your arm is doing the thing again.”

It is not doing a thing.

Ava “It is WOBBLING.”

It is gesturing.

At Budget Bend there is a repair kit. Three coins. A small box with a spring in it and a picture of a robot on the front looking extremely pleased with himself.

On Spend Street there is a brand-new arm cover. Nine coins. I want to be honest with you about this cover. It is shiny. It is so shiny that people have walked into things looking at it, which is exactly how I found it.

Ava “It is SO shiny.”

Louis “Does the shiny one stop the wobble?”

It covers the wobble.

Louis “So the wobble is still in there.”

The wobble is still in there. Doing this. Underneath. Where nobody can see it. Go on, then.

Child readsWobble, wobble, wobble.

Please do not look at me like that. I have ten coins on my band, which means I can have either one. That is the entire problem, and I find it undignified.

My fan has gone fast. That is the bit that goes first on me. Ava's ears go hot and my fan goes fast, and I would rather have the ears, frankly.

Zion “That cover is the fast one. It has got a stripe.”

It has got a stripe. I had not seen the stripe. I wish very much that I had not seen the stripe.

Ten coins. Three for a box with a spring in it. Nine for the shiny. One wobble, currently free of charge and going absolutely nowhere.

I know what I am going to do. I am simply not saying it out loud in front of a stripe like that.

From the bookTap. Tap. Pause.

Budget Bend has a bin that talks. Nobody knows who built it. It was simply there one Monday, being friendly.

Feed it a wrapper and it says THANK YOU. And if it likes you, it says something else instead. This is the good one. Say it with me.

Child readsCheers, pal!

Nobody knows who built that bin, but it has said that to Ava twice. Twice. I have known it two years, I am also a machine, and it has never once said it to me.

Ava “It likes me.”

It likes everybody.

Ava “It likes me TWICE.”

Right beside it, a stall sells little wind-up bin robots with googly eyes. Two coins each. You wind the key and they trundle round in a circle and say nothing whatsoever.

Ava “I want one.”

The stallholder “They do not talk, love. They trundle. That is the whole thing they do.”

Ava “I will teach it.”

She will teach it. It has no ears, no speaker, and one wind-up key. She will teach it. I have decided to say nothing at all about this.

Ava fed the big bin a wrapper to see what it would say today.

THANK YOU.

Ava “THANK YOU is not the other one.”

It is not. Nobody knows how that bin picks. I suspect that is a fair bit of the appeal. Have another go, in case it is listening.

Child readsCheers, pal!

Ava's eyes had gone round and wide, which is what Ava's eyes do about a foot before her hands arrive. Everybody has a bit that goes first. Nobody gets to pick which bit.

Louis “The big bin is free, and it already likes you.”

Ava “The big bin is not COMING HOME with me, Louis.”

She has a point. You cannot take a talking bin home. I have looked into it, and I suspect so has everyone.

Then the stallholder wound one up and set it down, and it trundled across the pavement and bumped gently into Ava's foot and stopped, saying nothing, beautifully.

Two coins. One small robot with googly eyes and not one word in it. One enormous bin that talks for free and is never going anywhere.

Do not ask me. Ask the grown-up next to you, who has had to choose between far worse things than this.

From the bookTap. Tap. Pause.

Everybody in Silverton has a money-band. And now a shop on Spend Street has started selling covers to go over the top of them.

Glittery ones. Ones that go PING. And one, right on the end of the row, that plays a small trumpet noise every single time a coin goes out. It sounds like this.

Child readsToot! Toot! Toot!

COVER YOUR BAND. MAKE IT SING.

Ava “A TRUMPET, Walbot.”

I heard it.

Ava “EVERY time. Every single time.”

Now. I have a concern, and I am going to say it politely, once. A noise that says well done normally goes off at the end, after you have done the thing and everybody has had a look at it. That trumpet goes off in the middle.

Ava “That IS the end. Spending is the end.”

Spending is the start of owning something.

Ava “Then it is the end of choosing, and choosing is the hard bit, and the hard bit is what you get a trumpet for.”

She is, I am forced to report, extremely good at this. We have agreed to disagree. She agreed to disagree very fast indeed, which I think means she won.

Louis “How much is the trumpet one?”

Ava “Five. And I have seven, Louis, which is MORE than five.”

Louis “It is more than five.”

Ava's tummy had gone hot. The good hot, the one that turns up before you have worked anything out. Mine goes warm behind the screen. Everybody has their own bit and nobody chose theirs.

Zion “Listen. LISTEN.”

Zion had one on. He bought a bag of sweets so we could all hear it, and the trumpet went, and it was, I concede, a very good trumpet. Here it comes again.

Child readsToot! Toot! Toot!

Louis “It is a cover. It goes over the top.”

Ava “It goes over the top BEAUTIFULLY.”

Seven coins. Five for a cover that goes over the top of the band and plays a trumpet whenever a coin goes out. Two left over afterwards, going PING at nobody.

I have said my bit. Ava has said hers. Neither of us is in charge of yours, and there is somebody sitting right beside you to say it to.

From the bookTap. Tap. Pause.

Every Saturday, Bennie helps his dad on the market stall. Bennie is a young budgie. He is, in his own opinion, VERY GOOD AT IT.

He shouts the prices. He stacks the boxes smallest on top. He tells everyone in the queue that they have chosen well, and they have, so nobody argues.

He is nine centimetres tall and he shouts like a bus, and by the time the market went quiet he had four coins on his money-band. Four. Earned. His.

Bennie “Dad. DAD. Count them.”

Bennie's Dad “In a minute. You did the whole queue on your own. That was the hard bit.”

Bennie's Dad has one saying and he has never once got through a Saturday without it. You will hear it twice. Here is the first.

Child readsBudgies always budget.

And then Bennie turned round, and that was the end of the peace and quiet, because on the stall opposite there was a bird bath shaped like a ROCKET.

A bird bath. Shaped like a rocket. With fins, and a little ladder up one side that no bird has ever once needed. Three coins.

Bennie “THREE COINS. Dad, it is a rocket and it HOLDS WATER.”

Every feather on the back of Bennie's neck stood straight up. That is what Bennie's do. Yours might do something completely different. Mine play a small fanfare, which is excellent at a market and dreadful in a library.

Bennie's Dad wandered over. He did not look at the rocket. He looked at the money-band and counted out loud, slowly, the way dads count. Then he said it again, because of course he did.

Child readsBudgies always budget.

Bennie's Dad “Give every coin a job first. Then see what is left.”

Bennie “A bath IS a job. Feathers have to be CLEAN, Dad. It is basically work.”

He has just reclassified a rocket as work. You cannot argue with that. I have tried. It is airtight, it is completely wrong, and he thought of it in under a second.

So Bennie put his four coins in a row on the counter. One. Two. Three. Four. Little and round and warm from his own pocket.

One of them already had a job. The seed bag on the way home. That coin has had that job since he was more or less an egg.

Bennie “And the other three?”

Across the way, the rocket sat there doing absolutely nothing, extremely well.

Four coins. Four jobs, because that is Dad's rule. One rocket with a ladder up the side.

I am not going to tell you how Bennie sorted it out. He has got a grown-up standing right there. So have you. Off you go.

From the bookTap. Tap. Pause.

Mr Mean owns the car wash. He is a walrus. He wears red braces and he has a face like a wet Monday.

Mr Mean has a dog, as well. Very old. Sleeps in a bucket. And this is the main thing you need to know about him. Say it with me.

Child readsHe growls at bubbles.

Ava “At BUBBLES, Louis. They are not even solid.”

Louis “He is about nine hundred. Let him growl.”

On Saturdays Louis works here with his two green buckets, and Ava comes along, mostly to talk, which she is extremely good at.

The dog has a chew toy. It used to squeak. It has not squeaked since roughly March, and a chew toy with no squeak left in it is, to a dog, just a small sad shape.

So he has moved on to a sponge. Louis's sponge. Louis has feelings about this.

Louis “That is the fourth sponge.”

Mr Mean “He likes the yellow ones.”

Mr Mean then paid Louis, which he always does in the end, after a sigh, as though coins had been somebody else's idea.

Ava has three coins. They have been sitting on her band all week with a plan already attached, and the plan is a bag of sherbet twists on Budget Bend, which costs three, which is all of them.

Also on Budget Bend, in the window, hanging on a hook. A chew toy. Bright green. Two coins. It squeaks if you so much as look at it.

And Ava's feet stopped. You have to understand about Ava's feet. They do not stop. They idle. Yours probably do something else entirely. Mine do nothing, because I have not got any.

Behind them, in his bucket, the old dog carried on doing his one trick.

Child readsHe growls at bubbles.

Ava “Louis. It is TWO COINS.”

Louis “It is not our dog.”

Ava “It is nobody's dog on a Saturday. He is basically staff.”

Nobody has asked Ava for anything. Mr Mean has not asked. The dog has certainly not asked. The dog is asleep in a bucket with his sponge and his day is going fine.

Three coins. Sherbet twists cost three. A squeak costs two. And keeping all three exactly where they are costs nothing at all, which is a real answer too.

Three coins, and three different afternoons hiding inside them. Ask the grown-up next to you which one they can hear best.

From the bookTap. Tap. Pause.

There are eleven pigeons on Budget Bend. The same eleven, every day, standing about outside the bakery like they are waiting for a bus.

Eleven pigeons on Budget Bend, and Ava has named nine of them. I am not going to list the names. We have not got the time and two of them are quite long.

Ava “Nine. And then the grey one. And then the other grey one.”

Louis “So, eleven.”

Ava “Ten. The last two are the same pigeon. He is just FAST.”

Ava has decided the last two are one pigeon going very quickly. This is Silverton, where tigers wear rocket skates and pigs can fly, so that is not even close to the maddest thing I have heard today.

It had been a long week. Ava had done a spelling test, a haircut she did not order, and three entire days of rain. One coin left on her band. One.

The bakery puts two things on a little shelf by the door. A bag of proper bird seed, one coin. And right beside it, a bag of shiny wrapped sweets. Also one coin. So here is the whole problem in four words.

Child readsOne coin. Two bags.

The seed comes in a paper bag with a bird printed on it. The sweets come in a see-through bag, so you can see precisely what you are missing. Somebody decided that on purpose.

Mum “Take your time, love. They will both still be there in a minute.”

Ava “If I get the seed they all come. On my ARM, Louis. Even the fast one.”

Louis “You could do the seed next week.”

Ava “Pigeons have not GOT a next week. Pigeons have got a now.”

And the sweets are the twisty ones with the shiny bits, and a bag holds enough for one now and one after tea, and it has been a very long week.

Ava's trunk curled up tight at the end, which is the thing it does when she is deciding. Yours will do something else. Mine makes a noise like a fridge.

It has not changed while we were talking. Say it again.

Child readsOne coin. Two bags.

Now. I am going to be straight with you, and I would like you to notice, because I am not straight with you very often.

Both bags are good. That is the whole problem. Nobody in this story is going to tell Ava which one, and that includes me, and I am the narrator.

Your go. The bakery does not shut for ages.

From the bookTap. Tap. Pause.

November in Silverton is an outrage. You come out of school and the day has already packed up and gone home without you.

It is dark at four o'clock, and that is a problem, because Ava and Louis have a football that is dark blue, and the park is also dark blue. Here is the score. Say it with me.

Child readsFour nil to the hedge.

Ava “Four balls, Louis. That hedge has FOUR OF OUR BALLS.”

Louis “Four. I got two of them back out.”

Ava “And then they went back IN, Louis.”

The hedge has never once handed anything over. It does not gloat. It does not need to. It just sits at the end of the park being a hedge, saying nothing.

So on the way home they stopped at the window on Spend Street, and there it was, up on a shelf on its own, glowing gently in the dark like it knew exactly what it was doing. Seven coins.

Ava's hands caught it. Twice. It was still in the window both times. Hands are Ava's thing. Yours might be your knees. Mine is a small red light I cannot switch off.

Louis “We have got nine between us. Five of those are mine.”

Ava “Nine is MORE than seven. That is maths, Louis. Maths is saying yes.”

Louis “It has to sit in the light first. It says so.”

Ava “Then we PUT it in the light. That is not a problem, Louis, that is a PLAN.”

Louis “And when it stops glowing?”

Ava “Then we play FASTER.”

And here is the bit I actually agree with her about. A ball that glows cannot get lost, so the hedge gets nothing ever again. Which would be the first time. What is the score again?

Child readsFour nil to the hedge.

That is not true, by the way. A glowing ball can absolutely still go in a hedge. It will simply be easier to find, glowing, in a hedge, in the dark, while you get scratched.

The window was warm. The street was cold. The ball carried on glowing, because glowing is its entire job and it is extremely good at it.

Seven coins for the ball. Nine coins between the two of them, and five of those belong to Louis, which is a whole other conversation.

Two of you. One ball. And it is dark at four o'clock until about February.

From the bookTap. Tap. Pause.

Ava has wanted a Silverton shirt since she was five, which is a very long time when you are seven.

The Silverton shirt. Red, with a white lightning bolt straight across the front. Two whole years she has wanted it, and she has explained this to me several times, with her hands.

She has drawn that bolt on paper, on the pavement, on the back of a leaflet, and once, briefly, on Louis.

On Spend Street it is twelve coins and it comes in a shiny bag with a handle. On Budget Bend it is five coins, no bag at all, and the bolt is not quite straight. Louis measured it. Say what he said.

Child readsA bit wonky.

Ava “It is not wonky.”

Louis “It is out by about a thumb.”

Ava “If you stand HERE it is completely straight.”

Ava then stood in four different places to prove it, one of which involved crouching. From the crouching one, I have to say, she had a point.

Louis “Wonky one still says Silverton on it.”

Ava “Everything says Silverton on it, Louis. We LIVE here.”

Ava had eight coins. Which is five plus three. And also four short of twelve. Both of those facts were doing a great deal of shouting.

Mum “Come here. You have wanted this a long time, love. I know you have.”

Mum did not say no. Mum hardly ever says no. Mum waits for you to catch up, which is far worse, because then you have to do the thinking yourself.

Mum “What do you want it to feel like? When you put it on.”

Ava “Like I am ON the team.”

Ava's chest was pulling towards the window like it was on a string. That is where Ava gets it. You might get it somewhere else completely. I get a sort of hum.

And nobody on a pitch, at any point, from any distance, is going to notice one thumb. Say it one more time.

Child readsA bit wonky.

And I will be honest about the bag, because somebody ought to be. The bag is nice. It crinkles. It has a handle. It is a genuinely good bag.

It is also, by about Tuesday, a bag on the floor of your room.

So. Eight coins. Five today, no bag, one thumb of wonk. Or twelve later, whenever four more coins turn up from somewhere.

I have got no idea. I have not got a chest. Ask the person sitting next to you.

From the bookTap. Tap. Pause.

Louis had an idea. He announced it quietly, because that is how Louis announces everything, including, once, that there was a wasp on his head.

Louis “We could make goals. Two buckets and a bit of rope.”

The buckets live at the car wash and come home with Louis on Saturdays, and Mr Mean allows it, in his way, which is as close as Mr Mean gets to being nice.

Mr Mean “Those are my buckets.”

Louis “They come back by five.”

They always come back by five. Mr Mean knows this. He says it anyway, every single Saturday, because saying it is the part he enjoys.

Ava “Buckets have no NET, Louis.”

Louis “No.”

Ava “The net is the whole thing. The net goes...”

This is the noise. She does it with her entire body and she has been doing it since she was about four. Loudly, please.

Child readsSWISH!

It is, I am forced to admit, an outstanding noise.

A proper net hangs in a soft heavy curve, and it catches the ball and holds on to it, and that is where the noise comes from. Rope holds nothing. Rope watches the ball go past and carries on being rope.

Ava “Rope does not swish. Rope goes nothing. Nothing is not a noise.”

Louis “Rope is here, though. Ten coins are not.”

Proper goalposts, with the net, cost ten coins. Ava has six. Two buckets and a bit of rope cost nothing whatsoever, plus an afternoon.

Ava “How long is an afternoon?”

Louis “This one? About four goals.”

Ava's ears went forward. Both at once. That happens when she can already hear something that has not happened yet, and what she could hear was this. Go on.

Child readsSWISH!

Ears are Ava's. Yours will be something else. Mine is a small hopeful ping, which is embarrassing in a quiet park.

So here is the afternoon, laid out flat. One bit of rope. Two green buckets. Six coins that could sit on her band and grow towards ten. And no swish. Not today, anyway.

Nobody here thinks the buckets are the clever answer, by the way. The swish is genuinely excellent and I have been very clear about that throughout.

Right. You have got a grown-up. Go on, then.

From the bookTap. Tap. Pause.

A shop on Spend Street will do almost anything to get noticed. Which is why, on Saturday, the brightest thing on the whole street was not the sun.

SUPER SLIME

There is a sign on Spend Street you can read from the next street along. Underneath it stands Zion, holding a tub at a slightly show-offy angle. That is a real angle. Zion invented it.

Zion “Mine is the green one.”

He will say this eleven times before lunch. Say it with him.

Child readsIt is the green one.

Ava “I can SEE it is the green one.”

Zion “It stretches from here to the end of my arm.”

Ava's eyes went wide and stayed wide. Then her hands came up, open and ready, in case a tub of slime happened to arrive in them.

Eyes first, then hands. That is how you can tell with Ava. You might do something completely different. I get a small red light on the back of my head, which I cannot see, so I am the last to know.

Louis “It says three coins.”

Ava “I have three coins. Three coins for a thing that costs three coins. That is MATHS, Louis.”

Louis “Then you will have none.”

Ava “I will have SLIME.”

There was a queue, obviously. Six children, one dog who had come in out of the rain, and a pigeon who seemed fully committed to the whole idea.

Zion “It glows as well. In the dark. Watch.”

It glowed. I would love to tell you it did not glow. It glowed like a small green moon sitting in a tub. Twelfth time, then.

Child readsIt is the green one.

Louis “Where does slime live?”

Ava “In a TUB.”

Louis “The last one lived in the carpet.”

Ava “That was a completely different slime with a completely different lid.”

Ava “This one would stay in its tub at all times. Except for the times it was out.”

Louis “That is every slime that has ever existed.”

This is the trouble with Louis. He does not argue. He says the true thing and then stands there being right, very quietly, which is much worse.

So. Three coins on the band, and none afterwards. One tub, green, glowing. And one carpet at home with a history.

And that is where I get out. Slime is above my pay grade and I do not have hands.

From the bookTap. Tap. Pause.

Last week, at the stall on Budget Bend, Ava spent two coins on a whoopee cushion.

I would like it on the record that it worked. Once. It worked once, it was magnificent, and I laughed so hard I flew into a bin.

The trouble with a whoopee cushion is that a family learns it. By Wednesday, Louis was checking chairs before he sat down. By Thursday, everybody was checking chairs. By Friday the cushion had to sit on a chair all by itself.

Mum “Ava, love. I can hear the cushion.”

Ava “You cannot HEAR a cushion. It is a cushion.”

Mum “I can hear you carrying it. From three rooms away.”

Ava “It is STILL FUNNY.”

And it is still funny. To Ava. Ava is the one who bought it, so Ava gets a vote, and I am not going to be the robot who takes it off her.

Which brings us to today, and the same stall, and a small round thing sitting on a card.

HAND BUZZER. TWO COINS.

Ava “Louis. LOUIS.”

Louis “It is the cushion again.”

Here is what Ava says about it. She says this about most things. Say it with her, and try to sound as certain as she does.

Child readsIt is not the same!

Louis “How is it different?”

Ava “It goes in your HAND.”

Louis “The cushion went under a bottom.”

Ava “Exactly. Different. And you cannot HEAR a hand coming.”

Then the stallholder picked the buzzer up, shook hands with Louis, and the buzzer went off. Louis jumped. Louis has never jumped in his life.

Ava's hands started fizzing and her fingers would not stay still. Somewhere behind her eyes, a plan was already half built.

Mum “Who is the joke for, love?”

Ava “EVERYONE. It is for everyone.”

She is going to say it again. She is winding up to it now. Ready?

Child readsIt is not the same!

So. Two coins, which is all of them. One buzzer. And one family who learned a whoopee cushion in a single day and will learn this one in about half of one.

It is not different. It is, however, extremely tempting, and those are two completely separate things.

Ask the grown-up next to you if they have ever bought something like this. I will wait here.

From the bookTap. Tap. Pause.

On Saturday, Zion came round the corner in a hat so large it had its own weather.

I am not exaggerating. There is a breeze under there, small and private, going round and round, and it belongs entirely to Zion. Say what everybody said when they saw it.

Child readsThat is a big hat.

Ava “Hats do not have a speed.”

Zion “This one does.”

Zion ran to the postbox and back. The hat stayed on.

Zion “See? A slow hat would have come off.”

Two people stopped to look at the hat. Then a third one did. Zion did not mention it and he did not point at it. He simply stood in a way that made it a bit easier for them.

Ava opened her mouth to argue. Then she shut it again. She would deny this later, but the reason was very simple. She wanted the hat.

Ava “Where did you get it.”

Zion “The stall by the shoe shop. There is one left.”

FIVE COINS. LAST ONE.

Ava has five coins. Exactly five, which is either the best number in the world or the worst one, depending entirely on the day you are having.

Louis “That is all of them.”

Ava “It is all of them AND it is exactly enough. That is not a problem, Louis. That is lucky.”

And while she was thinking, Zion did the worst possible thing, which was to be kind about it.

Zion “Go on then. Try it.”

Under the hat it is cool and quiet and slightly dark, like a small tent that you are also wearing. The breeze is real. Ava's ears went hot inside her own private weather.

From in there, you can see the point of it. Say it again, this time with your chin up.

Child readsThat is a big hat.

Ava “Is there a smaller one?”

Zion “There is no point in a smaller one.”

Louis “Where would you keep it?”

Ava “On my HEAD.”

Louis “All the time?”

Ava “Yes.”

Mum “What did you want when you woke up this morning, love?”

Ava “I did not KNOW about the hat this morning.”

Which is, when you think about it, completely fair. So. Five coins, all of them. One hat, the last one, with weather in it. And a girl who has felt about three metres tall for a whole minute.

Five coins, one hat, no smaller ones. Ask the grown-up next to you whether they would wear it down the shops.

From the bookTap. Tap. Pause.

In Silverton, tigers wear rocket skates. That is normal here, and Ava would ask you not to make it weird.

One went past the shoe shop window while they were standing there, going about as fast as tigers go, which is faster than you would like.

The skates in the window are not real rocket skates. They have a light in the heel that flashes, and a sticker of a rocket on the side. That sticker is the entire rocket.

Ava “Louis. Look at the HEEL.”

Louis “It flashes.”

It does. Over and over, all day, in the window, at everybody. Say it in time with it.

Child readsOrange. Orange. Orange.

Ava's chest did the leaning thing, as if the middle of her was already inside the shop and the rest of her was jogging to catch up. Everybody's want lives somewhere. Mine is somewhere down my left-hand side, which makes me fly in slow circles.

Mum “Eleven coins, love.”

Ava “I have four.”

Louis “A coin a week. So seven more weeks.”

Ava went quiet. Ava going quiet is a large event. A pigeon turned round to check.

Ava “Seven WEEKS. Louis, that is nearly a year.”

Louis “It is not nearly a year.”

Ava “It FEELS like a year, which is longer.”

Ava “What if I did all seven weeks in one week?”

Louis “That is not how weeks go.”

Ava “You do not KNOW that.”

Then the owl shopkeeper leaned into the window in her purple jacket and pressed the heel with one finger. She was not even doing it to be cruel. Off it went again.

Child readsOrange. Orange. Orange.

Behind her, up on the wall, the sign said what it always says.

NO REFUNDS

The shopkeeper “We do socks with rockets on. Two coins.”

Ava “Socks are not skates.”

The shopkeeper “They are not.”

So. Eleven coins for the skates and four on Ava's band. Four coins could be socks today, with rockets on them, actual rockets, on actual feet. Or four coins could stay exactly where they are while seven weeks go past, one at a time.

Seven is not a big number. Weeks is a big word. Those are two different problems.

Four coins, eleven coins, and seven weeks standing in between them like a wall. Somebody next to you has climbed one of those before.

From the bookTap. Tap. Pause.

On the second shelf of the shop on Budget Bend, between the pencils and the string, there is a paper bag with twenty flat green stars inside it.

A packet of glow stars costs one coin. In the daylight they look like nothing at all. Then somebody turns the light off. That is the entire trick of them.

Ava “Louis. Listen.”

Here is what Ava said next, at the ceiling, far too loudly for a small shop.

Child readsLook up! Look up!

Louis “Our ceiling is a ceiling.”

Ava “Not with STARS on it.”

Ava's eyes went up and stayed up. It is a difficult way to walk down Budget Bend, and she did it anyway, and she only bumped into one bin.

Ava looks up when she wants a thing. Louis looks at the price of it. Neither of them is doing it wrong.

Louis “One coin. You have got one coin.”

Ava “One coin, one packet, twenty stars, done.”

Louis “Twenty stars is not a ceiling. Twenty stars is a corner.”

And then Louis said the sentence that changed the entire afternoon.

Louis “If you put in one and I put in one, we get two packets and we can do the whole ceiling.”

One from him, one from Ava, two packets, forty stars. Ava saw it happen behind her eyes all at once, the way she sees things. Say it again, bigger this time.

Child readsLook up! Look up!

Ava “But then half of them go over YOUR bed.”

Louis “That is how ceilings work.”

Ava “I KNOW how ceilings work, Louis.”

Ava “What if we did the whole ceiling but the middle part was mine.”

Louis “The middle part is the light.”

Ava “Then round the light.”

And she does know how ceilings work. That is not the problem. The problem is that twenty stars packed tight above one bed is a completely different sky from forty stars spread thin over two.

One coin: a small crowded patch of space, directly over Ava, every single star of it hers. Two coins: a whole ceiling, and some of it over Louis. Both of those are space.

Louis is standing there with his coin already out. The other one is not mine to put in, and it is not yours either. It is sitting on Ava's wrist.

From the bookTap. Tap. Pause.

Here is a thing about Silverton that even Ava did not know, and Ava is fairly certain she knows everything.

The library has a telescope on the roof. On the first Friday of the month, anybody at all can go up the little stairs and look through it. Anybody, for nothing. Say where.

Child readsUp on the roof!

Ava “Nothing? Not even one coin?”

Mum “Not even one. There is a queue, and it is usually freezing, and you get about a minute each.”

Ava “A MINUTE?”

Mum “Somebody in the queue always says wow. It is not a rule. It just happens.”

Ava “What can you SEE?”

Mum “Saturn, last time. With the ring on it. A real ring.”

Ava stopped walking. Ava stopping is rare enough that a pigeon turned round to check.

And then, forty steps later, at the bus stop, a shop window did what shop windows do.

TELESCOPE. SIX COINS.

The shop by the bus stop sells a telescope of its own. It is orange. It is plastic. It is about as long as Ava's arm, and there is a comet on the box, which is not at all the same as there being a comet.

Ava “Six coins. I have got SIX COINS.”

She had it up against her eye before anybody could say a single word. Ava's feet vote before the rest of her has finished reading.

Ava “I can see... the bus stop.”

Ava “It is CLOSER though.”

Ava “And now I can see a bin. Louis, I can see a bin REALLY WELL.”

And she could. That is a true and honest fact about that telescope: it makes the bus stop bigger. It does not do a great deal else.

Meanwhile, on Friday, there is Saturn, with a ring on it, and it costs nobody anything. Where is it?

Child readsUp on the roof!

Louis “Friday costs nothing.”

Ava “Friday is once. This one is every night. In my BED.”

Which is fair, and Louis knows it is fair, and that is exactly why Louis has gone quiet.

Six coins buys a telescope that lives in a pocket, works on a Tuesday, and mostly shows you a slightly larger bus stop. Nothing at all buys Saturn, once a month, on a roof, in a queue, in the cold, and then you hand it straight back.

One of those is free. Free is not the same as better. I have checked.

I am not telling you which. Ask the grown-up next to you which one they would pick, and then disagree with them.

From the bookTap. Tap. Pause.

There is one sentence Ava has said roughly four hundred times, and here it comes again.

Ava “I did not win the Silverton Speed Cup last year.”

She has said it on a Monday. She has said it in the bath. She said it once to a pigeon, and the pigeon left.

And then, in the window at Budget Bend, on the middle shelf, between the string and the socks: a trophy. Gold. Two handles. Shining away like an important occasion.

Louis “It is plastic.”

Ava “It is GOLD plastic.”

A gold plastic trophy. Seven coins. Ava has seven coins, which is not so much a coincidence as a trap.

Ava's eyes went wide and stayed wide. She did not blink for a length of time that would worry a doctor.

Eyes, with Ava. Yours might do something else altogether. Mine fog up, which in a small shop is no help to anybody.

Mum “Seven coins is all of them, love.”

Louis “We have got a cereal box at home.”

Ava “A cereal box is not a trophy, Louis.”

And here is the whole of Louis in two words. He is not arguing. He is just adding something on the end. Say it with him.

Child readsNot yet.

He went home and came back with the box, a roll of foil, and the good scissors.

Nobody knows why the good scissors live on top of the fridge. But they are down now, there is a cereal box on the table, and Louis has that look.

Louis “This one can say whatever we want.”

Ava “Whatever we want?”

Louis “Whatever you want.”

Ava looked at the shop trophy. Then the cereal box. Then the shop trophy again, quickly, twice, like somebody watching tennis.

Ava “It could say FASTEST IN SILVERTON.”

Louis “It could.”

Ava “Even though that is not TRUE yet.”

And there are those two words again, and this time they are doing a lot of work. Go on.

Child readsNot yet.

One is shiny and finished and sitting there being gold right now. The other is a box, and foil, and a whole afternoon, and it says nothing at all so far.

So. Seven coins and a gold one today, or no coins and a cardboard one by teatime. I am not telling you. You have got a grown-up right there, and this is exactly what they are for.

From the bookTap. Tap. Pause.

Louis works Saturdays at the car wash. The car wash belongs to Mr Mean, and Mr Mean is not, on the whole, a morning person.

Louis has two green buckets and three sponges. The buckets are fine. The sponges have seen things.

One of them has reached the end. There is a word for what has happened to it. Say it with a lot of feeling.

Child readsIt has gone crunchy.

Ava “Crunchy?”

Louis “Crunchy.”

It had. You could have knocked it on the wall like a biscuit, and it made exactly that noise.

Three sponges, one of them crunchy. A pack of four is two coins at Budget Bend. Louis has five coins. Hold on to that number, it does something in a minute.

Ava “Two coins. You have got FIVE.”

Louis “I know what my five coins are for.”

He did, as well. He decided on Tuesday. One coin for the jar. Three towards a torch. One for a doughnut on the way home, which was never up for discussion.

Louis decides on a Tuesday. Ava decides while she is already running. Neither of them is doing it wrong, whatever the sponge thinks.

Ava “You did not know about the sponge on Tuesday.”

Louis “No.”

Ava “So the plan is WRONG.”

Louis “The plan is old.”

Mr Mean “Car at two. Bring sponges that work.”

Mr Mean says everything as though the words themselves are costing him. He pays what he said he would pay. Eventually.

Ava's feet started going. They do that when a thing is obvious to her and slow for everybody else.

And the sponge just sat there in the bucket, being exactly what it is. One more time.

Child readsIt has gone crunchy.

Louis “If I buy sponges, the torch is further away.”

Ava “If you do not buy sponges, you are washing a car with a BISCUIT.”

So. Five coins. A jar, a torch, a doughnut, and a sponge nobody invited. Something has to move, and moving it is not a telling-off. It is just what happens to plans.

Louis “I could change it.”

Ava “YES.”

Louis “I could also not.”

And that is Louis. He is not being good. He is being Louis. I am not telling you which one he picked, because you have got a grown-up sitting there and this is a two-person job.

From the bookTap. Tap. Pause.

At Budget Bend, on the shelf between the batteries and the string, there is a small tin with writing on the lid.

GLOWS IN THE DARK

That is what it says on the lid, in four words, and Ava read them out about nine times on the way down the aisle. Have a go.

Child readsIt glows in the dark.

Ava “Louis. It GLOWS.”

Louis “In the dark.”

Ava “That is the BEST time to glow.”

Four coins. Ava has four coins. Keep hold of that number, because later on it comes back wearing a different hat.

Ava had a list going before they were out of the aisle. A stripe down the scooter. A star on her door. Every step of the stairs, so the stairs would be a runway.

Ava “And the hallway. The WHOLE hallway.”

Mum “Not the whole hallway, love.”

Ava “A bit of the hallway.”

Mum “We can talk about a bit of the hallway.”

Notice that. Mum did not say no. Mum made it smaller and left it open, and now there is a hallway conversation coming that nobody can stop.

Ava's hands had got hold of the tin and had no plans to give it back. It is always hands with Ava in a shop. Yours might be a hot face, or a chest that pulls. Mine hover, and fool nobody.

Louis “Your wheel still squeaks.”

Ava “It is a FEATURE.”

Louis “Three coins fixes it.”

Ava went quiet. Ava going quiet is rare enough that a pigeon outside turned round to check.

Three coins to fix the wheel. Four coins for the tin. Ava has four coins. Not four and four. Four.

And that is the bit that gets everybody, and it is never the wanting. It is finding out the coins are the same coins both times.

The tin sat in her hands doing the one thing it does. Read the lid again.

Child readsIt glows in the dark.

Ava “If I fix the wheel, nothing glows.”

Louis “If you buy the tin, you squeak in the dark.”

Ava “GLOWING and squeaking.”

Louis “Still squeaking.”

Mum “They are both allowed, love. They are just not both allowed today.”

So. One tin that glows. One wheel that squeaks. Four coins that can only ever be four coins. I am not telling you which. There is somebody sitting next to you, and that is what they are there for.

From the bookTap. Tap. Pause.

Spend Street is the loud one. Every window is doing its best, all at once, straight at you.

Ava stopped outside the shoe shop, where a brown owl in a purple jacket was arranging a pair of trainers as though they were made of weather.

SUPER SPEED TRAINERS

Ava “Mum.”

Mum “Yes, love.”

Ava reports on her own insides the way other people report on football. Live, out loud, with feeling. Here is what she said. Say it with her.

Child readsMy tummy has gone hot.

Ava “And my hands are doing the grabby thing.”

They were. Out in front, fingers open, ready to receive trainers that had not agreed to any of this.

That is Ava's one. Hot tummy, grabby hands. Yours might be hot ears, or a tight chest, or feet that will not keep still. No correct one and no wrong one. Mine plays a small tune I cannot switch off.

Mum “Thank you for telling me.”

Read that again. Not yes. Not no. Thank you for telling me. Mum does this, it works, and I still do not know how.

Ava “So can I have them?”

Mum “What does the hot bit feel like? All of it.”

Ava “Hot. And fast. And like if I do not get them the whole day is RUINED.”

Mum “That is a big one.”

Ava “It is the BIGGEST one.”

The trainers were nine coins. Ava had nine coins. In the corner of the window, quite small, the owl had a sign up saying NO REFUNDS.

Ava “Mum. It has not gone away.”

Mum “No. It does not always.”

Still there. Still hot. Nobody in this story is trying to make it stop. Say it once more, just as it is.

Child readsMy tummy has gone hot.

Mum “Here is mine. I walk to the end of the street and back. If it is still hot when I get there, I know something. If it has gone, I know something else.”

Ava “And if it is still hot?”

Mum “Then it is still hot, and you still have nine coins, and it is still your money-band.”

That is the useful thing. Not a yes, not a no. A bit of information she did not have before. With a sign like that in the window, information is worth having.

So. Nine coins. One hot tummy that nobody is trying to get rid of. One street with an end to walk to. I am not telling you, and by now you know why.

From the bookTap. Tap. Pause.

Mum's birthday is on Thursday. Ava has known for eleven days. She has told Louis, and the postman, and a dog, and then Louis again.

Ava “It is Mum's birthday on THURSDAY.”

Louis “You said.”

Ava “On THURSDAY, Louis.”

Eleven days of that. If you have ever tried to keep a surprise while also telling everybody about it, you and Ava would get on beautifully.

At Budget Bend, on the shelf with the plates, there is a mug. White. And on the side of it, in yellow, a lightning bolt.

Ava has looked at this mug and reached a conclusion. It is not a conclusion everybody would reach. Say it anyway.

Child readsIt is a fast mug.

Louis “It is a mug.”

Ava “It is a mug that GOES FAST.”

Five coins. Ava has six. Nobody asked her to buy anything. Nobody hinted. She just wants to, the way she wants everything, which is loudly and starting now.

But the sixth coin is a jar coin. Every sixth one goes in the jar. Ava made that rule up herself, on a Sunday, and has been quietly pleased about it ever since.

Five on the mug, one in the jar, nothing left over. That is the shape of it. The shape is not a problem, it is just the shape.

Ava's chest did the pulling thing, the one that pulls you at a shelf.

Louis “I have got coins.”

Ava “You have got coins?”

Louis “I could put some in. If you want.”

That is an offer. It is not a rule, and it is not a better idea, and Ava is allowed to say no to it. Sharing is something you may do. It is not something you owe.

Ava looked at the mug. Then the lightning bolt. Then her money-band, where six coins sat looking like a great deal more than six.

Ava “She has not even got a fast mug.”

Louis “She has got the green one.”

Ava “The green one is SLOW, Louis.”

And the yellow bolt sat there on the white china, going nowhere at all, at speed. Once more.

Child readsIt is a fast mug.

So. A mug with a lightning bolt on it. Six coins, one of them spoken for. A brother with an offer left lying on the table. Thursday coming whether anybody is ready or not.

I am not telling you what Ava did. Not this one. That is a job for you and whoever is sitting next to you.

From the bookTap. Tap. Pause.

There is a jar on the kitchen shelf. Not a special jar. It had jam in it once, and you can still see where the label was.

Ava “Why do you keep that?”

Mum “I like it.”

Ava “It is a JAM JAR.”

Mum “It is a jam jar I like.”

It is a jam jar. Nothing clever about it at all. That turns out to matter.

Then Mum sat down slowly, the way grown-ups do when a story is coming and there is no getting out in time.

Mum “When I was small, I wanted a pair of shoes.”

Ava “What sort of shoes?”

Mum “Red. With a strap. I wanted them so much I could hardly sleep.”

Mum. Awake. Wanting shoes. Grown-ups turn out to have been people, which is a shock every time.

And here is the whole of what she did about it. Four words. Say them slowly, because that is how they happened.

Child readsOne coin. Every week.

Mum “For six weeks.”

Ava “SIX WEEKS?”

Mum “Six.”

Ava “That is a HUNDRED weeks.”

Mum “It is six.”

Ava sat down on the floor, which she does when a thing is too big to take standing up.

Mum “And the odd bit. Every week they got a little more special.”

Ava “The shoes did?”

Mum “The shoes never moved. They sat in that window doing nothing. But every Friday I liked them more.”

Now. Mum did not say Ava should do that. Mum said what she did, once, when she was smaller than Ava. Those are two different sentences, and grown-ups mix them up constantly.

Ava “Did you get them?”

Mum “I did.”

Ava “Were they good?”

Mum “They were all right.”

Ava “ALL RIGHT?”

Mum “They were all right, love. I remember the jar more than the shoes, and that annoys me.”

All right. Not brilliant. All right. That is the bit that usually gets left out of stories like this.

Six weeks, though. And it went like this, every single one of them.

Child readsOne coin. Every week.

Ava said nothing for a while, which if you know Ava is the loudest thing she does. She looked at the jar. Then her money-band. Then the jar again.

Then she took out one coin and held it. She did not put it in the jar. She did not put it in her pocket. She just held it.

No correct answer in this kitchen. Just a coin, a hand, and an old jam jar. I have been asked not to interfere. Ask her what she would do.

From the bookTap. Tap. Pause.