Apple and Rain (26 page)

Nana/Me:
Doesn’t Her Majesty have a phone?

Mum/Rain:
She kept me chained up in a dark tower.

Nana/Me:
Oh, Annie, that’s awful. Come here and let me give you a hug.

Mum/Rain:
I’m sorry I got everybody so worried.

Nana/Me:
And I’m sorry I thought the worst. Do you want some tea?

Mum/Rain:
Have you got any wine?

We giggle.

‘You should go down and see Mum,’ I say.

Rain puts her arms around my waist. ‘I want to live wherever you’re living,’ she says.

Before I can respond, someone is knocking on my door. Derry barks then Mum appears. She looks even sadder than she did when she arrived.

‘Hi, girls,’ Mum says.

She sits on the bed. She takes one of my hands and one of Rain’s. ‘I think a family meeting is overdue.’ She squeezes my hand. ‘Would you give me a second
second
chance, Apple?’

‘Can I think about it?’ I ask. It’s too soon after everything to know what to do for the best.

‘Of course,’ Mum says. She inches closer to Rain. ‘And what about you? Will you forgive me?’

‘What for?’ Rain replies.

‘For everything, Rain.’

I scoot out of the room. Before I showed up, it was just Mum and Rain, like it had always been Nana and me, and maybe it’s OK for it to be like that again sometimes.

Nana is piling fried food on to four plates. I make her sit down and I finish scrambling the eggs, then set the table and dish baked beans and mushrooms on to the plates. It smells delicious. Without waiting for Mum or Rain to come down, I dive in. It’s the first hot breakfast I’ve had in weeks. It tastes so good.

‘Nana, what’s going to happen with Rain? Can she live here?’ I ask.

Nana nods. ‘I’ve offered for them both to stay here until Annie finds her feet. She said she’ll think about it.’

‘She’s not going back to America?’ I ask. It was my biggest fear. That I would betray Mum and lose her again. But lose her for ever.

‘I don’t think she wants to go anywhere at the moment. I think we’re all going to take a break from making decisions for now,’ Nana says.

My phone beeps:
Walk to school with me? I’ll let you touch my binoculars ;)

I smile and message Del back:
Can u leave now? I have to go 2 the computer lab 2 finish off sum hmwk.

I wriggle into my uniform, call a goodbye up the stairs to Mum and Rain, and kiss Nana’s cheek.

‘Don’t build a boat or anything while I’m at school,’ I tell her. ‘
Rest
.’

‘Aye, aye, captain,’ Nana says. ‘You’re sure you’ll be safe walking to school?’

I could roll my eyes or tut or stomp off in a rage. I don’t because Nana’s just trying to protect me. She doesn’t want me getting kidnapped.

‘I’ll text you when I get there,’ I promise, and skip out of the door.

48

Del sits next to me in the computer room, caressing my neck and kissing my face and generally distracting me from my homework. I’m trying to get Mr Gaydon’s assignment typed up before the bell goes.

For the second time, I don’t bother writing a fake back-up. I just write the truth, every word of it, and print it out ready to hand in.

‘What have you loved?’ I ask Del as we leave the computer room.

He scratches his chin. ‘Do you have to ask?’ He flutters his eyelashes.

‘You’re so cheesy,’ I say.

He bows. ‘I aim to cheese.’ He reaches into his mermaid bag. ‘Actually, that reminds me. I got you something.’ He pulls out a small bar of Toblerone. ‘For you,’ he says.

Del and I walk hand in hand, heads in the air, into registration. Everyone gapes; no one even expected to see me back in school again, let alone holding hands with a boy.

Pilar and Donna are sitting at the back. Donna is admiring herself in a hand mirror and patting her nose with powder. Pilar is reading a tattered paperback. When Del and I take the desk next to them, Pilar looks up amazed and gives me a wary half-smile, like she isn’t sure whether she should be acknowledging my existence or not. I don’t wait to see what Donna’s reaction is. I don’t want to know.

Mrs Wilkins takes the register and on my way out asks to see me. ‘You’re back again, Apple,’ she says, haphazardly stacking a pile of books under her arm.

‘Yes, miss,’ I say.

‘Well, that’s good news. Doctor Dillon was under the impression we were going to have to involve . . .’ Mrs Wilkins sees Del at my side and changes her mind about whatever it was she was going to say. ‘OK, get to class. We can talk another time.’

On the way to English, Del and I run into Egan Winters in the corridor. He’s talking loudly into his phone.

‘All right, mate,’ Del says.

Egan sees us and hangs up. ‘Ugh. My brother winds me up. But that’s what brothers do, I suppose.’

‘And sisters,’ I say.

‘Del told me you found Rain,’ Egan says.

‘Yeah. And my mum.’

Egan nods. ‘I gotta run to a lesson. But I’m glad everything’s worked out,’ he says. He hesitates then gives me a quick hug. He high-fives Del. And he rushes off.

Someone taps my shoulder. I turn. It’s Donna Taylor. And Pilar.

‘You’re friends with
Egan Winters
?’ Donna asks.

I sniff like it’s no big deal. I know it is. In our school, it’s a very big deal.

Donna pokes me. ‘So, will you introduce me to him?’

‘Egan? Don’t you think he’s a bit weird?’ Del says. Del still doesn’t know what’s happened between Egan and me. He wouldn’t understand. And even if he did, he doesn’t need to know.

‘Weird?’ Donna says. She smirks. ‘Uh, no. I think you’ll find that
you’re
the weirdo, and Egan Winters is perfect.’

‘Del isn’t weird,’ I say.

Donna laughs so loudly it seems like a kind of perform­ance. ‘Isn’t he?’

I was so happy to be coming back to school, I forgot about how truly nasty Donna could be. And I didn’t expect her to start having a go at me straight away. Couldn’t she have given me a day to settle back in? Would that have been too much to ask?

‘No, he isn’t weird,’ I repeat. My voice wobbles. I take Del’s hand.

Donna laughs harder. ‘Anyway, Crab Apple, you and your
boyfriend
make a lovely couple,’ she says. She links arms with Pilar who is staring at us.

My insides tighten. I’m not sure why Donna does this to me, but what I
do
know is that if I don’t stand up to her now, I’ll be putting up with her nastiness all year, maybe next year and the year after that too. So I hold my breath and take a step towards her. She quits laughing, coughs, and pulls Pilar closer.

‘Got something to say?’ She sneers.

‘The thing is, Donna, I actually couldn’t give a crap what you think because you’re just a spiteful cow. So, why don’t you pick on someone who cares?’ I say. I breathe hard and wait for Donna to slap me or to say something crushing.

But she just blinks and flicks her hair over her shoulder. ‘Loser,’ she mutters and stomps off, leaving Pilar behind.

Del laughs. ‘Loser? That’s it? Someone give that girl a comedy award.’

‘It wasn’t much of a comeback, was it?’ I say and laugh too, relieved. I’m not sure I’ve beaten Donna, but I think I’ve managed to swat her away for the time being.

Pilar is biting away a smile. ‘You’ve upset her,’ she says.

I shrug.

‘You’re back at school then,’ Pilar goes on.

‘Looks like it,’ I say.

‘That’s good,’ she says.

‘Pilar, aren’t you coming?’ Donna screeches from halfway down the corridor. Her face is all scrunched up.

‘You’d better run along,’ I say.

Pilar rolls her eyes. Maybe she wants to be friends again, but she’ll have to wait. And she’ll have to say sorry for ditching me in the first place.

‘We’ve got to go anyway,’ I say. I turn away.

Del throws his arm over my shoulder and we march off.

In English, Mr Gaydon stops by my desk while everyone else is working. ‘Nice to have you with us again,’ he says.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘I read the poems you emailed to me. All I can say is . . . wonderful.’

‘What poems?’ Del asks.

‘None of your beeswax, Mr Holloway,’ Mr Gaydon snaps.

Del shrugs and continues writing.

‘And I wanted to give you this, Apple,’ Mr Gaydon says. He hands me a flyer with the words
POETRY COMPETITION
splattered across it in neon yellow. ‘Each school can submit one poem. It’s a national award and I once had a student who won a bronze medal. I’m hoping for a medal this year too. Maybe a gold. And I was also hoping you’d let me send in one of yours.’ Mr Gaydon is not a shy or easily embarrassed person, but his neck is pink.

My own face flushes. Teachers never pick me for anything except cleaning-up duties.

‘Could we choose the poem together? Or maybe I could write a new one,’ I say. I think things in my life will be different now. I want to write about how different they are.

Mr Gaydon smiles. ‘Of course. Brilliant. Yes, Apple, you should write a brand new one especially for the competition. I can help you edit it.’

Del isn’t meant to be listening, but when Mr Gaydon goes back to his desk, he nudges me. ‘Boffin,’ he says. He isn’t being mean or jealous. He is grinning because he is happy for me.

‘OK, you lot,’ Mr Gaydon says. ‘The last poem in this unit is a portion of ‘‘The Great Lover’’ by the very handsome Rupert Brooke.’

Sharon Bowerman gives Mr Gaydon a thumbs up.

Jim Joyce wolf whistles.

‘Have you all written your responses to it for homework?’

There is uniform nodding.

‘Shall I read the poem aloud, sir?’ Donna Taylor asks. She must have made up with Mr Gaydon while I was away.

‘That’s very nice of you, Donna. But you know what, I think I’ll do it,’ Mr Gaydon says. He cracks his knuckles and reads. He has a voice like the ones you hear on the radio. We all stare. Even the boys.

‘“The Great Lover” by Rupert Brooke,

‘
These I have loved:

White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,

Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust;

Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust

Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food;

Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;

And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;

And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,

Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon;

Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon

Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss

Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is

Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen

Unpassioned beauty of a great machine;

The benison of hot water; furs to touch;

The good smell of old clothes; and other such –

The comfortable smell of friendly fingers,

Hair’s fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers

About dead leaves and last year’s ferns . . .
’

I listen until the end of the poem with my eyes closed, picturing every one of the things that Rupert Brooke loves.

When I open my eyes, Mr Gaydon is watching me. He smiles.

‘It’s a pretty moving piece, don’t you think?’ he says. If anyone disagrees, they don’t say so.

Mr Gaydon turns to the board and starts to write on it. ‘The poet Seamus Heaney wrote the poem “Blackberry
-
Picking”, which you all read earlier this term,’ Mr Gaydon reminds us. ‘And Heaney once said that he believed in this.’ He stops writing and stands back so we can read what’s on the board:

poetry’s ability – and responsibility – to say what happens

‘And that’s what I hope you have all done this term in your homework. It isn’t easy, but telling something as it is, telling the truth, always seems more beautiful and poetic than anything else,’ Mr Gaydon says.

I think of all the lies I’ve written and passed off as true. I don’t feel any regret about it, it was self-preservation, but it was such a waste of time.

‘I’m probably hoping for a miracle,’ Mr Gaydon says, scanning the classroom, ‘but I don’t suppose any of you would like to read out your poems? Anyone willing to tell us what they’ve loved over the course of their lives?’

The room is silent. It’s probably the most personal thing Mr Gaydon has ever made us write. The thought of reading it cold to the whole class is scary.