Apple and Rain (11 page)

Nana waits a couple of seconds, and when she realises we’re done, turns and heads down the stairs. ‘God bless you all,’ she calls out and leaves me feeling like a piece of me has left too.

Part 3

23

‘Are you sure you want to take Jenny with you?’ Mum asks Rain on our way to school. ‘I’d be happy to keep her with me.’

‘She’d cry,’ Rain says. She’s sitting in the back of the car wearing the same green uniform I wore when I was at Littleton Park. Jenny is perched on her lap; Rain hasn’t insisted on a car seat yet.

‘Are you nervous?’ I ask.

‘I hope Jenny will be OK,’ she says.

Mum gives me a sideways look that says she doesn’t believe Rain and pulls up next to my school gates. ‘Want a lift home?’

‘I get a choice?’ I ask.

‘Huh?’ Mum doesn’t understand because she doesn’t go around assuming murderers are after me.

‘I’ll walk,’ I say.

I open the car door and see Egan Winters locking up his bike. I brush my skirt with my hand.

‘Who’s that?’ Mum asks.

‘No one,’ I say. Heat rushes up my chest to my neck.

‘What’s his name?’

‘Egan,’ I say.

‘Egan? He’s cute.’

‘Who’s cute?’ Rain asks, suddenly interested.

‘Why don’t you ask him out?’ Mum says.

She must be mad. I shake my head. ‘He’s a sixth-former.’

‘So? If you like him, what does it matter? You have to get him,’ Mum says. She ruffles my hair and loosens my tie.

‘You’re making her look like a homeless person,’ Rain says.

‘Shut up,’ I say.

Mum leans in with a stick of gloss. She smears it across my lips. ‘It’s a start,’ she says. ‘Now go on.’

I climb out of the car and through the school gates. Mum drives off without beeping or waving or doing anything else remotely embarrassing.

I reach the main doors at the same time as Egan Winters. I pause to let him through first.

‘No, go on,’ he says.

Is he speaking to me? I look up, stunned. Egan Winters has a bike chain slung over his shoulder. And he is peering at me.

‘Thanks,’ I say. I try smiling, but it’s so strained I probably look like I’m choking on a marble.

Not that Egan Winters notices. His phone rings and he answers it. ‘Mate!’ he says. ‘No way. Mate,
no way
. You’re such a mug.’ He laughs and pushes past me into the school.

The rest of the day goes as I expected. I’m alone in lessons, at lunch and in the corridors walking between classes. I hum whenever I see Donna or Pilar so they’ll think I don’t care that they’re best friends now. I keep my back straight and paste a smile across my face. They choose Hazel and Mariah for their group in English and I sit by the wall alone. I use charcoal on sugar paper to draw the images I find in the war poems Mr Gaydon has given us. I try to concentrate really hard on the work.

My favourite poem is by someone called Rupert Brooke. He makes war sound brave and beautiful and all the people who fight in it like heroes. When Mr Gaydon looks at my drawings, I tell him this. He answers me using a really loud voice that is meant for everyone else in the class to hear. ‘Ah, yes, you’re right, Apple. “The Soldier” by Rupert Brooke is rather patriotic.’ He lifts his chin and quotes from the poem:

‘
If I should die, think only this of me;

That there’s some corner of a foreign field

That is for ever England.

‘Sounds magnificent. But Rupert Brooke might not have written that if he’d known he was about to die himself. Look at this.’

Mr Gaydon goes to the Smartboard. He opens the internet and displays a picture of a man with spongy hair. ‘That’s Rupert Brooke. He died during the war when he was twenty-seven. He was in France on an expedition. Do you know how he died?’ We all sit there. How would any of us know? ‘Mosquito bite,’ Mr Gaydon says.

Some kids laugh. Mr Gaydon doesn’t. ‘Not exactly the glorious death he imagined. And I doubt any death on the battlefield is as romantic or heroic as poems or films or anything else would make it seem. The poetry from the First World War is particularly sad because by the end, no one quite remembered why they were fighting.’ Mr Gaydon pauses, waiting for someone to say something clever. All I can think about is myself; how I get hot and angry with people and then a few days later I’m still mad, but I’m not sure why any more.

‘He’s cute,’ Sharon Bowerman says from the front of the room.

Mr Gaydon rolls his eyes. ‘Thank you, Sharon. He isn’t cute though. He’s dead. That’s what war does. It kills people. Nothing else. It hurts the innocent and guilty alike because it doesn’t discriminate.’

I stop listening and focus on Donna. She is holding her chin in her hand. She is staring at Mr Gaydon with a thin smile. Her dad is in the army. He’s away at war now, and Donna always acts like he’s a big hero. But Mr Gaydon’s kind of saying that war is pointless and the more he goes on, the thinner Donna’s smile gets.

‘So your homework is to write about
your
war. Who are you at war with and why? Could be your parents or your teachers or maybe your own addiction to almonds.’ He laughs. No one else does. Mr Gaydon is nice, but he isn’t funny. ‘Think about Wilfred Owen’s poetry when you’re writing. And Sassoon’s.’

‘I’ll definitely be thinking about Rupert Brooke,’ Sharon shouts out.

‘I’m sure you will, Sharon,’ Mr Gaydon says. And the hometime bell rings.

I’m lumbering through the playground wishing I’d told Mum to pick me up, and as if she’s read my mind, there she is. But unlike Nana who’d be practically holding up a sign with my name on it, Mum is at the railings wearing a black leather jacket and sunglasses. She doesn’t stick out at all. Actually, she looks cool.

‘I hope you don’t mind me showing up. The car was hissing at me so I dropped it off at the garage. I was walking this way anyway to collect Rain. I’ll slink off, if you want.’

‘No, no.’ I kiss her cheek proudly. ‘I’m happy you’re here.’

‘And look who else is here,’ Mum says. She tilts her head and winks.

Egan Winters is unlocking his bike. He must sense us watching him and looks up. The sun is in his face. He squints.

‘Come with me,’ Mum says. She starts towards him.

‘
Mum
,’ I say under my breath. It’s too late. She’s gone. I shuffle after her.

‘Hey, how’s it goin’?’ she says to Egan. She sounds more American than usual.

‘Fine,’ he says. He hangs his bag across the bike frame.

Mum touches the reflector near the handlebars. ‘I’m gonna buy Apple a bike. How do you get on with this one?’ she says. If Nana were talking to him, I’d die on the spot, but Mum’s different. She’s young and pretty and dresses a bit like a sixth-former.

Egan sniffs. ‘It’s OK.’

‘Not like having a car, right?’

‘My uncle’s a mechanic, so he’ll sort me out with a car when I pass my test. I’m taking it soon,’ Egan says.

‘Let me guess: a Ford Fiesta?’ She tucks her hair behind her ears.

Egan smiles. ‘Nah. I want a BMW. Metallic black. Leather interior.’

‘Dream on,’ Mum says.

Egan laughs. ‘Exactly!’

Mum puts her arm around me. ‘Do you know my daughter?’

Egan looks at me – like really and truly looks at me. ‘You play the oboe, don’t you? What year you in?’

‘Uh, Year Eight. I play the clarinet.’

‘You play an instrument too?’ Mum asks.

‘In school I play the flute. My dad’s a music teacher. I also play bass guitar. I’m in a band called The Farewells.’

‘Nice,’ Mum says. ‘And what’s your name?’

‘Egan,’ he says.

‘Well, good to meet you. We’d better go. See you around, Egan,’ Mum says.

‘Bye,’ I say.

Egan throws one leg over his bike.

When I catch up with Mum, she pinches my elbow. ‘Next time we’ll invite him to the party.’

‘What party?’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Apple, the Egan Winters party,’ she squeaks. ‘I can hardly wait.’

Rain is sitting on the kerb outside Littleton Park Primary holding Jenny. Her red curls are loose and tangled. The knees of her white tights are grey. She has the beginnings of a black eye.

Mum sits next to her. ‘Where are your glasses?’

‘In my bag. They broke,’ Rain says.

‘How?’

‘Everyone in England is stupid, that’s how. They tried to take Jenny away when we were having PE, and then some of the kids said dumb things. So I hit them. I gave a boy a bloody nose.’

Mum picks at her lips. ‘You started a fight? Oh, Rain,
why
?’

‘I told you. They were
mean
. I’m not coming back here.’

‘We’ll talk about that later, but first I want to speak to them myself. I’m going inside for a minute. You wait with Apple.’

‘Whatever,’ Rain says.

Mum pulls at the cuffs of her leather jacket and marches into the school.

I sit next to Rain on the kerb. ‘You have to go to school. Jenny will be fine with Mum at home.’

‘Would
you
leave your baby with her?’ Rain asks.

I pick up a grey stone and roll it between my fingers. ‘Probably.’ I think about myself as a baby and how much I needed Mum. How I’ve always needed her.

‘Then you don’t know her very well,’ Rain says. She stands and heads up the hill.

‘Where are you going?’ I call out.

‘Home,’ she says. ‘These meetings always take for ever.’

‘You’ve had fights at school before?’

‘Loads of times. I broke a girl’s finger once.’

I chase after her. ‘You what?’

‘It was only her little finger.’ She touches her bruised eye.

Anyone would think from the look and sound of Rain that she’s tough. But for some reason, I can’t help wanting to protect her.

24

Light filters through the curtains. I bolt upright and grab my phone. It’s nine thirty. ‘Damn,’ I say aloud and jump out of bed. I’ve never slept in before. I’ve never been late for school.

The bunk above creaks. ‘What’s wrong?’ Rain asks.

‘Uhh.’ I rub my head. I didn’t mean to have anything to drink last night, but Gina and Merlin came over for dinner and Mum made Martini cocktails. I couldn’t resist tasting one.

‘You hung-over
again
?’ Rain asks.

‘Don’t be stupid. I’m late. And so are you. Get a move on.’ I don’t have time for a shower. I hardly have time to brush my hair. I pull on my grey uniform and grab my school bag from under the desk. My English exercise book falls out and lies open in front of me accusingly. I tut.

‘Now what?’ Rain hasn’t moved.

‘I forgot about my homework.’

‘Me too,’ she admits. ‘But I’m not going in anyway. Mum said I could stay home.’

‘She what?’

Rain climbs down the ladder with Jenny. ‘She said all the teachers are Looney Tunes.’

‘Which ones?’ The teachers I knew at Littleton Park were all really nice. They read us stories and sang with us. Sometimes they gave us fun-sized Snickers. I don’t remember any of them being crazy.

‘
All
of them are loons,’ Rain says. She picks up the spotty socks she wore yesterday and puts them on.

‘I’m going to get some breakfast,’ I say.

Mum is in the kitchen wearing a cream blouse and skinny jeans. ‘Morning, honey,’ she says. She blows me a kiss.

‘Why didn’t you wake me?’ I ask.

‘I did put my head around the door and shout, but you were out cold. Late night, last night. Anyway I’ve a meeting in half an hour with an agent. She gets everyone a part in
EastEnders
. Apparently.’

‘
EastEnders
from the telly?’