Apple and Rain (6 page)

Nana slams her fist on the kitchen table. ‘Apple is staying with
me
. I won’t even discuss it.’

‘If she wants to be with me, no court would prevent it,’ Mum says quietly, and although I’m not entirely sure what this means, it makes Nana wobble and I wish Mum hadn’t said it.

‘I think you should go,’ Dad snaps. He grabs Mum’s studded leather handbag from the back of one of the kitchen chairs and flings it at her.

You’d never know Mum was in the middle of an argument. She seems to be smirking. ‘You have a think about it, Apple, OK? Decide for yourself.’

I nod dumbly.

‘Get out!’ Dad shouts.

‘And remember that I love you,’ Mum adds.

A marble rises in my throat.

‘I know you do,’ I say. But until today, I had no idea.

10

Nana and Dad sit downstairs whispering. It’s obvious they are plotting against Mum. I don’t even try to overhear – I don’t want to know what they’re saying. To distract myself from having to think about it, I root in my school bag for my English homework. I find the poem Mr Gaydon gave me this morning and read through it.

It’s a poem called ‘
Stevie Scared’
about a boy who is scared of everything, and it’s sort of funny because he’s even scared of things like ladders and trees. But my favourite part of the poem is the last bit where we find out that Stevie is so afraid of the world that he hurts people to prove how tough he is; he acts mean so no one will ever know he’s a scaredy-cat.

I wonder how the poem could relate to my life. But Stevie is not me. When I’m scared, I don’t fight with people – I shrivel up.

I start typing.

‘Apple Afraid’ by Apple Apostolopoulou

Apple Afraid, afraid of fights,

Afraid of Christmas, of thundery nights,

Afraid of butterflies, afraid of slugs,

Afraid of Nana’s kisses, afraid of Dad’s hugs,

Afraid of circuses, afraid of clowns,

Afraid of Dad’s moods, afraid of Nana’s frowns,

Afraid of speaking in front of the class,

Afraid of being made to look like an ass,

Afraid of having no friends at school,

Afraid of all the girls who are easily cool,

Afraid to be honest, afraid to be true,

Afraid of Mum turning up out of the blue,

Afraid of drowning, swallowing water,

Afraid of being a lousy daughter.

I check the word count: one hundred words exactly. I cup my chin in my hand and think about printing it and handing it in. I haven’t the energy to write another fake answer. But then there’s the problem of Mr Gaydon asking us to read aloud and edit one another’s work. If he let us work with our friends and I knew Pilar would read it, that would be OK. But he could pair me with anyone. I could get Jim Joyce, for God’s sake.

I sigh and open a new document.

‘Derry’ by Apple Apostolopoulou

My dog Derry is usually very sweet and obedient. But when I take him for a walk on the lead, he gets all excited and tries to break my arm. And the scariest part is when he sees another dog, especially a big one like a Rottweiler, because Derry doesn’t realise he’s only a soppy Labrador. He starts by sniffing the Rottweiler’s bum. Then they do this dance where they go around and around in circles until Derry barks angrily and so does the other dog and there’s chaos. I worry Derry will get killed in a dogfight some day.

I press
Print
. The paper stammers out of the printer. I need to make a bigger effort with my English homework but not tonight. I have other things to think about, and doing well at school isn’t one of them.

11

‘I like your Nana,’ Pilar says. ‘I’d stay with her.’ We’ve eaten lunch and are sitting on the tennis court behind the gym, sharing a bag of liquorice laces. It’s drizzling. No one else is about.

‘Nana’s so strict all the time.’

‘But why was your mum in America anyway?’ Pilar asks.

‘She’s an actress,’ I say. I puff with pride.

‘Couldn’t she come back for holidays?’

‘She was always busy.’

‘My uncle lives in California and he said that in America you don’t get any holidays. I mean, he gets Christmas Day off, but there’s not even any such thing as Boxing Day. He works on Saturdays too.’

‘I don’t know how much she worked,’ I admit.

Pilar’s phone vibrates, and she checks it.

‘Who’s that?’ I ask.

‘No one.’

Is she trying to keep secrets from me? I poke her. ‘What do you mean “no one”?’

‘It’s Donna. She said she wants to tell me something when we get to history later.’

‘Hold on. You two are actually friends now?’ I ask.

Pilar pulls another liquorice lace from the packet. She twists it around her index finger until the tip turns purple. ‘I think so. She’s nice. Not one bit snobby like you thought.’

‘I never said she was snobby.’

Pilar bites the purple tip of her finger. ‘Have you seen
E.T.
?’

‘No,’ I say sharply. Talking about films isn’t going to help me make a decision about where to live. And I’m annoyed she’s suddenly chummy with Donna Taylor but I’m not.

‘Well, E.T. is this creature who comes from another planet,’ Pilar says.

‘Yeah, I know that.’

‘All right, all right. Anyway, E.T. comes down and meets this boy called Elliott who’s lonely and stuff, and he really loves Elliott and they have fun together and everything but then, at the end – spoiler alert – he goes back to space because that’s where he’s meant to be. It isn’t safe on Earth.’ Pilar raises her eyebrows.

Is the story supposed to mean something? I shake my head. She throws up her arms, exasperated.

‘Oh, come on. Your mum is obviously like E.T. She really loved America and everything, but there’s no place like home, is there?’

‘That’s the wrong film you’re thinking of. It’s Dorothy from
The Wizard of Oz
who says “there’s no place like home”.’

‘But you get my point,’ Pilar says.

The bell rings for the end of lunch. Pilar jumps up. I stay where I am.

Pilar takes off towards 200 Block and double French. ‘Come on!’ she shouts.

Puddles are forming in the dips in the playground. The rain is more than a drizzle now.

I imagine I am wearing ruby wellingtons. If I were, and I could bump them together and find myself in either Nana’s house or Mum’s, where would I go? What would I wish for?

‘There’s no place like home,’ I say aloud. I think of Nana, her mouth bent into an angry grimace.

‘There’s no place like home,’ I say again. I think of Mum’s beautiful American smile.

‘There’s no place like home,’ I say one last time. I close my eyes. I bump my heels together. When I open my eyes, I’m still at school.

And I’m no closer to knowing where home is.

‘Hurry up, Apple!
Nous sommes
going to be
trop tard
,’ Pilar shouts.

I stuff the liquorice laces into my blazer pocket and follow Pilar to class.

12

When Nana and I get home from school that evening, Mum is sitting on our front steps eating a scone. ‘Hey guys!’ she says. She jumps up. Crumbs fall from her denim skirt. She’s got leopard print tights on under it.

‘What do you want?’ Nana asks.

‘Hi, Mum!’ I say. I go to her and she kisses both my cheeks.

‘I’ve found an apartment in a good neighbourhood. I wondered if Apple wanted to come over for dinner. I’ve someone I’d like her to meet.’

‘I’d love to come,’ I say.

Nana clicks her tongue. She takes my hand and forces me to stand behind her as though Mum’s a bomb that could detonate at any second. ‘I’ve baked salmon for dinner. I don’t like waste.’

‘How about after dinner then?’ Mum asks.

‘Apple has homework to do and she has school tomorrow, in case you’d forgotten,’ Nana says. She is careful not to say no outright.

‘OK.’ Mum nibbles on a fingernail. ‘How about the weekend?’

‘Apple practises her clarinet at the weekends.’

‘Not for the whole weekend,’ I say. I peep out from behind Nana. Mum tilts her head to the side and smiles. My insides bubble. I still can’t believe she’s back. I keep expecting I’ll wake up from a dream or Nana will sit me down and break the news that Mum’s gone again.

‘Sunday?’ Mum asks.

‘You can fetch her at one o’clock after we’ve been to Mass, but you’re to have her back before five, so she can get ready for the week,’ Nana says. She marches up the steps, past Mum, and roughly unlocks the front door. ‘Come inside please, Apple.’ I do as I’m told. Nana leaves Mum there on the steps like some criminal we need to be afraid of.

‘Can’t she come in?’ I ask.

Mum tucks her hair behind her ears, which have three piercings apiece. ‘It’s all right, Apple.’

‘No, it isn’t all right. It’s my house too,’ I say.

‘Go upstairs and do your homework,’ Nana says.

‘Go on, Apple. I’ll see you on Sunday.’

I don’t want to, but I stomp up to my room. I open the window and look out. I can only see the tops of Mum’s and Nana’s heads.

I can hear everything.

Mum:
I told you I was sorry.

Nana:
Eleven years, Annie. That is how long I have waited to hear you say it.

Mum:
Can you let me try to make it up to you? I’ve someone I want you to meet. An important someone.

Nana:
I don’t think so. Apple’s had quite enough of that kind of thing from her father.

Mum:
What? Oh yeah, I see what you mean. So Chris got married eventually. I don’t know why, but it makes me sad.

Nana:
Could we avoid the melodrama, if possible, Annie? Now don’t you be late on Sunday.

Nana disappears inside. The door bangs. Mum shuffles down the steps.

When she’s at the bottom, she looks up at the house and sees me. I wave, and she waves back. And I start wondering how it would be if I never had to wave goodbye any more. I start thinking it would be really nice.

13

The first thing Mum and I do on Sunday afternoon is make a stop at The Palace Hotel. I’ve had lunch, so Mum orders me a vanilla milkshake and a fudge brownie. She eats a pear and goat’s cheese salad. We talk about TV and books and school – things I can’t speak to Nana about because Nana’s only hobbies are going to church and watching cookery programmes.

‘Donna Taylor thinks she’s something then, does she?’ Mum asks, her eyes wide, so I know she’s interested.

‘Sort of.’

‘And why’s that?’

‘Well, she’s pretty and she wears nice shoes and make-up and she seems older,’ I say.

‘What? But y
ou’re
pretty, and getting shoes and make-up isn’t a big deal.’

‘Nana won’t buy me any make-up and we get my shoes from Clarks so yes, it is a big deal,’ I tell her.

Mum shudders as though I’ve said something frightening. ‘We’re going shopping!’ she says, and summons the waiter.

In town I try on about a hundred pairs of shoes – red ones, gold ones, a pair of platforms covered in diamonds and loads of others that I would never wear. Mum makes me pose, stretched across the seats in the shoe shop, then takes funny pictures with her camera phone. Even when the shop assistant mutters something about time-wasters, Mum doesn’t care: she sticks out her tongue at the assistant behind her back, which makes me fall down on the floor laughing.

I finally find the pair I love – brown ballet shoes with golden buckles across the toes. Mum doesn’t even ask the price. She tells the shop assistant to ring them up and hands her a credit card.

‘They’re sixty pounds,’ I whisper to Mum.

‘Good. We’ll have plenty of money left for make-up,’ she says, and winks.

Mum lets me choose anything I want from the make-up counter as long as it isn’t tested on animals. So I get a tube of foundation, a blackest-black mascara, some pink blusher and a packet of tinted lip glosses. Mum also grabs some green plastic-rimmed sunglasses, which she says I’m to wear even in the winter – if I don’t want to get lines around my eyes.

By four thirty I’m so happy it could be Christmas – how I always imagined Christmas
should
feel.

Driving home, Mum doesn’t stop at zebra crossings, and she whizzes through roundabouts, hardly checking for other cars, all to make it back on time. Which we do.

We pull up outside Nana’s house at exactly four fifty-nine.