My Brother's Shadow (3 page)

So I got in trouble. I was quite pleased. At least for that moment I wasn't invisible.

He didn't do his homework either, the boy, but can you do your homework if you don't have a home? That doesn't seem fair.

Maybe Mr. Wills agreed. He didn't tell the boy off, not like he did me.

He really was wild. While I dream of leaping on tables, he did it, howling at the ceiling. When the class cackled at one of Mr. Wills's stupid jokes, the boy looked around, perplexed, then clapped and barked out an imitation of a laugh. He tore books apart, chewed pencils, bolted in and out of the classroom.

No one knew what to make of him. I loved him.

From that first day I loved him. Not
loved
, loved. You know, I think he's brilliant.

My class is noisy. They sit and talk about TV and football and clothes. I like quiet; I like to think. I'm trying to clear my head.

The boy likes quiet too, when he's not howling. He never speaks. I've not heard a word from his mouth, not a whisper of a word.

He doesn't speak, but he does listen. He's great at listening whenever I want to talk.

“I miss my family,” I told him earlier today, at break time.

He stared at me, gray eyes piercing my washed-out hazelnut.

I stared back.

“I miss them all the time, Boy,” I tried again.

We were on our second-favorite bench, backs against a white-painted wall, shielded by a large, raised wooden flower bed. Jo, the school's gardener, had filled it with broad beans, onions and brussels sprouts. Not much grows in winter.

“I miss my brother most. I miss his secret smiles. I miss having someone to talk to, tell all my secrets to.”

The boy continued to stare, I think, to listen. I continued to talk about my family: a father I never
knew; my brother gone forever; my mum lost and frozen, just like me.

A tennis ball flew past us, followed by two charging boys.

“Do you have a family, Boy?” I asked.

I wasn't expecting an answer, but this question along with many others spun through my mind.
Where does he come from? Why is he here? Is he here to stay?

Only one person could answer these questions, and he cannot or will not.

Sitting is what we do most, me and my friend
. Sitting, staring. I talk, he listens. At least, I think he listens.

I still tell him about my family. I've told him more about Moses than I've told anyone before—it's easy talking to the boy. Talking to the boy is like talking to myself; he doesn't laugh or question or call me a freak. I tell him about trees—their names, seasons, colors, shapes. I tell him about school, who's who and what's what.

“Mr. Wills doesn't like me,” I said to him today.

We were in the dinner hall. Fish fingers, chips
and peas. I had nearly finished, just a few peas resting on the end of my knife. The boy was slowly slurping his orange juice.

He put it down and looked at me, brow furrowed in an expression I was beginning to recognize.

Faces are brilliant like that. It's not just the features you recognize: the nose, the eyes, the mouth. Everyone has different expressions too: a different way of smiling, saying they're happy; a different way of saying they're sad or angry or scared; a different way of saying “Go away” or “You're very welcome” or “I don't want anything to do with you.” How can a face move in so many different ways?

Here's an amazing thing too: you can copy people's expressions. Even though you can't see your own face, you can model it on someone else's.

There is only so far you can go with expressions, though; only so much you can tell with a
flick of an eyebrow. You need to use words sometimes.

“He thinks I'm stupid so he doesn't like me,” I replied to his expression, which only deepened.

“I don't think I'm stupid either,” I said. Then, in a whisper, “I'm just stuck, frozen stuck.”

The boy made a noise. You could call it a grunt, but that sounds like an animal and of course he's not an animal, not quite; he's a boy. It was a noise somewhere between a cough and a word, made deep in his throat.

I looked up to see Mr. Wills walking across the hall.

The boy looked down at my peas.

I looked down at my peas.

“OK,” I said with a nod.

So he did it. He chopped his hand down on the end of my knife; it flipped over, sending peas high into the air. One pea dropped on the table in front of us. One pea shot off behind a group
of little kids lining up. But one pea, one pea flew true. It pinged off the side of Mr. Wills's head—a perfect shot.

My eyes widened. My stomach leapt into my throat. I nearly—nearly, mind you—wet myself.

Mr. Wills turned quickly, eyes blazing. His eyebrows rocketed downwards and I knew, just knew, that he could read the guilt all over my face.

Our expressions give us away too, don't they? They can be read. And Mr. Wills read me.

“Kaia!” he shouted. “Straight to the Red-Card Room.”

Now I'm here, in the Red-Card Room, the room where you go if you're naughty. It's not too bad. Mr. Wills shouts at me. I don't defend myself. I don't want my friend to get in trouble. The head teacher makes me write apologies—to Mr. Wills, to the cook, to Harry, who was in the dinner hall.

Harry thinks he knows me. He thinks he
knows all about me. He thinks he knows all about Moses. He talks to children like me, children who are frozen and stuck, children who need to grow.

Harry shakes his head and tells me he thought I had been doing so well recently.

I don't know what he means, not quite, but when Harry's talking tears spring to my eyes.

When that was done, the apologies made, the head teacher asked if I had any homework. I said that I did. Writing in my notebook is homework. At least, it was.

It was long after the last bell rang for the end of lunch and Harry's booming voice had called all the hyenas in. I think the head teacher had forgotten about me. He nearly spilled his tea when he came into the room and found me there.

“OK, Kaia. You need to get back to class now,” he said. “Make sure you apologize to Mr. Wills properly. A proper sorry, young lady.”

Make sure you apologize to Mr. Wills. Properly
.

When was the last time I heard that word—
sorry
? When was the last time someone thought
I
needed to hear it? When would I get
my
proper apology?

I'm not a freak.

I'm not stupid.

I'm frozen.

This is what I thought about as I attacked the stairs—the long flight up to the classroom.

Animals don't say sorry, do they? Or thank you. Animals don't feel hurt. Animals and objects.

Maybe if I were an animal, maybe if I were wild or maybe if I were a block of ice. Maybe if I really were frozen, then I wouldn't feel hurt. I wouldn't care about ex-friends and lost mothers. I wouldn't even care about Mr. Wills. I wouldn't need the sorrys.

But I'm not a block. I'm a me. And I do care.

Back in class, my ex-friends were reading. Big books. Chapter books. Scary books. Pink books.
Mysteries. Histories. And one boy, a book of world records.

I stood at the door. I stared at them all. I missed my friend.

“What are you doing, Kaia?” Mr. Wills called from the computer. He sounded not angry, but close, always close to anger. Ready for one of his growls and
You're driving me mad
rants.

I heard Poppy snigger. Dev pushed his tongue into the fleshy bit beneath his bottom lip and stared at me, cross-eyed.

“Come here,” Mr. Wills said. Definitely close.

“I'm sorry, sir,” I whispered as I stopped meters away from his desk. I didn't want to get closer. I didn't want to feel the anger pulsating beneath his skin.

“What?” He leaned forwards. He hadn't heard me. “You've got to speak up, Kaia.”

“I'm sorry,” I whispered. I felt my cheeks heating, my eyes welling.

“No. For goodness' sake, come closer.”

By now, I knew, no one was reading. Everyone was looking at me. Leaning forwards, like my teacher.

I inched a step towards him.

“I'm sorry,” I whispered again.

He stared for a moment. With a look I couldn't read. “Fine,” he replied. “Just sit down. Get a book. We are reading. Silently.”

As I turned, most eyes returned to books. Most, but not all. Two piercing blue, icy blue, capped with fine blond eyebrows, still stared.

Freak
, Poppy mouthed as I returned to my seat.

If I were ice I wouldn't care. So I'll be ice. Cold and unfeeling.

I thought this. I sat down. I reached under my desk, into my tray. My hand fell on a book I know so well. My hand stroked the cover. And I knew I couldn't be ice. I did not take out the book. I ran my fingers across it once more. I didn't need to get it out to see its cover—the spreading limbs of a majestic ash (
Fraxinus excelsior
).

Every schoolchild knows the ash for its fruit, more commonly known as helicopter seeds. When ready to fall, the fruit gracefully spiral downwards, dispersed widely by the wind
.

I stood up silently and silently walked to the book corner. I reached silently to the shelf that houses my books, my slim, dull books. I silently took the first that came to hand. I turned silently. Then I yelped, not silently.

Poppy was standing beside me.

“Please!” Mr. Wills barked. “Silent in the book corner.”

“Sorry, sir,” Poppy called back sweetly. Then smiled and waited till our teacher turned back to his screen.

“He's in a right bad mood cos of you, you little freak,” she hissed, the sweetness gone, all bitterness now.

I tried to pass her. I tried to move away. She shoved me into Luzie, who was reading a book
with a playing card on the cover. The chair and table squeaked across the floor. Luzie yelled.

“Kaia!” Mr. Wills shouted. “What are you playing at today? Get back to your seat.”

I didn't reply.

Ice.

I don't know where he lives. Further than my
house; I know that. He walks with me, sometimes. He runs on silent feet; then he is there beside me.

On my way home, I have my notebook clutched in my hand and all I want is to write. To stop and write a sentence. To stop and write what I did not say.

But he's there with me. We trot together. Tears run as silent as the boy's footfall. We do not speak. We walk. And I lead him, not home but to Round Park.

Me and Moses named every park near home. Reservoir Park is built on a reservoir. Big Park is
big. Giant Park is giant with a huge hill and the best view of the city. The Field is a wide grassy plain. Squashed Park is just some swings and a broken seesaw sandwiched between a block of flats and a row of houses.

Round Park isn't round. Round Park has a roundabout, a fast roundabout that Moses used to spin me on endlessly, while I laughed and screamed and looked at the sky. Then I'd stumble off, falling sideways, and it was my brother's turn to laugh.

This is where I lead the boy. We sit and spin the wheel gently with our feet.

“I'm not a freak,” I whisper.

The boy stays silent.

“You don't think I'm a freak, do you?”

Still the boy does not answer.

“You're my friend.”

We stare for a time. Above, the clouds slowly drift. Nearby, a tiny boy, all blond hair and filthy cheeks, runs while his mum sits watching his
tumbles. On the other side of the park, beyond the football pitch, a stand of horse chestnuts gently sway.

“Aesculus hippocastanum,”
I say as they come into our ever-changing view. Even from that distance I can see the scar running down the trunk of the shortest one, the stunted one. It's a scar I know well; I've run my hand along its rough surface countless times.

I talk no more; we are friends, and friends don't need to talk. I pull a pencil from my bag and I write as the world spins.

Before we left we took a tour around the trees. I plucked two long, slender leaves, as green as green. I placed one in the boy's cool palm. The other I tucked carefully between the pages of my worn yellow book; there weren't many moments I wanted to remember, but that was one.

*  *  *

When I get home, Mum has a new hobby. Hobby. Do I have a hobby? Trees is a hobby, I guess. I want to plant one. I want to plant something. I have a packet of seeds in my room, hidden amongst my socks, tucked out of sight. I could plant them. But then they'd be gone. So I keep them safe, locked away, frozen.

Mum's new hobby is smashing stuff. I can hear her from the street.

Smash
.

There goes a plate.

Smash
.

There goes a mug.

Smash
.

There goes a jar of jam.