by Pollen
“So, what do you think?” he asks me, as we traipse up the stairs for about the fiftieth time. Robin’s carrying two massive boxes; I can only manage a tote bag full of clothes.
“I don’t get it,” I tell him honestly.
He laughs. “One day you’ll understand.”
That pisses me off because it’s super-patronizing. Like when Robin tells Mum he never wants kids, and she says You’ll change your mind someday. He gets mad at that. But apparently, it’s okay for him to do it.
There is an upside to all this, though. I’m getting Robin’s room, which means I’ll finally have room to put all my posters up. There are two I’ve wanted up for ages. One is a guide to all the raptors—that means birds of prey—you can see in Europe. I got it for my birthday last year. The other is a Peters projection world map. Regular world maps are Mercator projections. They have straight longitude lines, but all the countries and islands are stretched to fit on a flat surface, so nothing’s the right size, especially if it’s near the poles. For example, Greenland is about ten times its actual size on a Mercator. Peters projections show all the countries to scale. In my opinion, they are much better maps, as long as you aren’t using them to navigate with.
On the whole, though, I’d probably still rather have Robin. Even if he is a pain in the ass sometimes.
“Is that it?” Mum says, as we put the final boxes down in the living room.
“That’s it,” Robin says.
“Phew,” says Mum. “Oh, I almost forgot! Wait here.” She zooms back out of the door.
Dad isn’t here. For some reason, he picked today as the day to finally finish building his rock garden, which basically means wheelbarrowing the three tons of rock that have been sitting in our driveway for six months along the side of the house and dumping them next to the pond. I’m not sure why he’s picked today to do this. Maybe he’s upset Robin’s leaving, too, and wanted an excuse not to come. But that’s not really like Dad. I thought Mum would be furious about it, but if she is, she’s hiding it well.
Me and Robin stand in the living room, waiting for Mum. It feels awkward, even though Robin’s basically the only person I never feel awkward around. He’s opened a box of kitchen stuff—cutlery, pans—and now we’re both staring at it.
He fishes out a honey dipper and waggles it at me. “Oh, good, I’m glad Mum packed this. I’ve been worrying about how I’ll dispense honey in my new home.”
I laugh.
“Hey,” he says, pointing at me with the dipper. “How’s your you-know-what?”
I shrug. What do I even say to that? He’s moving out, and he’s asking me about my stupid cache. “It’s fine,” I mutter.
“Any good visitors lately?”
“Nah.”
That isn’t exactly true. The other day, there was a really weird note in my logbook. It just said:
Sorry I was a doofus to you.
Ever since I found it, I’ve been racking my brains about who it’s from and what it means. Until twenty seconds ago, I thought it might have been from Robin. But either he’s a much better actor than I realized, or it wasn’t him.
It could be someone from school, but there are only three people at school who owe me an apology: Darren, Shinji, and Evie. I can rule out the first two right off the bat: The chances of Darren or Shinji ever apologizing for anything are zilch. It’s more likely that the Sahara will freeze over tomorrow.
That leaves Evie. I mean, I guess it could be her. She was acting pretty strange in English the other day. But she doesn’t exactly seem like the type to apologize. Or the type to use the word doofus.
It could be from a stranger. Maybe someone mistook my cache for someone else’s. Or maybe they were just messing about, trying to freak me out.
Robin shakes his head. “That one on Station Road is still bugging me. ‘Itsy bitsy.’ It’s got to be the drainpipe, right?”
I shrug. “I think so.”
Mum comes back carrying a present, wrapped in some of Dad’s carefully recycled Christmas wrapping paper.
“What’s this?”
“A little housewarming gift.” She hands it to Robin.
Robin carefully unwraps a cardboard box, then removes the lid. Inside is a loaf of bread, a candle, and a bottle of wine. Robin looks confused. I’m thinking Mum’s gone loopy and really should have asked me what Robin’s into if this is the best she could come up with.
Mum catches Robin’s face and laughs. “They’re traditional,” she explains. “Bread so you’re never hungry, wine so you’re never thirsty, and a candle so your home is always filled with light.”
“Er, thanks, Mum,” Robin says. He looks at me and rolls his eyes.
I laugh.
“That’s the last time I get you a present, Robin,” Mum says. Then she puts on her Serious Mum face. “Don’t leave the candle unattended, please. And, for God’s sake, share that bottle of wine with someone. Ffion, for instance. Now, who wants a cup of tea?”
“Please,” Robin says.
“I’m fine,” I say. Like she was expecting any other answer. I turn to Robin. “Who’s Ffion?”
Robin waves a hand. “She’s nobody.”
“I hope you don’t tell her that,” says Mum.
“All right, fine,” Robin says. He turns to me. “She’s my Evie.”
April 4
Dear Ana,
I’m sitting in the room that was Robin’s room seven days ago. Dad said I should move in straightaway—apparently, it will “help us adjust.” But so far, we’ve only moved my bed and my desk and my chest of drawers. There are no books or posters or anything. It’s kind of bare and kind of sad.
Today, I read this thing online about Zeno’s Paradox, which is an example of what Dad calls a thought experiment. Say you have a race between a tortoise and a hare, and the hare is ten times as fast, but you give the tortoise a hundred-meter head start. By the time the hare has run those hundred meters, the tortoise has shuffled ten meters forward. And once the hare has covered those ten meters, the tortoise has moved another meter ahead. If you keep breaking it down, the hare never actually overtakes the tortoise. Even though it’s ten times as fast.
Zeno has been screwing with my head all day. Of course, it doesn’t actually work like that. Trust me, when my dad drives down the motorway at sixty miles per hour, people overtake him all the time. But the point is, when you look at a snapshot, nothing really makes sense.
At least, I think that’s what the point is.
It reminds me of this story that Mr. Sumner, my primary school principal, used to tell at the end of assembly. (Mr. Sumner told a story every day, but he only knew about ten, so we got to know each one pretty well.) It goes like this: Once, a group of travelers stop near a village. They’re hungry, but they don’t have any food with them, so they fill a huge cauldron with river water and put a big stone in the bottom. A passing villager asks them what they’re doing. “We’re making stone soup,” they say. “It’s almost ready—but we could do with a little bit of carrot to make it extra-tasty.” So he goes and brings them some carrots and heads on his way. Then another villager comes. This time they say, “A few herbs would really help bring out the flavor.” And so on. Each villager who comes past brings them a little something—a handful of salt, some beans, a chicken carcass—until, eventually, the travelers really do have a nourishing, delicious soup, which they share with all the villagers.
Anorexia is the same thing in reverse. It’s Zeno’s Paradox in super-slow motion. You keep taking stuff away: food. Friends. Family. Until one day you realize there’s nothing left. The hare’s overtaken the tortoise. The soup is just water.
Okay, I’m not sure that made any sense at all. It’s, like, 00:36 now. I should probably go to bed. I wish Robin were here.
12
“We’re going to the zoo,” Ram announces triumphantly. He shrugs his backpack off and pulls out his lunchbox.
“What, right now?”
“That’s dead fu
nny, Stu. You’re a regular comedian,” says Ram.
Stu puffs out his cheeks and nods. “I try.”
“It’s a good idea, isn’t it?” Ram carries on. “I want to see the lion feeding. I’ve heard they catapult a goat over the fence.”
“Sounds idyllic. Anyway, I’m pretty sure going to the zoo was Max’s—”
“May ninth. You better both be free.”
Stu leans back in his chair and shrugs. “I’ll have to check my diary.”
“Move over, loser.”
The voice comes from behind me. I watch Ram’s and Stu’s eyes bulge in unison. I don’t move because I don’t need to: There’s loads of room.
“C’mon, I ain’t got all day.”
I shuffle my chair about a quarter of an inch to the right, and Evie sits down, satisfied. I’m thinking it was less about the room and more about making me move for her.
We all bring a packed lunch, and normally, we eat in the playground. Sort of to avoid situations like this. But today, it’s raining like crazy—like Thor’s piss is how Dad put it this morning. So we’re all crammed into the Big Hall.
I say crammed, but whenever we sit inside, there’s almost always an empty seat next to me. More than 850 students in one assembly hall, and somehow, there’s still plenty of room for avoiding Max. Today, I watched three separate people spot the empty seat, look at me, then find some way of sardining themselves onto another table.
Evie digs into her satchel and pulls out her lunchbox. As soon she takes the lid off, Ram leans in. “What you got there?” he asks. He tries to say it casually, like he’s asking about the weather or if we have math today. But it’s pretty obvious why he’s asking.
If it wasn’t for Ram’s appetite, I’m not sure our friendship would’ve made it through the past six months. He’s a bottomless pit; he can put away anything you give him and more. I still eat my lunch every day, but the extra snacks I bring to school—the snacks Mum and Dad and Lindsay think (or at least hope) I’m eating? They all go to Ram. At this point, I’m basically bribing him to be my friend with chips and chocolate bars.
But apparently, one supplier isn’t enough.
“My lunch,” Evie says. She looks him dead in the eye, then adds, “For me.”
I snort. Evie may be a fruitcake, but she can be pretty funny.
“That a jam sandwich?” Ram says, as Evie unwraps a foil parcel, like an archaeologist unwrapping a mummy.
Evie looks at him like she might slap him. Eventually, she sighs and nods.
“And Mini Cheddars,” Ram adds. “Nice.”
“Nothing gets past you,” Evie says.
Me and Stu look at each other, trying not to laugh.
Evie pulls her phone and a book out of her bag, and places them both next to her lunchbox.
“And I thought you were here for the scintillating conversation,” says Stu.
Stu hates it when people use their phones in front of him. When I first met him, I couldn’t work it out. This is a guy who carries a phone, headphones, a smart watch, and at least one Nintendo console with him at all times. But then I went to his house. Stu’s family is Quaker, which means they’re the nicest people on earth and put a lot of emphasis on face-to-face interaction. He’s allowed to use all the technology he wants, as long as it never gets in the way of a conversation. I’ve never seen him even glance at his phone without asking the permission of everyone he’s with first.
Evie doesn’t clock Stu’s comment. Her phone’s in her lap, and she’s busy sending a long series of emoji to someone or other.
Ram looks nervous. “You know they’ll take it off you if they see it, right?”
“I know,” replies Evie, cool as cucumber dip.
She opens the book and slots her phone into a deep hole cut into the pages. She turns down the brightness—so it doesn’t catch your eye, I guess—and then she resumes what seems to be her favorite activity: scrolling.
“Niiice,” says Ram.
Stu scowls. If he was unhappy about the phone thing, I can’t even imagine how he feels about the book. I remember him laying into me once for turning down the corner of a page to mark my place. (I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Stu’s a total nerd, and it’s a bloody good thing he can play football.)
Ram, Stu, and I drift back to the conversation we were having before Evie arrived.
“How many people are coming?” I ask.
Ram twitches his nose for a moment. “Just you guys,” he says quietly.
“Hold on a second,” Stu says. “I thought you were having some huge party. The biggest social event of the year, you said.”
“Yeah, well, I changed my mind, didn’t I?” Ram barks.
“All right, I was only asking,” Stu says.
I get the feeling there’s something Ram isn’t telling us. But I’m also getting the feeling he doesn’t particularly want to tell us.
“What’s all this then?” Evie asks, without looking up from her book, aka her phone.
“Er … my birthday party,” Ram says. When she doesn’t reply, he adds, “We’re going to the zoo.”
“Sounds shit,” Evie says.
“She’s such a charmer,” Stu says. He plucks a cherry tomato from his lunchbox and pops it into his mouth.
“Aren’t you going to invite me?” Evie asks. To be clear, she still hasn’t looked up from her phone. Stu’s now staring at her, like, with his mouth hanging open slightly. I can see some tomato seeds. It’s pretty gross.
“Am I?” asks Ram.
“I wouldn’t,” Stu mutters.
“There’s no need to be rude,” Evie says. “Dickhead.”
Stu doesn’t even know how to respond to that. He looks at both of us, as if to say, Am I hearing this correctly?
“If it sounds shit, why do you want to come?” Ram asks.
“Because Max will be there, of course. I luuuurve him, don’t I, Max?” She flutters her eyelids at me, then bursts out laughing.
“Um,” I say. What the hell am I supposed to say to that?
“Fair enough,” Ram says. “I tell you what: You can come to my party if you give me those Mini Cheddars.”
“Deal,” Evie says. She picks the bag up by the corner and tosses it at Ram. “I don’t even like them.”
“Well, now I’m really looking forward to this party,” Stu says, slumping his chin on his hands.
“Anyway,” Evie says, closing the book with her phone inside, putting it on top of her lunchbox. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve got places to be. By the way, Ram, you should share those with Max.” She’s pointing at the Mini Cheddars. “He’s looking pretty skinny.”
She laughs again, then picks up her rucksack, and runs off.
“What was that about?” says Ram, opening the Mini Cheddars and offering them to me and Stu.
I shake my head. I feel as though my cheeks could melt a block of steel right now. “Beats me.”
April 9
Dear Ana,
I nearly lost it with Mum tonight. She’s on this diet where she basically only eats at dinnertime. For breakfast and lunch, she has juice or soup. Okay, so I’m not exactly qualified to lecture people on healthy eating, but it doesn’t sound healthy. At least it’s better than last year, when she did that one where she only ate raw foods.
Anyway, this evening she came home complaining about how hungry she was. Dad was like, “Have a snack then,” and Mum replied, “It’s not that easy.” Then she turned to me and added. “Max knows what it’s like. Don’t you, love?”
Um, no I don’t.
It’s not Mum’s fault, but what she said kind of made me want to scream. It happens all the time. Whenever someone talks about anorexia in a magazine or on TV, they basically treat it like a really strict diet. That’s like treating the Pacific Ocean as if it were a really big paddling pool. And then telling someone who’s spent the last six months in a submarine that you know exactly how they feel.
I get that diets suck, and that
loads of people—especially women—are under pressure to lose weight. But it’s totally, totally different. You know why? Because when you’re on a diet, there’s an end point. Because when you’re on a diet, you want people to notice. Because when you’re on a diet, you don’t have some psycho called Ana whispering in your ear 24/7.
Sorry, Ana. But it’s true.
13
I just heard it. The first one this year. I look at my phone to double-check the date.
April 11.
Too early. I must have made a mistake.
But then I hear it again.
Wow.
April 11.
Usually, the first time anyone in the whole of England hears a cuckoo is about April 10, in either Devon or Cornwall. They don’t get up here until at least the twentieth. But they’re getting earlier and earlier.
Cuckoos are the coolest and weirdest—and evilest—birds in the world. Instead of raising their own chicks, they lay eggs in other birds’ nest, so those birds do all the hard work for them. And then, when a cuckoo chick hatches, it pushes all the other eggs out of the nest so it gets all the food. Evil, right?
You’d think the bird raising the chick would notice. All I can say is, the phrase bird-brained exists for a reason. But it definitely, definitely doesn’t apply to cuckoos.
A cuckoo call is slap-in-the-face obvious, once you know what you’re looking for. I mean listening for. You can’t miss it. It sounds—well, it sounds like someone saying cuckoo. It’s only the males you hear. The females, who do all the sneaky egg-laying, tend to keep quiet. (As Dad puts it: I wonder why.)
I head to the lake. That weird message I got in my cache—Sorry I was a doofus to you—is still bugging me. I want to check if any other caches nearby have had anything similar.
But at the cache under the bench, it’s all the usual stuff: Nice work! TFTC, et cetera. I can’t help noticing that this cache gets way more visitors than mine, though. For example, seven people have visited since April 1. I’m lucky to get two a week.
It’s like your geocache is radiating the same loser aura as you. Impressive.
