Apple and Rain

by Sarah Crossan

  ‘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 you’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.

  ‘I guess we’re home,’ she says, cutting the engine.

  Even though I’ve had a perfect day, I feel like someone has suddenly thrown a bucket of sadness all over me, and I am dripping from it. I sit peering at my ragged fingernails.

  ‘What’s wrong, Apple?’

  Every time I say goodbye to Mum I worry it will be the last time I see her. ‘I just . . . I wish . . .’ I begin. But I don’t know how to tell Mum what I’m feeling in case she thinks it means I don’t trust her – that I’m like Nana and believe she’ll run away again.

  She pats my knee. ‘You know you can call me any time you like. And if you come and live with me, we can have lots of fun days like today. And next time I’ll take you to the apartment. I planned on it today, but we seem to have been sidetracked.’ She points at the bags by my feet. ‘Actually, you might want to keep some of that stuff hidden from you-know-who.’

  I nod. Nana would be furious if she found out Mum had bought me make-up. And I’m not sure why, but I have a feeling she’d object to the sunglasses and shoes too.

  I look up at the house. Everything about it is Nana: the neat window boxes; the clean, white net curtains; the tidy lawn. But which part of it is me?

  Nana appears at the front door. She is scowling and wringing her hands in a tea towel.

  ‘You’d better go inside,’ Mum says.

  The clock tick-tocks on the mantelpiece. Nana and I sit opposite each other eating. Nana chews loudly. I push the cabbage, potatoes and lamb around my plate.

  Nana takes a gulp of water. ‘If there’s something on your mind, you might as well spit it out.’ She taps her fingers impatiently against the tablecloth. She doesn’t really want to talk. And I don’t know what to say. My mind is all tangled up with wanting Mum and loving her and not understanding why Nana won’t give her a chance.

  I shrug.

  ‘I don’t like you doing that, Apple, it’s rude. Use words please,’ Nana says.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say.

  ‘Well, I won’t have you sulking. Either speak up or cheer up.’

  I throw my fork down. Nana flinches. ‘I want you to be nicer to Mum,’ I snap. ‘She’s your daughter. She’s my mum. And I want her around. Can’t you be nicer?’

  Nana crosses her arms over her chest. ‘Your mother ran off to be an actress. I don’t respect that,’ she says.

  ‘She was in plays. She was living her dream.’

  ‘She was prancing around on stage wanting to be adored by people who didn’t know her while her own family spent years waiting for her to come home. Some dream.’

  Nana has a point. Why wasn’t our love enough for Mum? It’s a question I don’t want to think about. ‘But you’re religious. You’re meant to forgive. The priest says so,’ I tell her.

  Nana looks ashamed, but for no more than a second. ‘Will you dry, if I wash? I don’t want to run the dishwasher for a handful of plates,’ she says. She marches to the sink.

  I follow her and tip my uneaten dinner into the bin. ‘Are you OK, Nana?’ I ask.

  ‘When have I not been OK?’ She throws the plastic washing-up bowl into the basin and turns on both taps. Whether I like it or not, the gushing water drowns out all other questions.

  14

  Mr Gaydon doesn’t make me read out my homework, but he does make Pilar read hers. She’s written about flying, how when you get to a certain altitude the aeroplane’s engines go quiet, like they’ve been switched off, and it makes you think you’re going to end up splattered across a field in France: one leg in a tree, one in a cowpat.

  ‘Flying is a common fear,’ Mr Gaydon says, ‘so thank you, Pilar, for sharing it with us.’ Mr Gaydon writes the word ‘Fear’ on the board and underlines it twice, like Ms Savage did with words she wanted us to learn to spell.

  He rubs his chin. ‘Where do fears come from?’ he asks. Mackenzie Bainbridge has been sitting at the front since Mr Gaydon started teaching us. Her hand shoots up. Mr Gaydon reaches forward and puts it down. He continues. ‘Pilar is scared of flying, but is it really the flying part that frightens her, or could it be something else? Think about what you’ve written. Is there something behind the fear? Like an even deeper terror? One we all share?’

  He pauses and Mackenzie puts up her hand again. Mr Gaydon ignores it even though it is practically in his face. ‘Read your piece again. I bet that most of you have revealed something about human nature in your writing. Think hard.’

  I look at my homework. I didn’t hand in the true answer I’d written, so I don’t expect to find any deeper feelings in the paragraph about Derry. But then I get to thinking that what I really hate about Derry sniffing dogs’ bums is not knowing how he’s going to react. Or how the other dog will react.

  A few kids have their hands up. Mr Gaydon calls on Donna.

  ‘We’re all afraid of dying. I wrote about snakes, and I think they could strangle me. Pilar thinks she could end up dead from flying. So . . . death.’ Donna smiles and so does Mr Gaydon.

  ‘That’s very interesting,’ he says. ‘Death is a universal fear. How many of you think your fear is linked to dying?’

  About half the class raise their hands, basically all the girls, including Pilar. I don’t. Donna glances at me.

  ‘So for the rest of you, what can the fear be if not the fear of death?’ Mr Gaydon asks.

  The room is quiet.

  I feel Mr Gaydon watching me.

  ‘Do you have something to say, Apple?’ he asks.

  The class gawk. ‘Maybe it’s . . . maybe it’s control. Like I hate it when I can’t control my dog. And when Pilar’s flying she’s out of control because she can’t fly the plane. And . . .’ I look over at Donna. I don’t know how snakes make her feel out of control, and I don’t want to guess in case I offend her. She already looks a bit annoyed.

  Mr Gaydon claps his hands together. ‘I like that. Who here has a fear which is linked to being out of control?’ For a minute, no one puts up their hand. I feel stupid. But then Mackenzie raises hers. And then Karl Woods and
then Iona Churchill and then more and more people, until almost everyone has a hand in the air.

  ‘Wow! I didn’t expect such consensus,’ Mr Gaydon says.

  I blush because everyone is looking at me again.

  The bell rings. We fidget. ‘Good work today, folks. See you tomorrow,’ Mr Gaydon says, giving us permission to pile out of the classroom into the heaving corridor.

  Pilar and I are by the lockers when Donna, Hazel and Mariah stop next to us. Donna whispers something to Pilar and they laugh.

  ‘What’s funny?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, nothing. You had to be there,’ Donna says.

  ‘Where did you have to be?’ I ask.

  Pilar fiddles with her gold stud earring.

  ‘We went swimming on Sunday and there were these lads there who . . .’ Donna begins but she can’t continue because she is laughing again. Uncontrollably.

  ‘You went swimming together?’ I ask. Pilar didn’t tell me. She certainly didn’t invite me.

  ‘We all did,’ Mariah says.

  ‘And then for kebabs,’ Hazel adds.

  ‘I didn’t ask you because I knew your nan would’ve said you couldn’t come,’ Pilar says. She examines the floor.

  ‘And it’s always awkward with odd numbers,’ Donna says.

  ‘I was busy on Sunday anyway,’ I tell them.

  ‘Church?’ Pilar asks. She’s forgotten I told her I was meeting Mum. She’s forgotten how important it was to me. And she hasn’t even noticed my new shoes, which I slipped on once Nana had dropped me off.

  ‘Yeah, church,’ I say.

  ‘Shall we get lunch, Pilar?’ Donna asks. She doesn’t look at me, so I know I’m not invited, and I expect Pilar to tell Donna that she always eats with me – that it’s the two of us at school and no one else.

  ‘You hungry, Apple?’ Pilar asks uncomfortably.

  Donna sighs. Hazel rolls her eyes. Mariah walks away.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure what’s happened to my appetite lately.’

  Donna’s eyes rest on my belly. ‘Well, it’s never a bad thing to lose a few pounds,’ she says.

  I swallow hard and open my locker door to hide my face.

  ‘I’ll see you later then,’ Pilar says.

  ‘Yeah, see you,’ I say.

  And she is gone.

  15

  I know that Pilar isn’t my wife or anything. She’s allowed to have other friends. But I can’t help feeling jittery with jealousy. I spend all lunch period pacing the corridors and wondering how I’ll win her back from Donna. Pilar’s my only friend. If I lose her, I’ll have no one.

  So I come up with a speech; I’ll be honest and tell her how I feel when I get to drama. We’re performing a sketch together; she’ll have to partner up with me and listen.

  But when I get into the theatre, Pilar is already sitting with Donna, Hazel and Mariah. There’s no way I’ll get a chance to tell her how I feel now. I’ll be alone all lesson. Everyone will stare and wonder why Pilar and I have fallen out. I don’t want anyone knowing I’ve got no friends.

  Without waiting another second, I scan the theatre to make sure Ms Court isn’t hiding somewhere and make a run for it. I can hide out in some toilets until school finishes then meet Nana in the playground as usual – no one needs to know I skipped a couple of lessons.

  I sprint across the playground and into the girls’ toilets of 100 Block. Two Year Elevens are brushing their hair. A girl with blonde waves to her waist presses her lips against a mirror, leaving a bright pink kiss on it. Her friend in a miniskirt and ripped tights lights up a cigarette.

  ‘Want a puff?’ she asks.

  ‘No thank you,’ I say, edging into a cubicle. I lock it and sit on the toilet without bothering to shut the seat.

  ‘Hey, titch,’ one of the girls calls. ‘You’ll be late for your lesson if you stay in there.’

  ‘Leave her alone, Mags. Maybe she ate something spicy.’

  The toilets echo with laughter and then a door rattles and it’s quiet.

  I can’t stay here for two whole lessons, not if Year Elevens are going to be coming in and out and smoking and shouting at me the whole time. Maybe I could go to the office and say I’m sick. But the nurse would probably call Nana who would take one look at me and know I was lying. They might even send me back to class.

  Only one person would understand. I reach into my bag for my phone.

  Mum: Hello, yes?

  Me: Mum?

  Mum: Who is it?

  Me: Mum, it’s me, Apple.

  Mum: Apple! Hey! I was wondering when you were going to call. Are you OK?

  Me: I hope you aren’t busy. You’re probably doing something important. I don’t want to –

  Mum: Busy? No! No, not really. What’s up?

  Me: Nothing.

  Mum: Tell me.

  Me: My friend Pilar went off with that girl Donna Taylor I was telling you about, so I . . . I have no one to hang around with and it’s embarrassing and . . .

  Mum: Apple?

  Me: I’m sorry I called you. It sounds silly.

  Mum: Where are you now? You aren’t hiding out in the toilets, are you?

  Me: . . .

  Mum: Do you want me to come and get you?

  Me: I only have two lessons left today.

  Mum: But do you want to leave?

  Me: Yes.

  Mum: Right. Go to reception and say you’ve got stomach ache. Give me fifteen minutes.

  Me: What about Nana?

  Mum: What about her?

  The receptionist isn’t pleased to see me. ‘What’s wrong exactly?’

  ‘My tummy hurts,’ I say.

  ‘Do you have PE now?’ she asks.

  ‘No, miss.’

  ‘Maths?’

  ‘No, miss.’

  ‘Right, well, the nurse isn’t here today, and you can’t hang around the office. Can someone pick you up?’

  ‘My mum can get me,’ I say, quickly adding, ‘I’ll call her.’

  The receptionist slides the window open wide enough to push a clipboard at me. A pen dangles on a string by its side. ‘Sign out,’ she says.

  When Mum pulls up outside reception, she pushes open the passenger door and waves. ‘Hurry up, babes. I gotta be at the bank in five minutes.’

  As I am clicking my seat belt into place, Mum leans over and kisses me on the ear.

  ‘So tell me what happened,’ she says. She races out of the school gates. The car tyres screech against the road.

  ‘Pilar, who’s meant to be my best friend, has dumped me for Donna Taylor,’ I tell her.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think it’s because I’m not allowed out and stuff.’

  ‘Pilar doesn’t sound like much of a friend to me. She sounds like a bitch,’ Mum says. I laugh. Nana would never say something like that – she would tell me to stop being silly. And she would never, ever swear in front of me.

  ‘I don’t know if she is. Deep down I think she’s nice,’ I say. Pilar’s been my friend since I started secondary school. It’s the first time she’s been mean. And she hasn’t even really been mean; she’s just leaving me out. I’m not sure whether or not that counts. ‘Donna Taylor’s got loads of friends. Why does she have to have mine too?’

  ‘Donna Taylor? What a name. She sounds like a stripper.’

  ‘She’s really popular,’ I say.

  Mum smiles. ‘Strippers usually are. Anyway, so what? Anyone can be popular.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I say.

  ‘Really?’ Mum says. She tries to cover up a smile with her fingers, but I think she might be plotting something.

  After Mum and I have gone to the bank, dropped off some dry-cleaning and stopped for an ice cream, Mum takes me home. She doesn’t come in with me. ‘I’m late. I’ve got to scoot off. But I’ll see you soon, OK,’ she says.

  Nana is in the hall, lacing up her shoes. She does a double take when she sees me. Derry bounds out of the kitchen and noses
my school bag. I ruffle his fur and his tail wags.

  ‘You got out early? Why didn’t you call? I don’t like you taking the bus alone,’ Nana says.

  I could make something up, but I’ve never lied to Nana. Even the thought of it makes my neck go blotchy. ‘I fell out with Pilar,’ I say.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I told the receptionist I was sick. Mum picked me up.’

  Nana opens the front door, but Mum is gone. She keeps her back to me and hangs up her coat on the hallstand along with her red headscarf. ‘This is not acceptable, Apple.’

  ‘What isn’t acceptable?’

  Nana turns around. ‘The school shouldn’t have let you leave. I’m your legal guardian.’

  ‘But she’s my mum,’ I say.

  ‘And she believed that a tiff with Pilar was a good reason to pull you out of lessons?’

  ‘Pilar’s ditched me, Nana. I’ve got no one now. Donna Taylor took her away.’

  Nana rolls her eyes. ‘Can’t you all be friends together?’

  ‘No, we can’t. That isn’t how it works. Donna’s leaving me out on purpose. She doesn’t like me.’

  Nana puts her hands on her hips. ‘Why wouldn’t she like you?’

  ‘Because I’m never allowed to do anything. Why wouldn’t you let me go with her and her friends after school? Now she’s stolen Pilar.’

  ‘So tell Pilar you’re upset.’

  I pull off my school bag and toss it at the bottom of the stairs. ‘You aren’t listening!’ I shout. ‘You never listen. All you do is tell me I’m wrong and silly and young.’

  Derry’s tail stops wagging. He slides back into the kitchen. He’s such a wimp.

  ‘Apple, you know we don’t shout like that in this house.’

  But I can’t stop myself. ‘We don’t shout and we don’t talk. You just tell me what to do all the time!’

  ‘I’m trying to take care of you.’

  ‘I’m thirteen and you think I’m eight. It’s your fault I have no friends.’

  Nana freezes. ‘What’s happened? You aren’t behaving like yourself.’ She doesn’t even try to think about what she’s done. She can’t imagine she’s wrong. It has to be me. It always has to be my fault, just like it’s always been Mum’s fault for leaving.