Apple and Rain

by Sarah Crossan

  ‘So?’ He takes another bite from his sandwich even though his mouth is still full. ‘I’m a growing boy. I’d eat a whole cow if Mum would let me. Or a dog. Did you know that they eat dogs in Korea? Like real dog. I wouldn’t be totally against eating a dog.’ He laughs because he’s joking, but it makes me think of Derry. I miss his stinky breath and golden hair. I miss snuggling with him and taking him for long walks down by the sea and even cleaning up his sick when he eats something he shouldn’t. He ate a whole corn on the cob last summer when Dad was over and we were having a BBQ. Nana had to take him to the vet for an operation to remove it.

  ‘Why didn’t you bring a big beefburger, if you’re so ravenous?’ I ask.

  ‘No meat at home. We’re vegan. Well, Mum and Dad are.’

  ‘I hate to tell you this, but cheese isn’t vegan,’ I say.

  ‘Thanks for that precious info, Einstein. But actually, this cheese is vegan. The problem is that it tastes like condoms.’

  I can’t help laughing and then he laughs too.

  ‘Not that I’ve ever eaten a condom. I’ve actually never even seen one in real life, but don’t tell anyone that. I want all the girls here to think I’m “Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?”’

  ‘Girls here don’t fancy boys like Romeo.’

  ‘Who do they like?’ he asks.

  I imagine Egan Winters and smile.

  ‘Why’ve you got that freaky look on your face? Is your headache really bad?’ Del asks.

  ‘Put your stuff in your pockets. You can’t use the mermaid bag,’ I tell him. I take off down the corridor. ‘Now come on, Madame Moreau hates people being late!’

  Del runs behind me. ‘Your nan was speaking to my mum. Told her you’d moved out. So you won’t be back?’

  ‘It’s not really any of your business.’

  ‘Mum said your nan started crying. Mum says she misses you like mad.’

  I stop outside Madame Moreau’s classroom. I’m panting from the run. I want to ask Del more about Nana. What exactly did she say to his mum? Why was she crying? For a second my throat feels like someone’s stoppered it up with a cork. My head thrums.

  Del holds me up. ‘You all right, Apple?’ he asks.

  I push him away. ‘Of course I am. I think my headache has turned into a migraine.’

  The classroom door opens and Madame Moreau glowers at me. Behind her the room is dark and French voices blare from the Smartboard. ‘Why are you chatting in the hallway and not sitting at a desk, Mademoiselle Apostolopoulou?’ she asks. She’s the only teacher who ever attempts to say my surname.

  ‘I was showing the new boy around.’ I point stupidly at Del like the new boy could be anyone else.

  ‘Go in and sit down,’ she says.

  I slink into the classroom. Pilar is by the window on her own because Donna studies Italian. I consider sitting next to her, but if she wanted me to, she’d have waved me over. I take a seat at the back and Del plops down next to me. He moves his chair closer.

  ‘Hey, we’re not friends, you know,’ I whisper.

  ‘Yes, we are,’ he says. He leans forward and rests his head in his cupped hands.

  I stare at the Smartboard. The French actors drone on and on. And even though I know Madame Moreau is going to make us answer questions about the film when it’s over, I don’t bother trying to understand anything.

  After class I rush out of the door, followed by Del. I stand in the corridor next to a display of postcards written in French. Pilar eventually comes out of class. Now she’s alone, I might be able to get her to see what a cow Donna is. Maybe I could convince her that we should be friends again.

  ‘Hey, Pilar,’ I say. I try to look nonchalant.

  She stops and smiles. She adjusts the strap on her school bag. It’s obvious she’s uncomfortable and would prefer not to do this. Straight away I regret trying to talk to her. It’s pointless. She doesn’t care one bit about me any more. ‘What’s going on?’ she asks.

  I shrug. I’ve so much to tell her about Mum, and Rain and Nana, but I can’t trust her with my secrets. Not now she’s decided that Donna’s the most glorious person on the planet. ‘Nothing you’d care about,’ I say. Not any more.

  Pilar doesn’t try to coax me into telling her anything. She’s too busy staring at Del. ‘Are you new?’ she asks. Her voice is light and friendly. When Del turns around, he peers at her.

  ‘This is Del. Doctor Dillon asked me to keep him company for the day.’

  ‘Cool,’ she says. She flicks her hair over her shoulder. It looks like she’s straightened it. She bites her bottom lip. I think she might be flirting.

  ‘We’ve got to go to maths,’ I say. I don’t want to be Del’s best friend, but if Pilar wants a boyfriend, she can find one herself.

  ‘Check your timetable. Maybe we’re in the same set,’ Pilar tells Del.

  ‘Actually, Pilar, he’s in the top set with me,’ I say. I’ve never made a big deal of the fact that Pilar’s in a lower set for maths because it never mattered before. But I feel like showing her she isn’t all that great.

  ‘Oh, right,’ Pilar says. She looks a bit self-conscious, more like the old Pilar I knew, and hastily scoots down the corridor.

  ‘Girls are so weird,’ Del says.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you’re obviously friends, but you don’t seem to actually like each other,’ he says.

  I shake my head. ‘You’ve got it the wrong way round. We’re not friends any more. But that’s the problem because I do like Pilar – I like her a lot.’

  At lunchtime I leave Del in the playground with a soggy sandwich from the canteen and go to orchestra. I sit in my normal seat and practise scales to warm up my clarinet while I wait for Mr Rowls and the rest of the band to come to practice. After a couple of minutes, Egan Winters, carrying his flute case, pushes open the music room doors.

  ‘All right, Apple,’ he says. ‘It’s Apple, isn’t it?’

  I nod.

  ‘I love Macs. And iPhones. I always think it’s funny when someone’s got a mobile that isn’t an iPhone. You know?’

  I nod again.

  He pulls a chair next to me and sits down. ‘Your mum’s nice. She seems really young.’

  ‘She’s thirty-one,’ I tell him.

  ‘Really? My parents are old, man. Mum is almost sixty and Dad’s sixty-five.’

  ‘I think my nan’s sixty-five,’ I tell him, though I’m not sure why.

  He looks at me and smiles. I can’t tell whether it’s one of those pitying smiles or a real one. ‘Right,’ he says. He takes out his flute and taps the keys.

  ‘Mum is always having parties,’ I tell him. ‘She’s having one on Saturday.’

  ‘Is it someone’s birthday?’

  ‘No. It’s a Saturday night party with dancing and drinks,’ I say.

  ‘Doesn’t your dad mind?’

  ‘My dad lives with my stepmum in London,’ I tell him.

  Egan smiles. ‘I can’t believe a Year Eight has a better Saturday night than me.’ He blows some scales through his flute. They’re clear and smooth and his breath through the holes makes my hair stir.

  I try to think about what Mum would do.

  ‘You can come over for a drink. If you want.’ Even though I’ve spent the last few minutes carefully piecing my clarinet together and tuning it up, I pull the head joint off and polish it against my skirt.

  Egan’s eyes are on me. ‘Shouldn’t you ask first?’

  ‘It would be OK.’

  ‘Really? Could I bring a mate?’ he asks.

  My heart thunders. ‘’Course. If you want. The more the merrier. The flat’s a bit of a tip at the moment though ’cos we just moved in.’ I know I don’t sound like myself. I’m not pronouncing all my letters. Nana would be horrified.

  Egan doesn’t notice. ‘All right then, you’re on.’

  I float out of orchestra practice and when I see Pilar and Donna by the basketball court talking to
a group of Year Nine boys and shrieking with laughter, I hardly care. They can all have each other. Egan Winters is coming to my house. He’s going to be at a party with me. It’s like a dream, and it wouldn’t be happening if Mum hadn’t come back.

  Del is on the bench where I left him. He’s reading a book and ignoring the footballs barely missing him as they career out of the field and across the playground. They smack on to the wall behind him. ‘Hey,’ he says when I sit next to him. ‘How was glee club?’

  ‘Great!’ I say. I’m smiling so much my jaw aches.

  ‘What lesson is next? I’m knackered. I don’t know how you run around these buildings all day.’

  I’d forgotten Del was home-schooled. ‘Is it scary being in a school?’ I ask.

  ‘Not scary. I just can’t get used to having to carry my pens around with me.’

  I take out my planner. ‘We have English now. I think you’ll like it,’ I say.

  ‘Probably. I don’t want to boast or anything, but I actually speak English fluently.’ Del nudges me with his elbow.

  ‘I’m not so sure you do,’ I say. I laugh. It’s a high-pitched, in-love kind of laugh and if anyone saw us they might think I fancy Del. But I don’t care what anyone thinks any more. I’m so excited: Egan Winters is coming to my party.

  At the beginning of English, Mr Gaydon asks me for my homework. ‘I was absent yesterday, sir,’ I tell him. ‘That’s why you don’t have it.’

  ‘I know. Don’t worry. Take a seat, Apple,’ he says.

  I sit in the back corner with Del beside me.

  Mr Gaydon passes around a poem. ‘Right, here’s what I have for you today. It’s a piece by an American poet. Sadly she’s been dead a while. Her name was Sara Teasdale. It’s called “Those Who Love”. ’ He beams and so do I. Most of the class grumble. ‘I know, I know, slushy love rubbish. But let me read you some of the words from the first stanza before you all start to gag.’ He sits up straight. ‘“Those who love the most; Do not talk of their love . . . or speak if at all; Of fragile inconsequent things.” ’ He pauses. ‘Isn’t that interesting? I mean, right off the narrator is saying that if we love we don’t necessarily go on and on about it.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ Jim Joyce says.

  ‘Could someone please read aloud the last stanza? Donna, will you do the honours?’ Mr Gaydon asks.

  ‘I’m all right,’ Donna says. She folds her arms in front of her chest. I’d say she’s still mad about Mr Gaydon telling us war is pointless.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Iona Churchill says.

  ‘Thank you, Iona.’ Mr Gaydon gets her to stand up and face everyone so we can all hear her. She begins:

  ‘And a woman I used to know

  Who loved one man from her youth,

  Against the strength of the fates

  Fighting in sombre pride

  Never spoke of this thing,

  But hearing his name by chance,

  A light would pass over her face.’

  ‘What do you make of that bit of the poem then?’ Mr Gaydon asks.

  His questions never have a fixed answer, so we do what we usually do in Mr Gaydon’s class – stare at him and try to think of something clever to say.

  Mr Gaydon points at Jim. ‘Mr Joyce, do you love anyone?’

  Jim tugs on the sleeves of his shirt. ‘Bit of a personal question, isn’t it, sir? Don’t know if you’re allowed to ask us questions like that.’

  ‘He can ask us whatever he likes,’ Mackenzie Bainbridge bites back. ‘Can I answer, sir?’

  Mr Gaydon nods.

  ‘My sister’s name is Mandy and she’s at university. We text each other a hundred times a day, but I’m never like, “Oh, Mandy, I love you, you’re the best.” She just is.’

  Mr Gaydon smiles. ‘Excellent, Mackenzie. Thank you.’

  I’ve never been in a class where telling the teacher that you love your sister could be an excellent answer, but Mr Gaydon’s like that – if you tell him something true, he’s delighted.

  ‘So what is the narrator saying about real love? Mackenzie gave us a big hint.’

  ‘It’s boring,’ Jim Joyce says.

  No one laughs. We like Mr Gaydon now we know him. We like him more than we like Jim.

  Del throws his hand up.

  Mr Gaydon looks our way. ‘You’re new,’ he says.

  ‘New to the school, yes. Not new to the world. Very much established in my own life,’ Del says.

  Pilar giggles. So do a few other girls. Jim Joyce does not look happy about this.

  Mr Gaydon gives Del a thumbs up. ‘Fantastic to hear that. So what were you about to say?’

  ‘Well, I think that the poem is about how love is quiet, you know. The woman in that bit Iona read loves someone, but you wouldn’t be able to guess unless you were watching her really closely. Basically, the poet means that you don’t have to fly your sweetheart to Venice to show her you love her. Sometimes you can just buy someone a Toblerone.’

  ‘A Toblerone?’ Mr Gaydon asks.

  ‘It’s the triangles that make it romantic.’

  Mr Gaydon laughs. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Del Holloway.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’re with us, Del.’

  For the rest of the lesson Mr Gaydon gets us to imagine the woman from the poem and write her story. Del and I work together and set our story in the Scottish Highlands. The woman is a clan princess and the man she loves is her best friend from childhood. Mr Gaydon likes what we’ve written. He tells us it has a ‘strong emotional landscape’, whatever that means.

  But for homework he has a different assignment. ‘Write one hundred words about someone you love,’ he tells the class. ‘Someone you really love, not someone you think you love. Spend some time working out the difference.’

  I think about Egan Winters. I’ve been besotted with him since I was in Year Seven. But I can’t write about him. I’ll have to think of someone else.

  On the way out of class Mr Gaydon calls me to his desk. ‘Apple, can I see you?’

  Mr Gaydon waits for everyone, including Del, to leave the room before speaking. ‘While the class were working on the stories today, I had a chance to look over your homework. It was very well written. I mean, it was beautiful. Do you ever write in your spare time?’

  I shrug. Lately, I haven’t had any spare time to do anything. And anyway, I know the piece I wrote about football fans wasn’t very good. I didn’t even spellcheck it.

  ‘Well, I’m impressed by your work. I want to read more. But I’m also concerned.’ He pauses. ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Really? Because I rather thought this was your way of asking for help.’ He hands me the paper with my homework on it. I scan the page. I can’t believe it. The poem about Pilar and Donna is staring at me in black and white. The librarian printed out the wrong document.

  I stuff it into my school bag. ‘That’s not my homework. That’s something else. I wrote about football,’ I say.

  Mr Gaydon twiddles the hair at the end of one of his sideburns. ‘Would you like me to get all three of you girls together to sort this out?’

  ‘No! I never meant you to read it.’

  He squints. ‘Hmm.’

  I can tell that he thinks I handed in the homework on purpose. But I don’t need anyone’s help. And I don’t want Pilar and Donna thinking I’m so desperate I went to a teacher behind their backs.

  ‘Can I go?’ I ask.

  I look at the door. Del is making faces through the round window.

  ‘I want you to promise to come to me, if it gets worse.’

  ‘I’m OK,’ I say.

  ‘And I want you to take this.’ He reaches for a clean grey exercise book, identical to my English one. ‘It’s for you to scribble down poems that come to you.’ I stare at the exercise book. ‘No need to look so glum. It isn’t extra homework. It’s for fun. And if you don’t fancy it, no worries.’

  ‘Thank you,’
I say. I head for the door. ‘And sir,’ I turn around.

  ‘Yes?’ He looks hopeful.

  ‘Donna’s dad is in Afghanistan. I think she’s really proud of him. All that stuff about war we were doing probably made her upset with you.’

  Mr Gaydon doesn’t move. ‘Afghanistan?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I say, and join Del in the corridor.

  28

  The rest of the week at school is worse than ever. Pilar looks horrified each time she bumps into me and Donna does everything she can to make me feel left out – whispering behind her hand or laughing hysterically whenever I pass by. I make sure I don’t flinch when she’s mean. I won’t let her think she’s getting to me.

  To stay cheerful I think about Saturday and how Egan Winters is coming to our place for drinks. When I tell Mum I’ve invited him, she gives me a high five.

  ‘My girl! So we’ll have to make this party extra cool.’

  ‘Extra cool,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t want another stupid party,’ Rain says. She’s ironing Jenny’s tiny clothes. She doesn’t even iron her own clothes. None of us do.

  ‘Oh, come on, it’ll be good fun. I’ll invite Pete. You like Pete,’ Mum says.

  ‘Who’s Pete?’ The iron hisses and huffs.

  ‘You know Pete. He’s the one who does all the accents. He looks like the British prime minister.’

  ‘What’s a prime minister?’ Rain asks.

  ‘The leader of a country,’ I tell her.

  ‘Well, I’m American, how should I know that? We have presidents. Anyway, I don’t want another party,’ she says.

  ‘One last one, Rain. Then we’re done with parties. OK?’ Mum says.

  Rain pouts.

  ‘We’ll need drinks,’ I say.

  ‘Alcohol? I don’t want people saying I ply young boys with booze,’ Mum says.

  ‘You ply Apple with booze,’ Rain snaps.

  ‘Don’t be cheeky, Rain.’ Mum scowls. It’s a look she reserves for when Rain is being a real pain. She never looks at me like this and even though it makes me feel special, and I like being a favourite, I can’t help feeling sorry for Rain.

  ‘Why don’t we make cakes for the party, Rain?’ I ask.