Apple and Rain

by Sarah Crossan

  ‘How?’ Rain asks. She is beaming at him like someone in love. But she’s ten. She can’t be in love. Can she?

  ‘I’ve got spidey-sense, which is weird because I’m actually Batman,’ he says.

  ‘He’s got binoculars,’ I tell Rain, and point at the pair hanging around his neck. ‘Who have you been spying on?’

  ‘Let’s just say, I might have seen two bare bums today . . . So, what’s the plan? Bit of ballroom dancing followed by some carjacking, topped off with a dash of fly-fishing?’

  ‘I hate fish,’ Rain says. ‘Especially octopuses.’

  ‘We could always go ice skating and do the fishing and other stuff another day. What do you think?’ Del asks.

  ‘I think, yes,’ Rain says.

  ‘You’re bankrolling this operation, I hope,’ he says, looking at me. I smile. I can’t help it because when Del looks at me he really looks at me, never at my legs or hair or anything else. He sees through all that stuff.

  ‘I’ve got loads of money,’ I say.

  And we head off to the ice rink.

  It’s only once we’ve put on our skates and wobbled across the rubber mats to the rink that Rain wonders whether ice skating might be dangerous while she’s carrying Jenny.

  ‘Could be. You want me to watch her while you two take a few laps?’ Del asks.

  Rain shakes her head. ‘I want us to go on together.’

  ‘I saw a crèche on our way in. We could leave Jenny there to play with the other babies, if you think she’d like that,’ I say. I don’t expect her to agree, but after considering it for a few seconds, she nods.

  ‘Great! I’ll be back in a minute,’ I say. I take Jenny from her and head for the crèche. But if I show up with Jenny they’ll think I’m as loopy as Rain – loopier. Besides, why would I waste three pounds leaving her in the crèche when I could stuff her into my locker for free? Rain need never know.

  I almost have to fold Jenny in two and twist her head right around to make her fit in my locker, but eventually I manage to get the door closed. I’m so used to acting like Jenny’s real, I feel a bit bad leaving her.

  When I get back to the rink, Del is leading Rain on to the ice. She looks like she’s about to slip. Even so, she is smiling.

  ‘Was Jenny OK when you left?’ she asks.

  ‘She was perfect,’ I say. I try not to think how bent out of shape Jenny looked when I closed the locker.

  ‘Come on. Let’s fall over and soak ourselves silly on the ice!’ Del says.

  And that’s exactly what Rain and I do. But Del is an ice skating pro. He zips across the rink like he’s powered by petrol, weaving in and out of wobbling skaters and dodging small clusters of children. And he can go backwards.

  I’ve only been ice skating once before, so within an hour the knees of my jeans are wet. But I don’t care. I shuffle around the rink without hanging on to the barrier, sometimes even gliding a bit, and whenever I fall, Del cheers, which makes me laugh so hard I can barely stand up. He grabs my hand a few times and pulls me along fast. I scream, but not seriously. And he leads Rain along too, helping her keep her balance and showing her how best to fall over, so she won’t hurt herself.

  Once our legs start to burn, we leave the ice. ‘I’ll get Jenny,’ Rain says. She heads for the crèche.

  I jump in front of her. ‘No, no. Here.’ I hand her some money. ‘You buy the Fanta and chips . . . I mean French fries . . . and I’ll meet you upstairs.’

  ‘I want to see the crèche,’ Rain says.

  I give Del a long look, and he understands. ‘Rain, help me!’ he calls out. He lumbers up the rubber stairs to the café, still wearing his skates. He grins and flails his arms like he’s about to fall. Rain giggles and totters up the stairs after him. I sneak off to the lockers where I retrieve Jenny.

  ‘Sorry I left you all squished up in there. Come on, let’s go and find Mummy,’ I say aloud. I hold Jenny close.

  Then I hear a snigger. I go rigid.

  When I turn around, Pilar and Donna are watching me.

  ‘I’ve heard of Doctor Dolittle talking to the animals, but who are you meant to be?’ Donna says. She nudges Pilar who laughs nervously.

  ‘Apple?’ Pilar says. She looks genuinely worried, like I might actually have fallen off my rocker. I want to say something, but how can I explain talking to a plastic doll? Pilar doesn’t know Rain exists, and even if she did, I still couldn’t really explain Jenny to her.

  ‘Is that why you haven’t been at school? Have you been caring for your baby all day?’ Donna laughs.

  My throat closes up. My eyes well with tears. Donna thinks she’s really funny. She can’t know how close to the truth she is. ‘My sister . . .’ I mutter, thinking that an explanation might make sense after all.

  ‘She’s your sister? Ah, that’s lovely. Did your nan have her?’ Donna is doubled over laughing. She tries to prod Jenny, but I pull away to keep the doll out of her reach.

  ‘Honestly, Pilar, you told me Apple was a bit immature, but you never said she still played with dolls. I mean, that’s so abnormal. Come on, let’s go.’ With a titter, Donna struts off.

  Pilar stays where she is. ‘What’s going on, Apple?’ she asks.

  I wish I could tell her everything that’s been happening. She’s meant to be my best friend. We used to share our biggest secrets with each other. But I can’t trust her any more, so I let myself cry and eventually Pilar slogs after Donna like a well-trained dog.

  In the café, Del and Rain are sitting by a glass window overlooking the rink. Del is doing impressions of animals, and Rain is screeching.

  ‘Your chips are getting cold,’ he says.

  ‘I don’t care. We have to go home. Now.’

  ‘I thought we’d take another turn around the pond before spring arrives,’ Del says, trying to be funny as usual. But none of this is funny. Not Mum going away overnight and leaving me to take care of Rain, and certainly not Rain’s weird belief that Jenny’s got a soul. I don’t know why I’ve been spending time with Del messing around instead of facing up to my life. It’s getting me nowhere.

  ‘Can we go please?’ I say. I practically throw Jenny at Rain and march off down the stairs, trying not to fall over in my skates.

  ‘Wait up!’ Del runs after me. ‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’

  ‘I don’t want to do any more of this, that’s what’s happened. I just saw Pilar and Donna from school who thought that me talking to a doll was hilarious. And then I realised, it isn’t hilarious at all. If I was a bit gutsier I would have told my mum that a long time ago. But I didn’t. And do you want to know why I didn’t?’

  Del stares.

  ‘Because I wanted my mum to think I was cool. How sad is that?’

  ‘I dunno, I mean . . .’

  Rain has caught up with us. Her mouth is covered in ketchup. ‘Can’t we stay for a few more minutes?’ she asks.

  ‘Apple’s a bit upset,’ Del says.

  ‘Yes, I am. And you know who I’m upset with? Myself, that’s who, because to win Mum over I kicked Nana aside even though she’s loved me non-stop for thirteen years. And maybe she is strict, but she cares. And it’s more than I did. I’ve made a mess of everything. Everything.’

  Del nods like he understands. But how could he? He lives with his hippy mum and dad who buy him frog jumpers and eat seeds for Christmas dinner. ‘You know what you need, Apple?’ he says. He takes my hand and pinches it lightly.

  ‘A bit of wine added to my Coke to help my nerves?’ I ask. ‘Have you ever had a calimocho? I can make you one. I couldn’t before, but I can now.’

  He shakes his head. He doesn’t look impressed. ‘I’m actually serious for once. You need to go home and get some sleep. My mum always says a new day shines a bright light on a dark problem.’

  ‘I’m so tired,’ I say.

  ‘I know. Come on, let’s go home,’ he says.

  We unlace the skates and swap them for our shoes. I spot Donna and Pilar h
eading for the ice, arm in arm like proper best friends. I turn away so they won’t know I’ve seen them – so they can’t show off how happy they are together.

  Del waits at the bus stop then waves us off. The bus judders up the hill towards home. When we get there, a note from Gina is pinned to the front door: I called when you were out. Any probs, I’m working at the Hungry Horse until midnight.

  So much for keeping an eye on us. I rip the note into small pieces and throw it behind me on to the shared porch.

  We’re watching a Discovery programme about polar bears when Rain slides closer to me and tucks her bare feet under my legs.

  ‘It’s me,’ she says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mom would be happy if I was never born. She went to America to be an actress but then I came along and ruined everything. I’m still ruining everything.’ She pauses. Her voice is as fragile as a ladybird’s wing.

  ‘Mum’s busy, Rain. I’d hate a lazy mum, wouldn’t you?’ I say.

  ‘I guess,’ Rain says. She lifts Jenny’s bum to her nose and sniffs. ‘Poop,’ she says.

  ‘Oh, Rain.’ I groan.

  ‘What?’ she asks. She screws up her face and squeals as though she really can smell poo.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say.

  Because what can I say? She’s totally round the bend.

  38

  I make Ready brek with the last dribble of milk, which is past its sell-by date but smells OK. And after breakfast I clear up. Rain tucks into Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and a carton of apple juice.

  ‘What time did Mom say she’d be home?’ Rain asks. She turns a page in her book.

  ‘Don’t remember,’ I lie. It’s already nine o’clock and she said she’d be back by eight.

  I’m about to go and get my own reading book when the doorbell jangles.

  ‘That’s her,’ Rain says.

  ‘She’s got a key,’ I say.

  I pad down the stairs and through the porch. I slide the security chain into place then open the main door and peer out.

  I don’t believe it. Standing grinning is my English teacher.

  ‘Mr Gaydon?’

  ‘Hello, Apple. I heard from the office that you were visiting your dad. But I see you’re back.’

  I nod slowly, wondering how I’m going to lie my way out of this.

  ‘Is your mother at home?’

  ‘She’s, uh, she’s . . .’ If I say Mum isn’t here he might think I’m being neglected. If I say Mum is here he’ll want to speak to her. Either way, I’m stuck.

  ‘Who is it?’ Rain shouts from upstairs.

  Mr Gaydon pokes the security chain with his finger. ‘Can I come in?’

  I unchain the door but stand in the frame so he can’t get by. ‘Mum’s not well. Can you come back later?’

  ‘You know you’re racking up a lot of unauthorised absences, and I think I might know why. I have to speak to your mum about it.’ He taps his foot noiselessly.

  ‘Mum’s in bed, and I’m taking care of her,’ I say.

  ‘And who’s taking care of you?’

  ‘Is it Gina?’ Rain shouts down again. My heart pounds. She doesn’t sound like an adult, but maybe the American accent will fool Mr Gaydon.

  ‘That’s my mum,’ I say. ‘You see, I got the flu and then she caught it from me.’

  Mr Gaydon wrinkles his nose. ‘And you were never in London with your dad?’

  ‘No, sir. I don’t know who said I was.’

  He sighs. ‘Apple, I checked your record and you’ve had sixteen unauthorised absences after a previously pristine record. I know you’re having some problems with girls in your class. I think we all need to sit down and discuss what’s going on. I think I need to speak to Donna and Pilar’s parents too.’

  ‘Don’t do that! I’m fine. I’m coming back in today . . . Later.’ I put a pleading hand on Mr Gaydon’s arm. He steps back.

  ‘I need to see your mother. If I don’t, this will have to go further.’ Maybe he means he’ll tell Dr Dillon. But he could mean social services or the police. Could Mum be arrested for not sending Rain and me to school?

  ‘Mum’s sick, sir,’ I repeat.

  ‘Are you sick?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Good. So, run up the stairs and put your uniform on. My car’s parked around the corner.’

  ‘Mum needs someone to take care of her. But I’ll def­­initely be in school tomorrow.’

  ‘And what have you been doing at home for two weeks? You’ve missed a lot of work. I thought you liked poetry.’

  ‘I do.’

  Mr Gaydon bites his thumbnail. ‘Look, let’s make a deal. You come to school this week, or I’ll be back here with the cavalry.’ He pauses. ‘Do you know what that means?’

  ‘You’ll bring other people?’

  ‘An army of people.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And I’ll expect you to email me one hundred words in response to this poem.’ He pulls a piece of paper from his briefcase and hands it to me.

  ‘What’s the poem about?’

  ‘Blackberries,’ he says. ‘It’s also about much more. It’s your job to work out what that is. And don’t cheat by going online.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘See you soon,’ he says.

  I race up the stairs. Rain peeks over the rim of her book. ‘Was it Gina?’ she asks.

  ‘Mum had better get back soon,’ I say.

  ‘Why?’ Rain goes to the window. ‘Who’s that man?’

  ‘He’s a teacher. He wants to speak to Mum about me not being in school.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Is that all she can say? Oh? She doesn’t seem to realise this is serious. Children can’t just bunk off school. It’s il­­­legal. And it’s not as though any of this is an accident either. It’s her fault I’ve not been going in. If she acted more like a normal human being, I wouldn’t have to babysit every day.

  ‘We both have to go back to school, Rain,’ I say.

  ‘We will,’ she replies. ‘Soon.’

  39

  By noon, Mum’s still not home. I try her phone again and again but it’s switched off. For lunch I make more Ready brek because we’ve run out of cash. Rain complains that it’s too lumpy, so I go and check the post to stop myself from throwing the bowls against the wall. Then I make us two mugs of tea and sit at the dining table tackling Mr Gaydon’s assignment. The poem is called ‘Blackberry-Picking’ by someone called Seamus Heaney, and it’s basically about people who pick ripe blackberries and fill a bath with them. They try to keep the berries fresh but it’s impossible and eventually the whole lot rots and the narrator feels fed up about it.

  I read through it a couple of times then look up the words I don’t understand in an online dictionary. I think it might help me analyse the poem better. It doesn’t make a difference; even though Mr Gaydon said the poem was about more than blackberries, I can’t work out the underlying message.

  Rain sits next to me. She grabs the poem and reads it aloud very slowly. ‘Are you learning about fruit?’ she asks.

  ‘Poems,’ I say.

  ‘Poems are boring.’

  ‘But you liked writing the nonsense poem.’

  ‘Yeah, but that wasn’t a real poem. That was silly.’

  ‘Poems are good if you think about them a bit like a puzzle. You have to pick all the words apart until you understand the meaning,’ I tell her.

  ‘Well, I can tell that the meaning of this one is bad. Whatever it is, it’s a very bad meaning,’ she says.

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘I don’t know. A feeling.’

  ‘A feeling?’

  ‘Yeah. Anyway, there’s all bad words in it like “rat” and “stinking”. It’s yucky.’

  I read the poem over again in my head. Rain’s right. The poem is gloomy, especially at the end where the blackberries get all grey and mouldy. It’s sad because the person tries to save the berries but they get ruined anywa
y. And the worst part about it is, he does the same thing every year and never seems to learn his lesson.

  I tap my teeth with my fingernails, thinking. Rain opens the freezer and takes out an orange ice lolly. She goes back to reading.

  I go back to the laptop.

  ‘Disappointment’ by Apple Apostolopoulou

  All the time Mum was away,

  Eleven long years,

  I saved up my hopes

  Like little pennies in a jar.

  I didn’t know her, so I made her up –

  And I made her perfect.

  In my mind, Mum shimmered like the moon against the sea –

  Ghostly and romantic.

  But now I know that

  She is scratched and stained

  And all that’s left is disappointment.

  I thought when she came back

  I’d have everything that was missing

  From my life.

  Now all I have

  Is an empty jar with

  A hole in the bottom to stop

  New hopes from heaping up.

  For the first time, I don’t write another one hundred words for Mr Gaydon. Instead, I write him an email.

  Dear Mr Gaydon,

  I am attaching my homework. I think the poem by Seamus Heaney is very sad. It seems to be about how we try to hold on to things that cannot be captured, like fresh fruit. Seamus Heaney uses this as a metaphor for life and it made me think about my mum. When I was a small child, I thought she was perfect. Actually, until a few days ago I still thought she was the coolest person in the world. Now I know she’s just normal and makes mistakes. So, that’s why I wrote a poem called ‘Disappointment’ about her. I hope it’s OK. I know that sometimes you like us to read our work out loud in class, but this poem is personal, so please don’t make me read it to anyone when I get back.

  Thank you,

  Apple Apostolopoulou

  I press Send, then spend five minutes with my head in my hands, wishing I’d written a fake answer. I hardly know Mr Gaydon. Maybe he’s one of those teachers who gossips about students in the staffroom. By the time I go back to school, the poem could be halfway around the building.