Truly, Wildly, Deeply

by Jenny McLachlan

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘That boy eating pasta salad.’

  I follow her eyes and see a boy sitting by the pool table. He’s got neat black hair and his knees are clamped together with a Tupperware box balanced on them.

  ‘OK … Why?’

  ‘Because the salad looks home-made and I just saw him add salad dressing that he had brought in a separate bottle.’ She’s delighted by this detail.

  ‘Salad-dressing boy it is. Out of curiosity, who was it that made you shiver with loathing?’

  ‘That girl by the door.’ Her eyes flick towards a girl who’s laughing and holding a smoothie. ‘Abbie Sweeney.’

  ‘What’s wrong with Abbie Sweeney?’

  ‘She called me “smelly owl” for four years at St Cuthbert’s. She dropped the “smelly” in Year Eleven, but, still, not very nice.’

  I stare hard at Abbie Sweeney, committing her dip-dyed red hair, sprinkling of freckles and upturned nose to memory. Just let her try calling Hilary a smelly owl when I’m around … I’ll call her a funky fox. No, that sounds too positive. Maybe a fetid fox …

  ‘So what about you?’ says Hilary, interrupting my dark thoughts. ‘Who would you befriend?’

  ‘Well, obviously not Abbie Sweeney.’

  ‘Thanks!’

  ‘Let’s see …’ My eyes sweep the room from left to right. ‘Him.’ I nod towards a boy who’s sitting next to Hilary’s salad-dressing boy.

  ‘The redhead or the blond?’

  ‘The dirty blond. I like his long fingers.’

  ‘Long fingers must be your salad dressing.’

  ‘I guess so,’ I say, laughing. Then I stand up and brush the crumbs from my lap. ‘Come on. We need to introduce ourselves to our new friends.’

  ‘What?’ Hilary’s eyes go wide – in fact, if I’m totally honest, they look a little owlish. ‘We’re just going to go over there and … say hello?’

  ‘That’s it!’

  I walk across the room, and, after a moment’s hesitation, Hilary follows me.

  ‘Hi!’ I say, making the boys look up.

  Hilary’s boy holds a pasta spiral suspended in front of his mouth. He swallows and blinks.

  ‘I’m Annie and this is Hilary, and out of everyone in the room we chose you to come and talk to!’

  ‘An excellent choice,’ says Long Fingers. Up close, I see that the rest of him is pretty appealing too – black specs, just the right amount of tight blue T-shirt and a big easy smile. ‘I’m Jim, and this is Maliik – Mal for short.’ Salad boy wiggles his pasta spiral. ‘And that’s Oliver.’

  Oliver blurts out, ‘I’m getting a drink,’ and gets to his feet. ‘Excuse me,’ he says, as he edges past us.

  ‘Sorry about Oli,’ says Jim. ‘We went to an all-boys’ school and that’s actually the longest conversation he’s ever had with a woman.’

  Woman, I think, enjoying how the word makes me feel.

  ‘Not true,’ Oliver calls over his shoulder. He’s got one of those complexions that can go from milky white to red in a matter of seconds. Right now, it’s on scarlet mode.

  ‘Oh, yeah. He said “hello” to my mum once.’

  Oliver walks off, shaking his head.

  ‘I guess we might as well have Oliver’s seat,’ I say, and Hilary and I sit down.

  Mal goes back to his salad and Jim starts chatting. Soon he’s told us loads of stuff, like how they became friends because they were the only boys in their year who didn’t like football and that Mal actually does like football, only he pretends not to so he can hang out with Oli and Jim.

  ‘Oh, there’s one thing you should know about Oli,’ says Jim. ‘He’s got this obscene carrot addiction.’

  Mal laughs into his salad.

  ‘What about you, Jim?’ I say. ‘Anything that we should know about you?’

  He sits back and smiles. ‘Only that I have an obscene music collection – obscenely good, that is.’ And then he’s off on one, going on about house rhythms and funky basslines – or is it funky rhythms and house basslines?

  Soon I’m wearing his Bang and Olufsen headphones and nodding away to … something. It’s almost definitely techno.

  I pass the headphones on to Hilary as Oliver reappears. He leans against the wall, opens his drink, then gets a carrot out of his bag. It’s already peeled and wrapped in cling film.

  When he sees us watching him, Oliver scowls. ‘I’m not addicted,’ he says. ‘This is my first one today.’

  Which makes us all burst out laughing. A girl sitting on a sofa next to us glances over, and, just like that, we’ve joined the Big Laughers.

  SIX

  I thought I might get stressed on my first day at college, and lost and definitely tired, but I didn’t expect to enjoy myself so much. After five years of the same teachers, students and rules, I’m delighted by every new thing I encounter. The library lets you take out your own books in a machine! There’s a shop in reception that sells tampons and pencil sharpeners! My sociology teacher tells us to call him Phil!

  And so my first day passes in an exciting blur of new experiences and trying not to fall over.

  My final lesson is psychology. After that, I get my wheelchair and head for the station. I bump into Hilary as I’m going down the hill – quite literally, as I creep up behind her and do it on purpose. We talk about our lessons and Hilary shares her pecan-pie-flavoured M&M’s with me.

  Just seven hours ago, I was coming up this hill on my own and now I’m sharing obscure sweets with an old friend from playgroup. This feels like the perfect end to the perfect day.

  At the station, I meet up with Jackson. I don’t get to hear about his day because the moment we get on the train, his phone rings and he starts talking to Amelia. I use this opportunity to carry on reading Wuthering Heights. The narrator, Lockwood, is having a bit of bad luck: he’s been caught in a snowstorm, attacked by dogs and forced to stay the night in Heathcliff’s house.

  I’m totally hooked.

  That is, until Jackson starts talking about salad in a loud voice.

  ‘… sky and hills mingled in one bitter whirl of wind and suffocating snow …’ I read.

  ‘So this boy in my biology class bought a ham and salad baguette and all it had inside was a piece of ham and two bits of cucumber,’ Jackson tells Amelia.

  ‘… it was so dark that I could not see the means of exit …’

  ‘I know! Salad has to be at least two things … lettuce, pepper, onion, tomato … No. Not coleslaw. That doesn’t count …’

  ‘… two hairy monsters flew at my throat …’

  ‘I didn’t know you like beetroot. I love beetroot! It tastes like metal, so when I eat it I pretend I’m eating soft metal.’

  And that’s when I give up reading and dedicate the rest of the journey to listening in on Jackson and Amelia’s never-ending conversation. It’s strangely soothing, especially when they try to say goodbye to each other.

  ‘Bye … OK … Bye … See you later … No, you hang up … OK … Do it now … You didn’t hang up, did you?’

  ‘Are you sure you said goodbye properly?’ I ask when Jackson finally puts his phone away. ‘Maybe you should ring her back and check.’

  ‘Very funny,’ he says. ‘Just ’cause I’m not a lone wolf like you.’

  I burst out laughing. ‘A lone wolf? Where did that come from?’

  He shrugs. ‘Well, you’ve never been that into having friends, have you? I seem to remember you were the only person in our year group who turned up at the prom on their own.’

  ‘Yeah, because I chose to! I could have sat in any number of pink limos if I’d wanted to. But I didn’t. It’s not my thing going round in a pack of girls.’

  ‘You don’t go round in a pack of anything.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I say proudly, sitting back in my seat, ‘but it doesn’t mean I haven’t got friends. I’ve got loads! For example, Meg, Dara, Kiri, Elizabeth, Rose, Ed, Luke, you –’

  ‘Name the l
ast person you had over to your house.’ He smiles like he’s enjoying himself.

  Honestly? It was probably Dara back in Year Ten, but I’m not telling Jackson that. ‘We’re sixteen, Jackson. We don’t have people round to play any more. Anyway, why are you so worried about my friends all of a sudden?’

  He shrugs. ‘I’m not really. You were having a go at me about Amelia so I thought I’d return the favour.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ I say, then I mime holding up a piece of paper and drawing a big cross on it.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Crossing you off my friend list,’ I say.

  Then Jackson tries to cross me off his friend list, only he uses a Sharpie and my arm. So I attempt to unfriend him on Facebook, but he fights me for my phone, I get the giggles and then an old man tells us off.

  I spend the rest of the journey staring out of the window, because I know that if I even look at Jackson’s silly face, I’ll start laughing again.

  And, of course, I think about what Jackson’s just said.

  He’s probably right. I’m friendly with a lot of people, but there’s no one I talk to every day or who I’d describe as a ‘best friend’. I guess it’s because at the start of secondary school I had a couple of operations and missed the moment when everyone got into groups. Also, I get tired in the evenings and at weekends, so sometimes it’s easier not to make plans at all than to have to cancel them at the last minute and let people down.

  But maybe it’s time I made room in my life for a friend. Just a small one. With yellow glasses and round cheeks.

  As we go down the station platform, I say to Jackson, ‘I did make a new friend today, actually.’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ he says, smiling. ‘Congratulations. And what’s this friend’s name?’

  ‘Hilary.’

  ‘You so made that up,’ Jackson says, shaking his head.

  I give him a shove, and he gives me an even bigger shove back, but I’m in my wheelchair so I’m unshoveable.

  The moment we get through the ticket barrier, I see Amelia standing outside W.H. Smith. She’s all willowy, and her hair belongs on a shampoo ad, and she’s jumping up and down with the excitement of being reunited with the one and only Jackson Carter.

  ‘Say “hi” from me,’ I say, then Jackson shoots off across the concourse, like a puppy that’s been let off the lead. I watch as they throw their arms around each other.

  No one’s at the station to meet me, not even my mum – and for me that’s the best feeling in the world.

  SEVEN

  I’ve nearly finished making dinner when Mum gets in. She drops her bag of marking on the floor then comes over and gives me a big hug. This is reckless as I’m draining spaghetti and I’m surrounded by steam and boiling water.

  ‘My big college girl!’ she says, squeezing me tight. She smells powerfully of school dinners and children. This is her Monday to Friday smell. Her weekend and holiday smell is Chanel No 5.

  ‘That’s enough,’ I say after I’ve endured a couple of seconds of hug. ‘Please release me before this pasta goes mushy.’

  Mum watches me with an eager look on her face as I stir the pesto into the pasta. ‘So … How was your day, Annie? Did everything go well? What are your teachers like?’

  I narrow my eyes. Mum’s great. Really, I couldn’t ask for a better one: she’s funny, good at all the essential mum stuff (cakes, hot-water bottles, lifts) and she has an excellent haircut that makes her look like a feminine elf. But, like all mums, she can be a wee bit inquisitive.

  ‘Have you washed your hands?’ I say.

  She looks at her hands. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  I put the bowls of pasta on the table. ‘You’ve just spent the day wiping bottoms. You probably need to wash your hands with bleach.’

  ‘I only wiped one bottom today,’ she says, squirting soap on to her hands. ‘Oh, and I cleaned up a bit of sick at milk time.’

  ‘Revolting.’

  Mum sits down and starts twirling spaghetti on to her fork. ‘Now stop mucking around, Annie Demos, and tell me how your day went.’

  ‘I didn’t wipe anyone’s bottom or clean up any sick, so, all in all, I’m guessing I had a pretty good day compared to yours.’

  Mum shakes her head. ‘No jokes. I want hard facts: who you met, details of exactly what you ate at lunchtime, the high points and low points of your day.’

  I cover my pasta in Cheddar. ‘I hung out with three boys: Jim, Oliver and Mal. Oliver likes eating carrots. I ate a rice salad at lunchtime and it was good. Actually, it was so good that it might have been the high point of the day.’ Then, almost so I can see what it feels like, I add, ‘And I met this girl, Hilary. I like her a lot. I think I might invite her round.’

  Mum’s eyes shoot up from her food. ‘Great,’ she says. ‘Seriously, any time!’ She’d love to quiz me about Hilary, but she knows me well enough to leave it at that.

  We carry on eating as I describe my form group, then Mum asks, ‘Any low points?’ She says this casually, sprinkling more cheese on her pasta, but I know that she has been worrying about me all day.

  ‘No low points,’ I say, sidestepping the memory of Fab calling me an invalid. ‘I didn’t fall over, I received a totally predictable amount of stares and I got the train fine. I feel crazy tired now, but I don’t care because I loved my lessons. In psychology we learnt about the strangest experiment involving a monkey and a fake mum-monkey made of wire.’

  Mum looks at me as she sucks in a long bit of spaghetti, and then I notice she’s blinking at the same time.

  ‘Mum … Are you crying? All I did was go to college. That’s not worthy of tears!’

  The last bit of spaghetti whips into her mouth and she shakes her head. ‘I’m not crying. My contact lenses are wandering about – I’m trying to get them back in position.’

  ‘Oh … well, good.’

  She jabs her fork at me. ‘You’ll have to do more than get a train and eat a rice salad to make me cry, young lady.’

  ‘Win a medal at the Paralympics?’

  ‘No … It would need to be something that made me feel really proud.’

  ‘Win The Great British Bake Off?’ This is Mum’s favourite programme in the world and watching it is a sacred experience for her. She even has this little ritual where she gets in her pyjamas, makes a cup of tea, then opens a packet of cheese and onion crisps. I’m not allowed to speak to her until the credits are rolling and I definitely don’t get any of the crisps.

  ‘That would do it,’ she says, smiling at the thought. ‘Paul Hollywood squeezing your buns …’

  I shake my head. ‘You just went too far.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she says with a grin. She doesn’t look sorry at all.

  EIGHT

  After dinner, I disappear up to my bedroom.

  I’m exhausted, but the moment I shut my bedroom door, say ‘hi’ to my rats and turn on my music, a feeling of lightness sweeps through me.

  My room might be a mess of make-up and trainers, and contain a ridiculously large rats’ cage, but it’s my sanctuary. I’m not just tired because my muscles ache; I’m tired because all day I’ve been putting on a stellar performance of Being Annie. Laughing, radiating self-confidence, meeting every stare with a smile. Everyone makes an effort when they meet people for the first time, but being disabled means I’ve got to work that little bit harder. It takes a serious amount of pink lipstick, bravado and bling to remind people that the way I walk is only part of who I am.

  But here in my room, I can let all that go.

  I shut the curtains, take off my make-up and pull on my softest tracksuit bottoms and a pair of fluffy socks. Luckily, Mum understands that I need a lot of downtime, and she never tries to guilt-trip me into hanging out with her. Except on Eurovision night – that’s the one evening when downtime is banned.

  The whole time I’m moving round my room, my rats, Mabel and Alice, are peering over the edge of their hammock, wa
tching me with their beady black eyes.

  ‘Freedom!’ I say, as I open their cage door.

  Straight away, Mabel shoots out of the cage and scampers under my bed, but Alice is more sociable and runs on to my shoulder and sniffs my face. Alice smells like honey on toast … with a hint of rat.

  ‘Hello, beautiful,’ I say.

  I pick her off my shoulder, lay her on her back and tickle her soft, white tummy. She grabs hold of my thumb in her tiny hands and we share a moment of intensely rewarding eye contact. I really do love my girls.

  After I’ve cleaned their cage and put them away, I curl up on my bed and open Wuthering Heights. I ache from my shoulders right down to the backs of my legs, but as I read my whole body kind of melts. This is another reason I love reading. Compared to participating in real life, the experience of opening a book and stepping into someone else’s life requires no effort at all.

  And right now, Lockwood’s life is mucked up.

  He’s staying the night at Wuthering Heights, and as he reaches out of a window a tiny icy hand grabs him and won’t let go. It’s seriously scary. The hand belongs to a ghost … or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe Lockwood’s dreaming. He can’t tell because he’s in that weird halfway place between being asleep and awake.

  Just like me …

  Even though it’s just gone ten, I turn out my light and pull my duvet over me. Then I lie in the dark, Alice and Mabel snuffling around their cage, my mind bouncing between Wuthering Heights and my day at Cliffe College: I see my friends, Hilary the owl, and Jim with his huge headphones and Oliver with his beautiful red hair; then Heathcliff storms in, with his dark glower, only to be replaced by Fabian Kaczka with his fringed scarf and Bombay Sapphire stare.

  NINE

  When I get to college the next day, fully recharged and ready to go, Fab’s stare is the first thing I see.

  He’s standing by the main gates, legs astride, arms folded, looking like a bouncer. He’s still wearing his black trainers, but today he’s paired them with running shorts and a striped shirt that’s loosely buttoned and showing a lot of chest. It’s really hard to tell if he’s rocking an incredible mismatched look or simply got dressed in the dark.