Truly, Wildly, Deeply

by Jenny McLachlan

  ‘Annie!’ he shouts, beckoning me over. ‘Come here.’ The way he’s positioned himself right by the gates makes me wonder if he’s been lying in wait for me.

  My first instinct is to ignore him. I’m not sure I want to start the day with an awkward conversation, and I’m in my wheelchair. If he thought I was an ‘invalid’ when I was walking, what will he think now? Maybe he’ll crouch down like he’s talking to a child – or, worse, try and push me.

  ‘Annie!’ he bellows. ‘Annie!’

  With a sigh, I turn in his direction. Sometimes it’s best to meet life’s challenges head-on.

  ‘ANNIE!’

  Plus, he’s obviously not giving up.

  The moment I reach Fab, he dumps a large box on my lap. ‘I would be grateful if you could help me, please. Just find the correct baguette and pass them to my customers.’

  Confused, I peer into the box and see that it’s stuffed full of cellophane-wrapped baguettes. ‘Fab, what are you on about?’

  ‘The baguette I had in the canteen yesterday was small and it was dry so I have made better ones.’

  The baguettes all have stickers labelled with Fab’s loopy handwriting: sausage, cheese and tom, zapiekanka. I notice the zapiekanka ones are still hot and oozing cheese.

  ‘You do know that the college won’t like you selling baguettes?’ I say. ‘You’re nicking their business.’

  ‘Then they should make better baguettes,’ he says with a shrug. ‘Anyway, it is just for today. I had to get up very early to make them. Too early.’ Then, before I can mention trading licenses or hygiene laws, or point out that I don’t actually want to help him, he starts shouting at the top of his voice: ‘Fresh baguettes! Half the price of the canteen, double the taste. Zapiekanka: one hundred per cent vegetarian!’

  People stare at him, alarmed, but this doesn’t put him off. ‘Hey, my friend,’ he says, stepping in front of a boy who’s simply trying to walk into college. ‘Got any lunch? Get a baguette right here!’ Then I notice that people are staring at me too, assuming that I’m part of Fab’s baguette business.

  ‘Er, Fab,’ I say, ‘I think I might –’

  ‘BAGUETTES!’ he bellows. ‘BAGUETTES! When they are gone, they are gone!’

  Now, this is a new experience for me. Usually, in any given group of teenagers, I’m the loud, confident one, but Fab’s market-trader act is making me feel a little, well, embarrassed. With alarm, I wonder if this is what it’s like hanging out with me. No, I decide – my loud moments are well judged and funny. Whereas Fab’s are just, well, loud.

  ‘How much are they?’ Finally, Fab has succeeded at drawing in one of the jocks from my form group.

  ‘To you, one pound fifty,’ Fab says, then he runs through the fillings.

  The boy buys two sausage baguettes and that’s all it takes to make a group of girls stop to see what’s going on. This small crowd attracts others and soon I’m surrounded on all sides, with hands reaching into the box for baguettes, and people shouting ‘sausage’ and ‘cheese’ in my face.

  And that’s when I decide I’ve had enough of being Fab’s table.

  ‘Hold this,’ I say to a girl, passing her the box, then I push my way out of the crowd. I pop out on the other side and almost run into Jim.

  ‘Hello,’ he says, pulling off his headphones. If he’s surprised to see me in a wheelchair, he hides it well. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Baguettes is what’s going on. A boy from my English class is selling them.’

  ‘How curious,’ he says, then he nods towards the main entrance. ‘You coming in?’

  Before I have a chance to reply, Fab’s hand lands on my shoulder. ‘Annie, where are you going?’

  ‘Into college.’

  ‘But I haven’t given you my present. That’s why I called you over.’ He pulls a bunch of battered flowers out from behind his back. ‘For you,’ he says formally, and again I get one of his bows.

  I stare at the big bloomy flowers and feel a blush creep over my face. The flowers are huge and red and pink, and seem – to my untrained eye – ridiculously romantic. Why on earth is he giving them to me?

  Fab mistakes my focused stare for one of botanical curiosity. ‘They’re dahlias,’ he says. ‘My mum grows them on her allotment. She brought the seeds all the way from Poland, which is why they are extremely beautiful.’

  He bends over me to tweak at the flowers, pulling out one that’s half snapped. I see an amused smile spread across Jim’s face.

  Fab clears his throat. ‘Annie, these flowers are to say “sorry” for my rudeness yesterday. I have been on the internet and I have discovered a lot about language and disability. My mum always says words should be weighed and not counted, and I will be remembering that in the future.’

  ‘Right …’

  ‘Please have them,’ says Fab, pushing the flowers towards me.

  Other students are staring at us now and some are smiling like they’re witnessing a magical romantic moment.

  Quickly, I take the dahlias and drop them on my lap. ‘Look, Fab, thanks and everything, but don’t beat yourself up about what you said. I’d rather you just talked to me normally than worried about saying the wrong thing.’

  A smile spreads across his face. ‘I would love to talk to you! When?’

  OK. That wasn’t what I meant. ‘Later,’ I say.

  ‘What’s your number?’ he asks, whipping out his phone. ‘We can arrange it.’

  He stands there, looking at me expectantly. This boy does not give up.

  ‘Give me your number,’ I say. ‘I can never remember mine.’ This is an obvious lie, but Fab doesn’t seem to mind. This way I get to decide if I contact him or not.

  As Fab reels off his number, a girl wanders over with a baguette. ‘Who do I pay for this?’

  ‘I must go,’ Fab says, then he grabs my hand, squeezes it and goes back to his customers.

  I stare at my hand and laugh.

  ‘He is one weird dude,’ says Jim, shaking his head.

  We walk towards college and, for a moment, I think about letting Jim’s ‘weird’ comment go. I mean, didn’t I just say people shouldn’t worry too much about saying the wrong thing?

  But I’ve never been much good at letting things go.

  ‘You think he’s weird, Jim? Do you prefer people to be normal?’

  He laughs. ‘Not really. Look who I hang out with … And I do believe that weird is the new normal.’

  ‘You so got that off a T-shirt. I hope you don’t own it.’

  ‘Actually, I got it off a mug. My sister owns it, which is odd because she’s the most normal person I know.’

  ‘My mum once got me a mug that says, “World’s Greatest Disabled Person”.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  I look up at him as I push through the double doors. ‘She’s got a good sense of humour.’

  We join the crush of students. ‘I wonder if I could get one that says, “World’s Greatest Abled Person”?’ he muses.

  ‘Jim, you can get anything on a mug.’

  We spend the next few minutes thinking up bad mug slogans. My favourites are: ‘Am I a mug?’, ‘Keep calm and carry on mugging’ and ‘Mmm, this tea’s lovely … Feeling smug’.

  Although Jim says that won’t fit on a mug.

  So smug.

  We part at the lift. ‘See you at break?’ I say. Jim’s so laidback, I feel I can say this without sounding like a stalker, or, worse, as if I can’t handle being on my own.

  ‘Maybe,’ he says, raising one eyebrow, ‘unless you’ve arranged to meet up for a chat and a sausage baguette with Fab.’

  I open my mouth to have the last word, but just then the lift doors slide shut.

  Man, he timed that well.

  TEN

  At break, I notice that already different groups of students are claiming corners and sofas in the common room. In a way, this is like school, only the groups here seem more fuzzy round the edges. For example, the alpha group at scho
ol was made up solely of beautiful sporty types, but the group who have taken the blue sofa by the iPod dock – definitely the best place in the room – seems more inclusive. They’re all still confident and, on the whole, beautiful, but I’m seeing vintage clothing, hats, at least one beard and a girl crocheting.

  This is an interesting development …

  I look around for Hilary and almost bump into Georgina Carr, looking lost.

  Her eyes light up when she sees me. ‘Annie! How are you doing?’

  ‘Yeah, good,’ I say cautiously, because being treated like a human being by Georgina is a bit odd. Over by the pool table, I spot Hilary, Mal and Oliver.

  ‘Annie!’ calls Hilary, waving madly.

  I look back at Georgina and she looks so lonely I have to say, ‘Coming to sit down?’

  Maybe it’s Hilary’s charity shop specs, or possibly it’s Mal’s school shoes that he’s wearing with ironed jeans, but something about my new friends puts Georgina off. ‘No, you’re all right,’ she says, wrinkling her nose. ‘I’m just going … this way.’ And she wanders off in search of someone ‘better’.

  I wonder if I should tell her that the sporty types have taken over the picnic tables outside, but they’re not beautiful sporty types – they’re just people studying sports science – and I don’t think this would be acceptable to Georgina either. I watch her walk away, her eyes flicking anxiously from side to side.

  For five years, I’ve wanted to see Georgina knocked off her pedestal and forced to experience what life is like for people born without flawless skin and the ability to run fast and bounce a ball at the same time. I watch as she takes out her phone and stares at the screen, nibbling her lip. I just didn’t realise that when it happened I’d feel so sorry for her.

  I weave through people, dodging pool cues and rucksacks, and sit next to Hilary.

  ‘So, guess what?’ she says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oliver is a part-time pest controller!’

  ‘I really don’t think I would have guessed that,’ I say, laughing.

  Oliver shrugs off this revelation and starts to discuss his poisons, vermin and ‘clients’.

  ‘He’s got business cards and everything,’ says Hilary.

  ‘Hang on,’ I say. ‘You actually own a business?’

  He ducks his head modestly. ‘Just a small one.’

  Yesterday I was laughing at Oliver for having a carrot addiction and now I’m being told he’s an entrepreneur. Maybe I should start eating raw carrots …

  As Oliver describes clients who’ve encountered rats in their toilets (while they’ve been in the act), all of his awkwardness from yesterday slips away and even his blush dies down. I suppose, as a vegetarian rat lover, I should find his job disturbing, but he talks with such animation it’s hard not to get swept along in his enthusiasm for getting rid of living creatures.

  ‘Last night, I was working in an attic when I found a nest of baby rats in a suitcase,’ he says.

  ‘I’ve got two pet rats,’ I say. ‘Alice and Mabel.’

  Oliver looks up at me and with complete seriousness says, ‘Mr Rat is an exceptionally intelligent and resourceful creature.’

  This is all the encouragement I need to get out my phone and show him far too many pictures of Alice and Mabel being both intelligent and resourceful.

  ‘Look,’ I say. ‘In this one Alice is opening a drawer and, because she’s lazy, Mabel is waiting for her to do it and then she’s going to steal the bit of cheese!’

  That’s when Jim appears and pulls up a chair. ‘I am the bearer of good news,’ he says, getting some cards out of his bag. ‘In three weeks this girl in my maths group, Sophie, is having an eighteenth birthday party and you’re all invited.’

  ‘It’s at the East Bay Hotel,’ I say, taking an invitation. ‘That’s near where I live.’

  ‘How come we’re invited?’ asks Hilary.

  ‘Her mum’s the manager at the hotel so she’s got this massive function room for free. Only problem is, now she needs to fill it so she’s handing out invitations to everyone.’

  On the front of the invitation is a photo of a girl pouting, with Sophie is 18 and MAD FOR IT!! printed below her face.

  ‘But we don’t know Mad For It Sophie,’ I say.

  Jim shrugs. ‘Doesn’t matter. Everyone’s going.’

  ‘I think we should go,’ Hilary says, nudging me.

  ‘Maybe, but I might be too tired,’ I say, trying to predict how I’ll feel in three weeks’ time. Plus I can’t quite remember what access is like at the East Bay Hotel. Most people my age do things like getting the train, walking round college every day and going to parties without thinking, but for me it’s hard work and involves a lot of planning.

  ‘Right,’ says Hilary. ‘See how you feel.’

  Suddenly, I realise I’ve been here before, at that point when I firmly but kindly keep someone at a distance. If I don’t commit to this party, Hilary will find someone else to go with. We’ll still be friends, but the ties between us will be slightly loosened. Almost with surprise, I realise I don’t want this to happen.

  ‘I’m sure it will be fine,’ I say, and her eyes light up. Then, before I can change my mind, I add, ‘And if you want, you can come round to my place to get ready … And stay the night.’

  Hilary’s eyes double in size and she actually hugs me. I feel a bit giddy. Take that, Jackson Carter! Not only have I invited someone over to my house, but now we’re sealing the deal with a hug. Which is exactly the kind of thing friends do!

  Hilary lets me go and says, ‘It will be like at playgroup: you and me, causing mayhem together.’

  ‘Painting stuff with Tippex,’ I say, ‘naked bouncing.’

  Oliver’s face quickly goes a deep shade of red and we all watch, fascinated, as the blush spreads out down his neck and across his ears.

  ‘Are you blushing because Annie said “naked bouncing”?’ asks Jim.

  Oliver shakes his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Naked bouncing,’ Jim says. ‘Naked bouncing … naked bouncing … naked bouncing.’

  But Oliver has regained his composure and is staring at Jim stony-faced.

  ‘Hello,’ says Jim, looking across the room. ‘It’s your friend, Annie.’

  Fab has walked into the common room and is standing in the doorway. He surveys the room, taking his time, sipping the drink he’s holding. For a moment, I’m sure he’s looking for me so we can have our chat, but then he clocks the iPod-dock hoggers in the corner and walks towards them. I have this sudden lurch in my stomach, like when you want to stop a child falling over, because even though Fab is so tall and confident, I just don’t know what the Hoggers will make of him.

  I can’t hear what he’s saying, so I just have to watch as he attempts a bit of matey handshaking and as eyebrows are raised and smiles are exchanged behind his back.

  ‘You know him?’ whispers Hilary.

  ‘He’s in my English class,’ I say. ‘He’s friendly … Maybe too friendly?’

  ‘I think he’s a BFG,’ says Hilary.

  A Big Friendly Giant. I guess that does sort of sum him up.

  ‘Well, the BFG gave Annie flowers,’ says Jim. ‘He’s her boyfriend.’

  He drawls this last word, and I feel a rush of irritation that he’s making something out of nothing. I feel something else too – the kind of panic you get when you’re eleven and someone says, ‘My mate fancies you,’ and you realise you’re in a situation you never asked to be in.

  Hilary only makes things worse by going, ‘Ahhh!’

  I need to put a stop to this right away. Having a boyfriend is so far off what I want right now it’s not even funny. I mean, I just had problems committing to a sleepover!

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you both,’ I say, ‘but I’m not interested in going out with Fab.’

  Over by the blue sofa, Fab fiddles with the precious iPod.

  ‘Why not?’ asks Hilary. ‘He’s nice.’

  ‘
I’m sure he is, but I like my freedom far too much to become someone’s girlfriend.’ I guess I say this a bit too passionately because Jim’s eyes widen with amusement. To change the subject, I say, ‘OK. Guess what song he’s putting on.’

  ‘Rap,’ says Mal, ‘or hip-hop.’

  ‘No way,’ says Jim. ‘Heavy metal. Bad, Polish heavy metal.’

  ‘Or Adele, “Rolling in the Deep”?’ suggests Hilary.

  And at that moment, Adele singing ‘Rolling in the Deep’ sweeps through the common room.

  We look at Hilary.

  ‘Are you a witch?’ I say. ‘How did you know that?’

  She grins. ‘I sat next to him in French this morning. We had to interview each other and he said it’s his favourite song.’

  Now Fab’s sitting next to a girl with white-blonde hair and pale pink lips. Together they’re belting out ‘Rolling in the Deep’ and the eye-rolling from the rest of the group seems to have halted. Has Fab entered the lion’s den and survived?

  The song ends, and as Mal starts telling us about his guitar teacher (apparently he eats kebabs during the lessons, but he’s cheap), I watch Fab get up, study the posters on a noticeboard, find some that have fallen on the floor and then pin them back in place. A minute later, he’s leaning over the hatch into the coffee shop and chatting to the woman who works there. He makes a sweeping hand gesture which knocks over a pile of shortbread, and when he attempts to help tidy up, he’s ushered away.

  He takes one last look round the room, then strolls towards the exit. Suddenly, he rushes forward to hold the door open for Miss Caudle. As she walks past, cookie balanced on her mug of coffee, Fab does one of his little bows. Miss Caudle beams up at him and I’m almost certain she bats her lashes.

  Miss Caudle wears an Ask me about my feminist agenda badge. Next time I see her, I’m going to take her up on that.

  ELEVEN

  When I walk into English on Wednesday, Fab’s already sitting at our desk waiting for me.

  ‘Annie,’ he says, beckoning me over. ‘I need to talk to you.’