I must fancy a boy on the other team.
I must hate the people on my own team.
I am rubbish at PE and therefore enjoy sabotaging PE lessons.
I am stupid and probably wet the bed at night.
I was momentarily possessed by aliens who made me run the wrong way.
OK, so I made the last one up. It just seems strange that nobody has suggested the real reason, which is:
I made a mistake. For which I am now paying. And the price is total humiliation.
Anyway, most people seem to have heard about it by now and, contrary to Hannah’s theory, it’s not old news. So far this lunchtime I’ve sat through a hilarious re-enactment of me sprinting down the court, complete with sports commentary; several requests from the sportier students to NEVER try out for the basketball team; and an invitation to share my shame with the entire student population by agreeing to be interviewed for the school paper. I ignore the first, reassure them on the second that nothing could be further from my mind and politely decline the third, stating homework as my mitigating circumstance. It’ll be all over Facebook by tonight anyway, so there’s no need for a formal interview. I’m just keeping my fingers crossed that nobody snuck a mobile phone into the lesson – if video evidence of my shame ends up on YouTube then I might as well stop coming to school altogether.
I finish my sandwich and take a deep breath. I’m not a naturally brave person and all this attention is very unwelcome. I stand up and walk out of the hall as quickly as I can, focusing on not doing anything else that will cause everyone to look at me, for example falling over. As I get to the door, I’m gripped by the terror that my school skirt is tucked in my knickers and I end up scurrying out, one hand reaching behind me, smoothing down my skirt and hoping that I don’t look too weird.
Once out in the corridor, I breathe a sigh of relief. Most people are in the canteen or tucked away in common rooms and the corridors are pretty empty. Hannah is on duty in the school library so I head to my locker to stash my bag. My locker is on the second floor in C Block so it takes me a few minutes to get there. I only pass a couple of people on the way and they ignore me, so I’m feeling a bit more positive by the time I’ve climbed the stairs. Reaching inside my bag, I grab my key and unlock my locker and a piece of folded-up paper falls out.
Our lockers have all got slits in the front, like air vents. I have absolutely no idea why they’re there – it’s not like anyone’s going to put an animal inside there (although I did hear that this really small boy in Year 8 got rammed into someone’s locker at the end of term last year, so I suppose he was quite grateful for the opportunity to have a fresh supply of air to keep him going). Anyway, the slits mean that people can post notes inside the lockers and, as I bend down, I brace myself for something nasty. A hate letter maybe.
But I don’t need to worry. As soon as I unfold the paper, I see a familiar colour. It’s from Alex, written with her signature violet ink fountain pen. That’s what she calls it: her ‘signature’ ink. She says that it helps make her words stand out from the crowd, that everyone else uses blue or black ink, but that she refuses to conform to other people’s rules. She says that it makes her distinctive, unique – it shows that she’s a true individual. I think that’s quite a lot to ask from an ink cartridge, but Alex refuses to use any other colour.
And actually the colour violet really suits Alex. I know quite a lot about colours and what they mean – and people don’t seem to realize that you can tell loads about a person by the colours they choose. Violet represents being brave and one of a kind; it means being someone who is good at creating things and has a brilliant imagination. Violet people are independent: they don’t need anybody else. All of those things describe Alex completely, so it’s good that she writes in violet ink. It’s just that Alex thinks it’s the colour that makes her BE those things and that’s wrong. It’s Alex who IS all of those things – the colour just matches her personality.
I look down at the note. Alex’s handwriting is always changing; she’s constantly attempting new styles and trying to figure out what each style says about her. This message is short, but written with very flouncy, flowery letters. She won’t keep this one up for long – there’s no way she could write a 2,000-word essay like this.
Izzy,
My advice? Laugh it off. And pull a sickie next time you have a PE lesson …
Love you forever.
Alex xxxxxxx
I fold the note up and slip it into my pocket. Alex is right – I just have to grit my teeth and smile this one out. I have a quick practice, but it turns out that smiling through gritted teeth makes you feel like a lunatic so I stop and just hope that I can manage to look calm and serene for the rest of the day. I will use my best ‘there’s nothing to see here so please move on’ face. I wish that Alex hadn’t heard about my mess-up, but it feels good to know that she’s thinking about me.
I head towards the sanctuary of Hannah and the library, feeling a little bit more confident about my ability to make it to the end of the school day without dying of mortification. Maybe I’ll write about it later in my notebook – that usually makes me feel a bit better. I might not be able to control the things that happen to me in my real, actual life, but I CAN choose the words that I use to write about everything.
Alex and I have got words in common – we both like writing things down. Where we are different is why we write. Alex writes letters: she writes letters to Mum and me and leaves them around the house; she writes to her friends all the time; she writes to Granny and Grandpa even though they only live just down the road. And she writes because she wants people to know what she’s doing and what she’s thinking. Alex chooses to write letters because letters are sent – someone always reads them.
I don’t write letters because I don’t want anyone to read what I’ve written. It’s private – just for me. I write words down without worrying what anyone else will think. I just let them pour out of my head and on to the page. I don’t write stories – I suppose you could call it free verse – it’s kind of like poetry although it doesn’t rhyme. Nobody knows that I write. I sometimes wonder what it would feel like to show Mum or Alex my words, to read them aloud the way they should be spoken. I think it might feel quite amazing, but I’m not like Alex so it’ll never happen. I’m not brave enough to share my thoughts like that.
Rose-coloured Glasses
It’s been a long, tiring day so after supper I have a bath and then write in my notebook for a bit. The notebook I’m writing in at the moment is gorgeous – it’s got a deep blue cover with swirls of yellow on the front and ‘notebook’ written in flowing writing.
When I was younger and learning to read, I used to sound out the word ‘notebook’ and I read it as ‘not-e-book’, which I thought meant it was called a ‘NOT a book’. I always think of a notebook as a ‘not a book’ now because it doesn’t come with any words in it, so it isn’t actually a proper book. And because proper books are written for people to read and I would never want my writing to be seen by anyone else.
After I’ve written a few verses, I turn my light out and lie down. I must be totally exhausted because the sound of the phone ringing pulls me rudely out of a deep sleep and I sit up with my heart pounding. I look at the clock – 10 p.m. Nobody ever phones us this late.
I lie back down and try to snuggle under the covers, but I know I won’t get back to sleep for ages now. It’s dark in my room, but I can still make out the cuddly toys neatly lined up on the end of my bed. Behind them is a weird shape and for a second I panic, but then I realize that it’s just my violin case leaning against my wall, the shadows making it seem bigger than it really is.
I yawn. I’ve got a geography quiz at school tomorrow and I really do need to get some sleep. My understanding of cliff erosion is definitely NOT going to be improved by being tired. I close my eyes and then open them abruptly as I hear footsteps pounding up the stairs and then my bedroom door being flung open.
> ‘Izzy – quick! You’ve got to get dressed!’ Mum dashes back out and runs across the landing to Alex’s room.
‘What’s going on?’ I hear Alex moan.
‘It’s Grandpa. He’s gone walkabout again. That was Granny on the phone – she needs us.’ Mum runs back into my room and turns on the light. I wince as the brightness hits my tired eyes, but I’ve already swung my legs out of bed and am racing over to my chest of drawers to grab a pair of jeans.
I hear Alex swear under her breath and then she slams her bedroom door closed and hurries into my room where Mum is rummaging through my wardrobe, trying to find me a warm jumper.
‘Where does Granny think he’s gone this time?’ she asks Mum.
‘She’s not sure,’ says Mum, thrusting a hideous yellow and pink woollen monstrosity at me. I never wear this jumper because the neck is really tight – putting it on gives me a headache and taking it off virtually removes both of my ears, plus, the colours really clash with each other – but I don’t think now is the time to be arguing about fashion. ‘Apparently, he was talking a lot today about the car factory that he used to work at, but that’s miles away from here. She’s wondering if he might have gone to visit Great-grandma – he’s done that before.’
I shudder. The cemetery at night is not my favourite destination – it’s bad enough when we have to take Granny and Grandpa there in the daytime, to leave flowers on Great-grandma’s grave once a year.
‘Right, girls, quick as you can. Get a coat each – it’s colder than it looks out there.’ Mum heads off down the stairs and we follow her.
We drive the short distance to Granny and Grandpa’s house. We’ve always lived near them and I’m kind of used to having them nearby and seeing them all the time. Apparently, they once had dreams of moving nearer to the sea, but that was years ago before Grandpa got poorly. They’ve lived in their house ever since they got married, and Mum was born there.
I don’t remember Grandpa before he was like this, but Alex says she does. She says she remembers him playing tennis with her and taking her out to the park, and she says it was Grandpa who started teaching her the piano. I’m not sure that I believe her. I think she just wants to sound like she knows him better than I do. And anyway she doesn’t even play the piano any more; she gave up when she was twelve because she said it was a stupid instrument and nobody cool ever played the piano. I play my violin for Grandpa all the time and he loves it. He sits and listens and sometimes he claps. He doesn’t always wait until I’ve finished before he starts clapping, but I think that’s just because he likes my music so much.
We pull up outside their house and Granny is standing on the doorstep, looking worried. Mum turns off the engine and calls to Granny as she opens the car door.
‘Any sign of him?’
Granny shakes her head and Mum rushes up the garden path and gives her a big hug.
‘I wanted to go and look for him, but I was scared that he might come back while I was out and then he wouldn’t know what to do,’ says Granny, sounding like she’s about to burst into tears.
‘I know, Mum, it’s OK,’ Mum tells her. ‘We’re here now. You sit tight and put the kettle on. You know how much he likes a hot cup of tea when he’s been off on an adventure!’
I’m quite surprised by how Mum is talking to Granny – it sounds like Granny is the child and Mum is the parent. But, instead of getting cross, Granny wipes her eyes and smiles gratefully at Mum.
‘Right, I’m going to get back in the car and drive out towards the car factory,’ Mum says to Alex and me. ‘I want you two to walk from here to the little shopping precinct. Phone me if you find him. And STICK TOGETHER!’ She aims the last bit at Alex who raises her eyebrows but nods.
‘Don’t worry, Mum,’ she says. ‘We’ll find him.’ Then she takes my hand and we walk back down the path. I turn at the gate and wave to Granny, who suddenly looks very small standing in the open doorway and looking out into the dark.
We turn right and start heading down the street. There’s no sign of Grandpa on this road, but when we turn the corner the houses get grander and the gardens in front of them are bigger and darker. Alex starts peering into each driveway that we pass and I copy her, calling ‘Grandpa’ every now again, as quietly as possible, but loud enough that he might hear me.
As we get further away from their house, Alex gets more and more on edge, letting go of my hand to check her phone every few seconds just in case Mum has phoned to say that she’s found him.
‘Come on, Grandpa – where are you?’ she mutters.
‘What are we going to do if we can’t find him?’ I ask her.
‘Don’t say that!’ Alex says, sounding cross with me.
I walk in silence for a minute and then she picks up my hand again and gives it a squeeze. ‘I’m sorry, Izzy, I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m just really worried about Grandpa.’
‘Why does he do this?’ I ask her. ‘I mean, I know he forgets stuff all the time, but I don’t get why he just wanders off.’
Alex thinks for a minute. ‘It’s part of the forgetting, I think. He suddenly decides he wants to do something and forgets that he’s seventy-four years old. He thinks he’s still a young man or a boy even.’
‘Do you mean he doesn’t know who he is?’ I ask her. ‘That’s horrible – imagine not knowing who you actually are.’
‘No, I think he knows who he is – he just sometimes gets a bit unsure about where he is in his life. So something that happened fifty years ago might seem like it only happened yesterday. Mum told me that it can make him confused and it can be a bit frightening.’
We walk further down the road and I think about what Alex has said.
‘Poor Grandpa,’ I say quietly and Alex holds my hand a bit tighter.
‘Yes, poor Grandpa,’ she repeats and I’m glad she’s here with me.
We cross the road and head towards the shopping precinct. There are no houses now, just an empty road. Ahead of us is a bus stop and, as we get nearer, I can see that there’s a figure sitting on the bench, hunched up against the wind.
‘Alex! Look!’ I whisper, pointing towards the bench. She follows my gaze and suddenly lets go of my hand and starts sprinting.
‘Grandpa!’ I hear her exclaim as she gets nearer and I run as fast as I can, getting to the bus stop just behind her.
Grandpa looks up, but doesn’t seem the least bit surprised to see us standing there.
‘Hello, girls!’ he says, smiling in his lovely, kind Grandpa way that makes me want to snuggle up to him on the bench. I sit down next to him and put my hand on his arm, wanting him to know I’m here.
‘I’ve been waiting for a bus for hours now, but there’s been nothing. I don’t know how I’m going to get home in time for my tea – Mother is going to be furious!’ He chuckles to himself and looks up at the bus timetable on the wall. ‘There should be a bus along any minute though – don’t you worry.’
I look at Alex for help, but she’s moved away slightly and is murmuring into her mobile phone. When she hangs up, she walks over to where we’re sitting.
‘Budge up then,’ she tells Grandpa, who chuckles a bit more and then moves across so that she can squeeze on to the bench beside him.
‘Look at me: a thorn between two roses,’ he laughs.
‘Grandpa, where were you going?’ I ask him. He turns to me and this time he does look surprised.
‘Home, of course! I’m going home! Mother will be waiting for me and I’m sure she said it was ham for tea tonight so this bus had better get a move on.’
‘Granny’s waiting for you, Grandpa,’ says Alex gently. ‘She’s worried about you – she wants you back at home with her.’
But we can both see that he doesn’t know what Alex is talking about. I start trying to explain, but Alex shakes her head at me and so we sit, the three of us, huddled together in the cold bus stop until Mum pulls up in the car and leaps out with cries of, ‘Oh, Dad!’
Then we hel
p get Grandpa into the back seat and Mum drives us to Granny’s. And when we get there Mum gently helps him up the path and inside, and she settles him into his favourite armchair while Granny fusses round him, tucking a blanket over his legs and preparing a tray with tea and cake. And the whole time Grandpa doesn’t say a word. He smiles and nods, but he isn’t looking at anyone properly. It’s like his body is here with us, but his head is somewhere else – maybe sixty years ago when he was a boy going home to his mum and looking forward to some ham for his tea.
When it’s time to leave, Mum takes Granny into the kitchen for a hushed conversation. I give Grandpa a hug and, when I straighten up, Alex is there, right beside me. And I don’t need to say anything – she can see it in my eyes – and she puts her arms round me and holds me while I cry. And I know that, no matter how hard things get, Alex will always be there to make it better. She will always understand.
Left Foot Blue
I’ve been practising my violin for ages, but I still sound as screechy and squeaky as I did when I started. I’m dreading my lesson on Thursday; Mr Williams is going to moan at me and say that I have no hope of passing my Grade 3 exam because I have absolutely no musical ability and a baboon could play the violin better than me. Well, he probably won’t use those exact words, but that’s what he thinks – I can see it in his eyes.
My fingers are aching and I’ve had enough for one day. Time to have a break. As I pack my violin into its case, I can hear the sound of yelling and laughing coming from downstairs. Alex is home and it sounds like she’s brought half the school back with her.
I open my bedroom door and walk downstairs. Mum is in the kitchen, humming along to the radio, and I plonk myself on to a kitchen stool and grab an apple.
‘It’s sounding good, Izzy,’ says Mum, stirring a pan that’s bubbling away on the stove. I roll my eyes – I KNOW that it sounded awful and I don’t need Mum to pretend that it didn’t – but unfortunately Mum turns round and catches me. And if there’s one thing Mum can’t stand it’s eye-rolling.
Violet Ink Page 2
