Wilde

by Eloise Williams

  ‘Isn’t she?’ Mae pats a space for me to sit, smoothing the choppy waves of duvet. ‘Let’s meditate.’

  Let’s not, I think, but I sit and let her close her eyes. I want to show I’m grateful to her. The Witch Point uniform sits on the chair like it already has a person inside it. I wish it would walk away. The jitter of first day nerves jolts through me and I bite one of my nails too low. I’ve been to lots of schools. Why am I still so scared?

  Outside the window, the day burns itself out. A fox slips through the bushes at the end of the garden, bushy tail quivering. The day pinks into lavender, stars button the sky, a chitter rises from the brittle parched grasses. The sea lines the edge of the distance and pulls at me. Soon everything is shadows and I am full of ache.

  Mae gets up and flicks on the light. ‘Now. Isn’t that better?’

  ‘Yes, much.’ This time, the lie gnaws the inside of my cheek, as vicious as Mae’s lemonade.

  ‘Will you be OK up here?’

  I nod.

  She blows a kiss and leaves the door ajar.

  Wrestling my daps off, I wriggle my swollen toes. I could try to make the most of it here. It’s not long till the holidays and surely Mae won’t mind if I don’t go to school? I can tell her I’m too traumatised, or simply be honest. Some people don’t make friends easily because they are too shy. Some people are weird and mess everything up. Some people have to cause trouble and leave even if they aren’t troublemakers at all and doing it terrifies them.

  The ceiling of my room is v-shaped, so I duck into the corners to check for spiders. I feel better when I find some. I like to watch them knit their webs and dangle on the draughts. Not that there is any draught. The skylight is open to the stars. Not a breath of air for anyone in Witch Point.

  Emptying my possessions from my case I place them on the shelf. One of the raven’s legs is broken and its silver is so tarnished it looks more like gold. When I have enough money, I’m going to get its leg soldered. For now, I put it back in its box to sleep.

  The sticks of rock ooze inside the cellophane, but they remind me of the yellow flat where I live with Dad, so I open one and bite off the end to combat the taste of bitter lemons.

  My Shakespeare book is heavy and takes up lots of space in my case, which is why I can never pack many clothes when I run. I lift it up and brush the travel fluff from the cover. I take the seagull skull out and delicately kiss it. I flick through my travel plans to make sure they are undamaged. One day I’m going to set off around the world and never come back. The photo of my mum goes next to the bed. She looks happy there caught in a rectangle of waterfall and river.

  Claiming the room with my things makes it feel better. Music swans its way up the stairs. I’ve heard it before. It’s called ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ and the singer is a crooner called Frank somebody or other. I lie back on the bed and let the song filter through my body. I wish I had my phone so I could listen to something good instead. I concentrate on choosing where I’m going to live when I have my own life. Venezuela, near Angel Falls? Canada, somewhere with bears? Norway, so I can see the Northern Lights? For now, I’m here, like it or not.

  Another chapter starts. Will it be a good one?

  The question keeps me from falling asleep. Until it doesn’t.

  2

  School. The first day. Is there anything more awful in the whole wide world? Even though I’ve had plenty of practice at starting new schools, I never get used to it. If anything, it gets worse.

  My legs wobble as I walk across the yard, concentrating on not tripping over.

  Everyone else has friends already. They all walk about in pairs, threes, or gangs, hollering out to each other and guffawing with laughter. A girl lassoes her bag over her head with jubilant whoops, until the strap snaps. It thwacks a boy in the chest. A shove flares into a fight and spectators break the four-minute mile to get a ringside view. Two teachers appear from nowhere, trying to retain an air of authority as they leg it into the fray.

  I follow the lines from Macbeth painted on the tarmac, which point the way to the reception.

  When shall we three meet again,

  In thunder, lightning, or in rain?

  My mum was in lots of Shakespeare plays with Mae. That’s how she met my dad. It’s a long story, which comes out at special occasions.

  When the hurlyburly’s done,

  When the battle’s lost and won

  That will be ere the set of sun.

  All the other schools I’ve been to have hands pointing the way, or yellow footprints. I’m sure they’ve chosen these words instead because Witch Point has a history of witchcraft and I really wish they hadn’t, but the Shakespeare is a good sign all the same.

  Where the place?

  Upon the heath.

  I find reception and wait for someone to notice me while trying my best to disappear. A man with huge teeth slides back the thumb-printed glass and grins out at me. His teeth are coffee-coloured and he has breath to match.

  ‘There to meet with Macbeth!’ He waits for me to join in. I know the line but I just squirm.

  ‘Oh, don’t you know the great play? We are very big on drama at this school. Macbeth is a play by Shakespeare. We have lots of copies in the library.’

  I smile. Part of me wants to tell him that at one of my schools I made a replica of the Globe Theatre using matchsticks and slid it across the frozen Thames (made from kitchen foil) to see how they had managed it, but I figure most girls my age wouldn’t have done that kind of thing, and I’m on a mission to blend in.

  ‘New, are we?’

  I nod.

  ‘Excellent. Then you’ll be…’ He flicks through a green and gold folder with the school’s Witch Point emblem on it. A witch, a raven and a waterfall. It’s unusual.

  ‘Wilde Jenkins. Yes, here we are. Good name. Wait! What am I saying? Great name! This way!’

  He buzzes the door.

  ‘You probably already know this info but I’m going to give you the lowdown anyway.’

  He leads me through a labyrinth of corridors. ‘The school has been here since the year 1783 and before it became a school it was a workhouse.’

  I guess most pupils wouldn’t find this stuff interesting. I do, but I don’t respond so that I can seem normal.

  ‘You’ll notice most of the classrooms are empty. Lots of the children are out on trips. Big Pit. It’s a mine that was closed down. They make you turn off your helmet lights. Truly terrifying. Or the Brecon Beacons: survival skills, eating beetles and the like, I should think. Horrid. Some of them have gone on a coastal writers’ residency in North Wales. I’d like to do that. I have a novel I’ve been working on for a while, but luckily for you we have reached your class, so I won’t bore you with the details.’

  I’d rather listen to every detail of his novel than face my new class.

  ‘Here we are – Year Six.’

  Peering nervously through the gridded glass, I can see a mixture of faces like a maths problem laid out on a graph. The equals, equals scared.

  ‘Welcome to your new tribe.’

  I’m led into a room of stares. A fly headbutts the window, trying to get out. I know just how it feels.

  ‘Mr Ricketts. New victim here for you.’

  No one laughs except Mr Ricketts and the receptionist, whose smile has taken on Big Bad Wolf proportions. Mr Ricketts wears a salmon jumper and has a quiff like a fish fin. His tan shoes have metal taps to save his heels that click-tackety-click as he walks towards me. I worry he might start tap-dancing.

  ‘Come in. Don’t be shy.’

  Shy people hate it when you call them out on it. It makes shyness sound like a disease.

  I hope he doesn’t try to make me introduce myself to everyone with Three Interesting Facts:

  I’m very Normal.

  I have no other interesting facts.

  I refer you to point two.

  I shuffle from foot to foot and try really hard to be The Same.

 
Mr Ricketts raps his heels like he’s finished his routine. ‘Class. Can I have your attention, please?’

  He needn’t have asked. Everyone is giving me every bit of their attention. Even the fly has stopped buzzing and is pointing my way.

  ‘This is…’

  ‘Wilde,’ I blurt out, then feel shame climb up my face. A snigger from a yellow-haired girl with the highest possible ponytail. She follows it with mocking, sly eyes to her friends. I force my head up. I’ve done this loads of times now. I can handle this.

  ‘Wilde is new to us today, so I need you to be nice to her, please. You’ll all recognise how nerve-wracking it is to be going to a new school, but when you go up to Witch Point High at least you’ll know each other. Wilde doesn’t know anyone yet. She isn’t from here.’

  ‘You can tell.’ That girl again, twirling her hair round her fingers innocently and looking me up and down. ‘What, Sir? It’s just an observation.’

  Even in a uniform I still don’t match.

  ‘Jemima, please.’

  She mutters, ‘So unfair.’

  ‘Jemima. That’s a warning. I don’t want to have to tell you again.’ Mr Ricketts glares at her.

  I feel like an ant, being burned under a sun-filled magnifying glass by loathsome children.

  ‘We have been using a chalkboard because we have been studying the Victorians, Wilde. Do you know much about the Victorian era?’

  I shake my head. I try to avoid making eye contact with Jemima, but eventually I have to look. She meets me with a wasp-sting stare.

  Excellent start. One minute in the classroom = one enemy already. I may as well have admitted that I know lots about the Victorians and given her ammunition. Actually, I know lots about different historical eras, Jemima, because I have been to lots of schools and learned lots of different things. Yes, I am an interesting specimen. Thank you for noticing.

  ‘There’s no need for us to find you a seat just yet, Wilde, because you have arrived on a very exciting day.’

  The class seem anything but excited. A couple of them groan.

  ‘We have the extraordinarily thrilling opportunity of working on a Page to Stage project with an – and I use her own words here – “outstanding actress” to help us. We don’t have long till the end of term so let’s make this project count please, Year Six.’

  More groans.

  A Climate Emergency poster unpeels itself from the wall and slithers to the floor in protest. A girl runs to put it back, her curls bouncing like bubbles exploding from a champagne bottle. She gives me the biggest smile, and I smile fully back because she’s friendly and she obviously thinks that halting global warming is important, then stare at my feet again. New shoes. Must scuff them urgently.

  ‘So, we are all off to the hall. Single file, please. Keep the noise down. Wilde, you can come with me, so we can get to know each other a bit.’

  Chalk my outline. I. Want. To. Die. Right. Now.

  A boy who looks like a tortoise, his head is so far down inside his collar, jumps out of his seat. ‘Sir, I forgot. I need to have my behaviour slip signed for yesterday.’

  ‘Oh yes, Lewis. Of course. Two seconds, Wilde, if you…’

  ‘It’s alright, Sir. She can come with us.’ Jemima pushes forward, closely followed by her sidekicks. She links her arm through mine and yanks me to the door before Mr Ricketts can stop her.

  ‘Best behaviour. I’m warning you,’ he yells after us. As soon as we are through the door, the others break loose.

  ‘I’m Jemima. Mimes to my friends. So, you can call me Jemima.’ She flicks her ponytail from side to side as she walks. A couple of times it slaps me in the face. ‘This is Holly and Ivy. They are twins. Obviously.’

  She says this as if I lack the intelligence to work it out for myself. I try to smile, but my lips stick to my teeth. I nod vigorously instead.

  ‘Your name is Wilde, right?’ She screws her face up in disdain. ‘Weird name, right?’

  My head feels dizzy from all the nodding.

  ‘Is it a nickname?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘So, it’s short for something?’

  Shake.

  ‘So, your name is Wilde and that’s your REAL name?’ Jemima is horrified and thrilled at the same time. ‘I mean, just to clarify, your parents actually called you Wilde?’

  Holly and Ivy giggle.

  ‘Don’t be nasty, girls.’ Jemima smiles at them overly brightly and they stop. ‘So, what’s your story, Wilde?’

  I don’t want to tell her my story. I have to say something. ‘Oh, you know. Nothing.’

  ‘As I suspected.’ She looks me up and down critically. ‘Where did you get your uniform from? Is it secondhand?’ She acts as if she might pass out on the floor, she is so offended by it.

  ‘I’m taking a stand against disposable fashion to try to save the planet.’

  ‘I see.’

  Holly and Ivy snicker as she leads them into the hall. ‘Come on, girls. Time for me to get my starring role.’

  They strut off ahead, their ponytails swishing in unison.

  I loosen the horrible Witch Point tie and twist my skirt around the right way. My shirt is too small, and the skirt is too gross. I’m trying to be grateful to Mae for sorting it out at such short notice, but some unrepeatable words run through my head.

  The walls are covered in dark pictures which watch me skulking through the corridors: standing stones and skies filled with corvids; a man in a fox skin holding a crescent-moon sickle and a tall-hatted witch-hunter general; a witch being tried by a judge; seven women dancing in a circle, with a horrible hag-like figure spying on them. I’ve known the legend of ‘The Witch Called Winter’ since I was little. I bet everyone in the world knows it. It feels closer here, where her story started.

  I want to go home. To Dad’s. With my real own room and my view out over the changing sea. Perhaps I should cause trouble today and get kicked out super swiftly so I can home-school myself instead of having to do time here. I don’t need friends. I don’t need anyone. I am made of ice. I can teach myself astronomy by looking at the stars and Mae can teach me herbalism before I go. I won’t make an effort to make any friends here, because I definitely, certainly, won’t be staying.

  A whirlwind of energy rushes up to me. It’s the girl with the popped cork hair.

  ‘Don’t worry about The Sleeks. They are like that with literally everyone. I’m Dorcas. Pleased to meet you. Your name is NOTHING compared to mine when it comes to bullying. BELIEVE. Can you speak Spanish? I’m learning. My birth dad is Nigerian, so he speaks Igbo, and my step-dad, he’s my proper dad really, is Indian and speaks Hindi, and my mum has travelled all over and speaks all sorts of languages. I’m also learning guitar, slowly. Too slowly, really, I’m thinking of giving it up for the flute. Sorry, information overload. I talk too much. Hola.’

  She puts her hand out for me to shake it. I want to but feel self-conscious.

  ‘Don’t worry. You don’t have to shake hands. Lots of diseases are carried through hand contact, did you know that? You could get bubonic plague from an escalator handrail.’

  My ice cracks a bit, because this is exactly the kind of fact I like. Could Dorcas be a kindred spirit? I’ve been looking for one for so long.

  We shuffle to the end of the line, far away from The Sleeks, and sit on the floor. I hate sitting on the floor. It always ends up with someone having a squashed pea on their clothes, no matter which school you go to.

  ‘This should be fun. It gets us out of class anyway.’

  Dorcas turns to talk to the boy on the other side of her, and I try not to feel conspicuous. The thick smell of gravy slides through the kitchen slats. Dust motes flitter in the sunlight. The world glitters outside.

  Mr Ricketts arrives looking bothered.

  ‘Sir, are you alright? You look really hot.’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you, Jemima.’

  ‘Can I give you some advice, Sir?’

  He doesn’t
answer. I don’t blame him.

  ‘A pink jumper doesn’t complement your complexion, Sir.’

  ‘What insightful advice, Jemima. I’ll be sure to put it into practice in my fashion-conscious life.’

  Good for him. He asks for silence while he takes another register, even though we’ve only walked a couple of hundred yards.

  ‘Hand it over, please.’ He puts his hand out to Jemima and she gets up and walks to him stroppily. ‘I don’t know how many times I have to say it, Year Six. Phones are not allowed in school.’

  At least I already fit with that.

  ‘But it’s my personal property, Sir.’

  ‘And, as I’ve told you a million times, you’ll get it back at the end of the day.’

  ‘That’s tantamount to stealing, Sir.’ She gives it to him and strops back to her place grumbling and making as much fuss as she can.

  ‘Settle down, please. Jemima Morgan, I said settle down.’

  ‘Sorry, Sir. It’s just it’s practically child abuse to expect us to sit on the floor.’

  ‘Enough.’

  ‘I’m getting a letter from home.’

  ‘I said enough.’

  ‘And a lawyer.’

  ‘Second warning of the day. I think that’s a record even for you.’

  He scratches his neck and I can see he has psoriasis between his fingers. I bet it is caused by Jemima.

  ‘Now, Year Six, we are very lucky to have this brilliant opportunity, so I expect you to show respect for our esteemed guest and for each other. We’d like to extend a very warm Witch Point welcome to Gwyneth Fox-Rutherford.’