by Pollen
Just as I’m putting the cache back, someone very close behind me shouts, “What are you up to, Max?”
Super-loud, right in my ear.
A girl’s voice.
Naturally, I smack my head on the bench in surprise. And then, as I crawl out from underneath it, I nearly lose my trousers.
I got this pair only a month ago, and they’re already getting loose.
Once I’m free, I look up. And guess who I see standing over me?
“Looking for a bag of chips, Max? Maybe a Snickers?”
“No,” I shoot back, a hot, angry word that spills from my mouth like a flame, even though I know she’s not really asking.
She shakes her head at me. “I’m joking, dickhead. You need to chill out.” She sniffs thoughtfully. “Although, you really could use a meal or two. So, what are you doing under a park bench?”
“Nothing,” I reply. When I first went to high school, Robin taught me his one golden rule: Deny everything they can’t prove. According to Robin, this rule was what got him through secondary school—and I have to say, it’s worked pretty well for me so far. “What are you doing here, anyway?” I ask, knocking the ball back into her court.
Evie crosses her arms and gives me a no-bullshit look. The kind of look cops give in movies, right before the perp breaks down and tells them everything. “Pretty sure I asked first.”
I stick to the script. “I’m not doing anything.”
“Yeah, right,” Evie says with an eye roll.
Evie’s wearing cutoff jeans, purple Converse, and a white T-shirt that says BLAME IT ON THE DISCO in big black letters across the chest. Her rabbit-brown hair is tied up, but her bangs hang down over her eyes. It must be super-annoying.
I have no idea what to do next. All the advice I’ve read about muggles says not to get spotted; it doesn’t tell you what happens when you do. Maybe I’m supposed to convert her, to bring her into the geocaching community. Maybe I’m supposed to move the cache to a new location and fess up online.
Or maybe it’s never happened before. Maybe there’s no advice because no one has ever been stupid enough to get into this situation.
I realize I’m still crouched on all fours like Gollum or something. I jump up and dust the dirt off my knees.
Evie digs into her back pocket and pulls out a box of Nerds. Who eats Nerds anymore? She opens the box and lifts it to her mouth, ready to pour, then stops. “I’m still waiting for an answer.”
Maybe the Robin Howarth technique isn’t foolproof after all.
I point at the bench. “There’s a geocache under there.”
“A what?”
“A geocache. It’s a little box you have to try and find.”
She scrunches up her face. “Why?”
“For fun. Look.” I pull out my phone. “You have this app, which gives you the location. And when you find one, you write in the logbook.”
“That sounds stupid,” Evie says.
I shrug. “Suit yourself.” Evie seems to think everything’s stupid.
She slumps down on the bench and pulls out her phone. For a moment, I think she’s going to give it a go—geocaching, I mean. But instead, she starts scrolling through photos, like I’m not even there. I stand there for a bit, hoping maybe the ground will open up and swallow me. Or her.
She thinks you’re a loser. And she’s right.
I can’t decide whether to leg it, or to play it cool and stroll off casually. On the one hand, I don’t want her telling people that I’m the kind of total weirdo who runs off in the middle of a conversation. On the other, I’m pretty sure they already know. Plus, it’s not like she actually has anyone to tell. She’s as much of a loner as I am. No, wait, she’s more of a loner—at least I’ve got Ram and Stu.
I turn to go.
“So, what’s the deal with Deanwater?”
I turn back to her. Naturally, she hasn’t looked up from her phone or anything. I frown, not that she can see me frowning. “What do you mean?”
“Everyone’s so uptight. At my old school, we did whatever we wanted.”
Like telling people you love them and calling them dickheads and playing with your phone the whole time? That’s what I want to say because, right now, Evie’s really pissing me off. “So why did you move?” I ask her.
That makes her look up. She looks at me like I’ve punched her on the nose.
“I didn’t want to, idiot. They made me move.”
“How come? And who’s they?”
“God, you ask stupid questions,” she says, shaking her head at me. “I was kicked out.”
“Oh,” I say. I want to ask why, but I’m not sure if I should. I never am with Evie.
She gives me another psycho grin. It’s the sort of grin the bad guy in a film pulls when he’s captured the good guy and he’s explaining his evil genius plan before he shoots him. Evie’s grin gives me major creeps.
“Why?” I can’t help it. It just comes out, somewhere between a croak and a whisper. A crisper?
Evie doesn’t flinch. “Because Amelia Jones is a bloody rat, that’s why.”
Of course, this just opens up ten more questions. Who is Amelia Jones? What was she squealing on Evie about? Had Evie actually done anything wrong? I feel like I’ve regressed to that toddler stage when you ask questions constantly. Where are we going? The supermarket. Why are we going to the supermarket? Because we need milk. Why do we need milk? Because we put it in our tea. Why do we put it in our tea?
Et cetera.
“I wish that bird would shut up,” she mutters.
She means the cuckoo. She has a point, I guess. It’s pretty loud. It can’t be more than a couple of trees away. I consider telling her that she should be happy: Hearing a cuckoo on April 11 is kind of amazing. But I have a hunch she won’t take that very well.
She jumps up off the bench. “Do you like Nerds?” she says, thrusting the box in my direction. Somehow, Evie even manages to handle a box of Nerds like it’s a lethal weapon. I guess for me, it kind of is.
“No thanks,” I murmur.
“Of course you don’t,” she says. “Anyway, I’ve downloaded the app.” She turns her phone so I can see. It’s the home screen of the geocaching app. That means she must have already set up an account. “What happens next?”
I show her the one under the bench first. I take out the logbook and the pencil, show her all the messages people have left. She tells me it’s the lamest thing I’ve ever seen.
“I can’t believe you waste your time doing this,” she says.
I shift from foot to foot, like Sonic the Hedgehog. What do I say to that?
It’s not like you have anything better to do, is it?
Harsh, but fair.
Then I have an idea.
“Yeah, this one’s pretty lame. But this one”—I hand my phone to her—“this one’s super-cool. Amazing, actually. I’m not sure you’re ready to see it.”
She takes my phone and stares at it for, like, fifteen seconds. Like she’s paused due to a bad connection. Meanwhile, my mind is racing with ideas of how she’s going to react. Is she going to smash my phone into the ground? Is she going to cry? Is she going to punch me?
Nope.
She looks up at me for a second. I swear her eyes change color, like traffic lights. A flash of green. A flicker of amber. A blaze of red.
But for Evie, red doesn’t mean stop. Evie doesn’t live by the rules of normal human beings.
“I’m ready,” she says, all cocky. “But there’s one thing you should know.”
“What?” I ask.
Then she does it again. Mouths three words that make zero sense, but even so, make my spine feel like it’s being tickled from the inside.
I love you.
And before I can react, she’s gone. She’s legged it. With my phone. I run after her, but there are thick gorse bushes all around the lake: If you want to disappear, it’s pretty easy. And apparently, I’m not the only person around here who’
s into that.
Evie’s like quantum mechanics, or relatively. Occasionally, you think you’ve got your head around her. But you’re always wrong.
I do know one thing, though.
I know where she’s going.
She’s so fast she must actually be a witch. She must be able to fly or teleport or … something. I know the Common like it’s my bedroom, and I know exactly where I’m going. Plus, I’m the second-fastest runner in our year.
Or at least, the second-fastest boy.
She beats me there. And you know what? She doesn’t even seem tired.
I, on the other hand, am gasping. Like, I literally can’t speak for a good thirty seconds. I double over, with my hands braced on my knees, breathing like Darth Vader on sports day.
She looks at me, amused.
“What … was that … all … about?” I eventually manage.
She shrugs. “It’s a race, isn’t it?”
I give up trying to stand and sit down on the pavement. In the gutter. I can feel sweat running down my back and pooling in my ass crack. Nice.
“Not really,” I tell her.
“Oh,” she says.
“Can I have my phone back?” I ask.
“Oh yeah,” she says. “Sorry.”
Did she just apologize to me? I didn’t think she even knew the word sorry.
“What about the bit …” I trail off.
“What bit?” she says, tilting her head like a dog.
The bit where you told me you loved me. But I can’t ask that: It sounds properly mental.
“Never mind,” I tell her.
“O-kay,” she says slowly. “Anyway, you were right.”
“I was? About what?”
“About this cache. It’s pretty cool.”
“You mean …”
No way. There’s no way she’s found it already. The other week, Robin and I were here for forty-five minutes. I shake my head.
She holds up a little disc of metal about the size of a bottle cap. No wait, bigger. The wheel on a wheelie suitcase. “Tell me, Max. What does it feel like to be beaten by a girl?”
I guess she’s figured out that I’ve never found this cache before.
“It’s not … I’ve just …”
“Forgotten how to speak?” Evie suggests.
She twists the disc, so it springs into two pieces, and offers them to me like communion wafers. I take them, turn them over in my hands. One is a flat disc of metal with a threaded edge. Nothing special. But inside the other, there’s a thin ticker tape of paper, coiled like a snail’s shell, and underneath that, a single pencil lead slotted into a groove in the metal. It’s amazing. It’s as intricate and precise as a pocket watch.
“Woah,” I say.
“Clever, huh?” Evie says.
“Where was it?”
She shows me. It was set into the middle of a drain cover—specifically, a drain cover with eight spokes radiating from its center, like spiders’ legs. Drains. Spiders. Itsy Bitsy. I look up. We’re standing literally opposite the front door of Starbucks, exactly where it’s tagged. Geocaching has a habit of making you feel really, really stupid sometimes.
“Can I ask you a question?” I blurt. I want to ask it before my brain—or Ana, or both—tells me not to.
“Mmm,” Evie says, nodding her head.
“How come you, er … Why did you …”
Evie smirks. “Spit it out, Max.”
“What did you mouth to me before? And the other day?”
“Elephant juice,” she replies cheerily.
“Huh?”
“Look at my lips.” She says it again: “Ell-ee-fant-joos.”
Then I understand; it looks like I love you.
“That’s what you were saying?”
She nods.
“Um, why?”
“It’s funny.”
“Okay,” I say quietly.
Long pause.
Wait a minute. Did you actually, seriously think she loved you?
Shut up, Ana.
HA! This is priceless! Even your parents don’t love you, Max. Come on.
But how come she …
“You know what?” Evie says, snapping me out of my argument with Ana. I guess I’m grateful for that at least.
“What?” I say. I’m thinking, what’s she going to say now? Maybe she’s about to tell me I’m looking awfully chubby today, or that she snuck into my house this morning and murdered my parents. My stomach feels like it weighs about three tons.
“You’re pretty cool, Max Howarth.”
April 26
Dear Ana,
I try not to think about how things were before because it makes me feel way too guilty. Not long ago, we were a totally normal family. We went for walks. We had people over for BBQs. I’m not saying it was perfect or anything, I mean, what family is perfect? We argued all the time. Especially with Robin. Until recently, Robin was kind of a pain in the ass. He used to lock himself in his room for hours, playing heavy metal at, like, 120 decibels, and ignoring Mum when she hammered on the door. And/or he used to go mountain biking in the middle of the night and not tell Mum and Dad, so they pretty much freaked out when they realized he wasn’t there.
I was a pain, too—but in different ways. Like when I bought some sketchy PC games from eBay and managed to wipe the hard drive of every computer in the house. Or when Stu was trying to teach me and Ram how to not suck at football, and we were practicing keepy-uppies in the back garden, and Ram booted the ball into Dad’s greenhouse and smashed three windows.
But it was all normal stuff. My parents didn’t have to keep making excuses for why they couldn’t have people over for dinner. When we argued, they didn’t spend the next two days worrying about whether I would binge or cut my arms or worse. And I didn’t wake up every morning wondering whether today would be the day I finally end up in the hospital.
When you’re anorexic, there is no normal. Ever. It’s like you’ve dropped some dye into a swimming pool: It slowly spreads through the water, turning everything the same color. Now Mum can’t go to the post office without seeing a flyer for karate classes at the leisure center and thinking about how I couldn’t do them even if I wanted to because my bones might break. Dad can’t do the washing without noticing that I haven’t bought any new clothes in a year, and knowing why: 1) because all my old ones still fit; and 2) because the thought of going into a shop and trying on clothes makes me want to dig a tunnel a thousand feet under the ground and never ever come out.
Okay, so you’re only in my head. But everyone I know has to deal with you, too. Day in, day out. And they didn’t sign up for any of this. If I were them, I would have shoved me and you in a clinic somewhere a long, long time ago.
14
I’ve never seen this many people in one place before. It’s like a royal wedding or something. But with penguins. We’re right by the front: me, Stu, Ram, and Evie. Ram’s dad drove us here, although he didn’t actually come into the zoo; he’s shopping at the outlet village instead. Just the thought of spending all day shopping—looking at yourself in the mirror, taking clothes on and off—makes me shudder.
“How much longer?” Stu asks.
I pull my watch out of my pocket—that’s where I keep it now—and take a look. “Five minutes.”
The penguin enclosure is a big peanut-shaped pool surrounded by flat rocks. There’s a little jetty that sticks out over the water in the middle, for the penguins to dive off. Ten minutes ago, it was covered in snoozing Humboldt penguins—but now they’re all up and chattering, looking around for the keeper. I guess they know what’s up.
“I hope this is better than the lion,” Ram grumbles.
The lion feeding didn’t quite live up to Ram’s expectations. There was no catapult and no goat. Instead, the keeper climbed a tower and threw a leg of mutton over the fence. The lion grabbed it and took it right to the back of the enclosure, behind the trees, out of sight. That was it. (Ram’s review: This i
s bullshit.)
“Different kettle of fish,” Stu says, nodding wisely. Then he adds, “If you’ll excuse the pun.”
“You’re as bad as my dad,” I tell him.
Eventually, a woman steps over the barrier a couple of yards along from us. Penguins shuffle toward her like happy zombies. She’s wearing a green sweater and carrying a bucket of fish and a megaphone.
“Welcome to Chester Zoo, everyone. Are you ready to feed some penguins?” She has one of those singsong, ultra-happy voices. Like her vocal cords have been dipped in sherbet.
“Yaaaaaay!” everyone cheers. Well, everyone except us—because we’re all busy. Evie is texting someone, while Stu stares at her with his judgiest judgy face. Meanwhile, Ram is trying to impress the zookeeper. He has his arms crossed over his chest, and he’s standing at a forty-five-degree angle to her. He once told me that this was his signature move. In Ram’s head, he looks like Rambo. In everyone else’s, he’s more like the boss from The Office.
Also, the zookeeper is now standing ten yards away, in front of several hundred people, and, um, definitely isn’t looking at Ram.
And me? Call me crazy, but I’m actually looking at the penguins. There’s this one who’s doing laps: hopping down the jetty, diving in, zooming to the edge of the pool, then doing a very ungainly climb out. I don’t know whether he (or she*) normally does this or if it’s an excited feeding-time thing. Like a dog chasing its tail.
“Humboldt penguins can swim at twenty miles per hour,” I say, to no one in particular.
“Packham strikes again!” says Stu, and we all laugh. Even Evie laughs.
They came up with this nickname two hours ago, in the tropical house, when I was telling him how there’s no real difference between frogs and toads. You’re like that nature guy off the telly, Stu told me. I wasn’t sure what he was talking about for a second, but Evie immediately replied, Chris Packham! Yeah, he really is. Max, you should be a zookeeper or something.
That made me feel good because being a zookeeper would be amazing. I’ve noticed it today: I feel confident talking about stuff like this. Today, I’ve actually spoken up in conversations for the first time in weeks. I’ve started conversations. I guess it’s because it’s not subjective. No one’s asking for my opinion on whether spiders are insects or not. No one’s asking me to express my feelings. Have you ever noticed that 99 percent of the conversations you have are about your feelings? How are you? What do you want to do today? I’m terrible at answering questions like that.