Apple and Rain

by Sarah Crossan

  ‘Are you nervous?’ I ask.

  ‘I hope Jenny will be OK,’ she says.

  Mum gives me a sideways look that says she doesn’t believe Rain and pulls up next to my school gates. ‘Want a lift home?’

  ‘I get a choice?’ I ask.

  ‘Huh?’ Mum doesn’t understand because she doesn’t go around assuming murderers are after me.

  ‘I’ll walk,’ I say.

  I open the car door and see Egan Winters locking up his bike. I brush my skirt with my hand.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Mum asks.

  ‘No one,’ I say. Heat rushes up my chest to my neck.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Egan,’ I say.

  ‘Egan? He’s cute.’

  ‘Who’s cute?’ Rain asks, suddenly interested.

  ‘Why don’t you ask him out?’ Mum says.

  She must be mad. I shake my head. ‘He’s a sixth-former.’

  ‘So? If you like him, what does it matter? You have to get him,’ Mum says. She ruffles my hair and loosens my tie.

  ‘You’re making her look like a homeless person,’ Rain says.

  ‘Shut up,’ I say.

  Mum leans in with a stick of gloss. She smears it across my lips. ‘It’s a start,’ she says. ‘Now go on.’

  I climb out of the car and through the school gates. Mum drives off without beeping or waving or doing anything else remotely embarrassing.

  I reach the main doors at the same time as Egan Winters. I pause to let him through first.

  ‘No, go on,’ he says.

  Is he speaking to me? I look up, stunned. Egan Winters has a bike chain slung over his shoulder. And he is peering at me.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. I try smiling, but it’s so strained I probably look like I’m choking on a marble.

  Not that Egan Winters notices. His phone rings and he answers it. ‘Mate!’ he says. ‘No way. Mate, no way. You’re such a mug.’ He laughs and pushes past me into the school.

  The rest of the day goes as I expected. I’m alone in lessons, at lunch and in the corridors walking between classes. I hum whenever I see Donna or Pilar so they’ll think I don’t care that they’re best friends now. I keep my back straight and paste a smile across my face. They choose Hazel and Mariah for their group in English and I sit by the wall alone. I use charcoal on sugar paper to draw the images I find in the war poems Mr Gaydon has given us. I try to concentrate really hard on the work.

  My favourite poem is by someone called Rupert Brooke. He makes war sound brave and beautiful and all the people who fight in it like heroes. When Mr Gaydon looks at my drawings, I tell him this. He answers me using a really loud voice that is meant for everyone else in the class to hear. ‘Ah, yes, you’re right, Apple. “The Soldier” by Rupert Brooke is rather patriotic.’ He lifts his chin and quotes from the poem:

  ‘If I should die, think only this of me;

  That there’s some corner of a foreign field

  That is for ever England.

  ‘Sounds magnificent. But Rupert Brooke might not have written that if he’d known he was about to die himself. Look at this.’

  Mr Gaydon goes to the Smartboard. He opens the internet and displays a picture of a man with spongy hair. ‘That’s Rupert Brooke. He died during the war when he was twenty-seven. He was in France on an expedition. Do you know how he died?’ We all sit there. How would any of us know? ‘Mosquito bite,’ Mr Gaydon says.

  Some kids laugh. Mr Gaydon doesn’t. ‘Not exactly the glorious death he imagined. And I doubt any death on the battlefield is as romantic or heroic as poems or films or anything else would make it seem. The poetry from the First World War is particularly sad because by the end, no one quite remembered why they were fighting.’ Mr Gaydon pauses, waiting for someone to say something clever. All I can think about is myself; how I get hot and angry with people and then a few days later I’m still mad, but I’m not sure why any more.

  ‘He’s cute,’ Sharon Bowerman says from the front of the room.

  Mr Gaydon rolls his eyes. ‘Thank you, Sharon. He isn’t cute though. He’s dead. That’s what war does. It kills people. Nothing else. It hurts the innocent and guilty alike because it doesn’t discriminate.’

  I stop listening and focus on Donna. She is holding her chin in her hand. She is staring at Mr Gaydon with a thin smile. Her dad is in the army. He’s away at war now, and Donna always acts like he’s a big hero. But Mr Gaydon’s kind of saying that war is pointless and the more he goes on, the thinner Donna’s smile gets.

  ‘So your homework is to write about your war. Who are you at war with and why? Could be your parents or your teachers or maybe your own addiction to almonds.’ He laughs. No one else does. Mr Gaydon is nice, but he isn’t funny. ‘Think about Wilfred Owen’s poetry when you’re writing. And Sassoon’s.’

  ‘I’ll definitely be thinking about Rupert Brooke,’ Sharon shouts out.

  ‘I’m sure you will, Sharon,’ Mr Gaydon says. And the hometime bell rings.

  I’m lumbering through the playground wishing I’d told Mum to pick me up, and as if she’s read my mind, there she is. But unlike Nana who’d be practically holding up a sign with my name on it, Mum is at the railings wearing a black leather jacket and sunglasses. She doesn’t stick out at all. Actually, she looks cool.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me showing up. The car was hissing at me so I dropped it off at the garage. I was walking this way anyway to collect Rain. I’ll slink off, if you want.’

  ‘No, no.’ I kiss her cheek proudly. ‘I’m happy you’re here.’

  ‘And look who else is here,’ Mum says. She tilts her head and winks.

  Egan Winters is unlocking his bike. He must sense us watching him and looks up. The sun is in his face. He squints.

  ‘Come with me,’ Mum says. She starts towards him.

  ‘Mum,’ I say under my breath. It’s too late. She’s gone. I shuffle after her.

  ‘Hey, how’s it goin’?’ she says to Egan. She sounds more American than usual.

  ‘Fine,’ he says. He hangs his bag across the bike frame.

  Mum touches the reflector near the handlebars. ‘I’m gonna buy Apple a bike. How do you get on with this one?’ she says. If Nana were talking to him, I’d die on the spot, but Mum’s different. She’s young and pretty and dresses a bit like a sixth-former.

  Egan sniffs. ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘Not like having a car, right?’

  ‘My uncle’s a mechanic, so he’ll sort me out with a car when I pass my test. I’m taking it soon,’ Egan says.

  ‘Let me guess: a Ford Fiesta?’ She tucks her hair behind her ears.

  Egan smiles. ‘Nah. I want a BMW. Metallic black. Leather interior.’

  ‘Dream on,’ Mum says.

  Egan laughs. ‘Exactly!’

  Mum puts her arm around me. ‘Do you know my daughter?’

  Egan looks at me – like really and truly looks at me. ‘You play the oboe, don’t you? What year you in?’

  ‘Uh, Year Eight. I play the clarinet.’

  ‘You play an instrument too?’ Mum asks.

  ‘In school I play the flute. My dad’s a music teacher. I also play bass guitar. I’m in a band called The Farewells.’

  ‘Nice,’ Mum says. ‘And what’s your name?’

  ‘Egan,’ he says.

  ‘Well, good to meet you. We’d better go. See you around, Egan,’ Mum says.

  ‘Bye,’ I say.

  Egan throws one leg over his bike.

  When I catch up with Mum, she pinches my elbow. ‘Next time we’ll invite him to the party.’

  ‘What party?’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Apple, the Egan Winters party,’ she squeaks. ‘I can hardly wait.’

  Rain is sitting on the kerb outside Littleton Park Primary holding Jenny. Her red curls are loose and tangled. The knees of her white tights are grey. She has the beginnings of a black eye.

  Mum sits next to her. ‘Where are your glasses?’
/>   ‘In my bag. They broke,’ Rain says.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Everyone in England is stupid, that’s how. They tried to take Jenny away when we were having PE, and then some of the kids said dumb things. So I hit them. I gave a boy a bloody nose.’

  Mum picks at her lips. ‘You started a fight? Oh, Rain, why?’

  ‘I told you. They were mean. I’m not coming back here.’

  ‘We’ll talk about that later, but first I want to speak to them myself. I’m going inside for a minute. You wait with Apple.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Rain says.

  Mum pulls at the cuffs of her leather jacket and marches into the school.

  I sit next to Rain on the kerb. ‘You have to go to school. Jenny will be fine with Mum at home.’

  ‘Would you leave your baby with her?’ Rain asks.

  I pick up a grey stone and roll it between my fingers. ‘Probably.’ I think about myself as a baby and how much I needed Mum. How I’ve always needed her.

  ‘Then you don’t know her very well,’ Rain says. She stands and heads up the hill.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I call out.

  ‘Home,’ she says. ‘These meetings always take for ever.’

  ‘You’ve had fights at school before?’

  ‘Loads of times. I broke a girl’s finger once.’

  I chase after her. ‘You what?’

  ‘It was only her little finger.’ She touches her bruised eye.

  Anyone would think from the look and sound of Rain that she’s tough. But for some reason, I can’t help wanting to protect her.

  24

  Light filters through the curtains. I bolt upright and grab my phone. It’s nine thirty. ‘Damn,’ I say aloud and jump out of bed. I’ve never slept in before. I’ve never been late for school.

  The bunk above creaks. ‘What’s wrong?’ Rain asks.

  ‘Uhh.’ I rub my head. I didn’t mean to have anything to drink last night, but Gina and Merlin came over for dinner and Mum made Martini cocktails. I couldn’t resist tasting one.

  ‘You hung-over again?’ Rain asks.

  ‘Don’t be stupid. I’m late. And so are you. Get a move on.’ I don’t have time for a shower. I hardly have time to brush my hair. I pull on my grey uniform and grab my school bag from under the desk. My English exercise book falls out and lies open in front of me accusingly. I tut.

  ‘Now what?’ Rain hasn’t moved.

  ‘I forgot about my homework.’

  ‘Me too,’ she admits. ‘But I’m not going in anyway. Mum said I could stay home.’

  ‘She what?’

  Rain climbs down the ladder with Jenny. ‘She said all the teachers are Looney Tunes.’

  ‘Which ones?’ The teachers I knew at Littleton Park were all really nice. They read us stories and sang with us. Sometimes they gave us fun-sized Snickers. I don’t remember any of them being crazy.

  ‘All of them are loons,’ Rain says. She picks up the spotty socks she wore yesterday and puts them on.

  ‘I’m going to get some breakfast,’ I say.

  Mum is in the kitchen wearing a cream blouse and skinny jeans. ‘Morning, honey,’ she says. She blows me a kiss.

  ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’ I ask.

  ‘I did put my head around the door and shout, but you were out cold. Late night, last night. Anyway I’ve a meeting in half an hour with an agent. She gets everyone a part in EastEnders. Apparently.’

  ‘EastEnders from the telly?’

  ‘Can you believe it?’

  I can’t. If Mum was an actress on EastEnders, she’d be famous. I’d have a famous mum. And Nana couldn’t stop me watching it.

  ‘Right, some coffee and I’m gone,’ Mum says. ‘Do you need me to write you a note to explain why you’re so late? I’ll say you were at the dentist. Isn’t Rain up yet?’

  ‘She said she doesn’t have to go to school.’

  Mum bites into her toast. Crumbs fall to the floor. She looks down and sweeps them to the side with her foot. ‘I’ll send her back when all this Jenny business is over with. The kids are giving her a hard time and the teachers aren’t much better. I’ll let her hang around with me for a bit.’

  ‘What if she never realises that Jenny is a doll?’

  Mum frowns. ‘I hadn’t thought that far ahead,’ she says.

  She stamps the pedal on the bin and throws the toast into it. She grabs a blunt green pencil. ‘Get me a piece of paper to write the note,’ she says.

  I don’t move. I really wish I didn’t have to go in. I haven’t got any friends. Plus, I didn’t do my homework. I don’t want Mr Gaydon to think I don’t care – since he showed up, English is my favourite class. I actually like writing poems.

  Rain stumbles into the kitchen in her nightie. ‘Why aren’t you ready?’ Mum says. She tries to shoo Rain back down the hall. ‘I can’t be late. I want this agent to take me on. And we need the money from a steady gig.’

  ‘Stop pushing me,’ Rain whines.

  ‘You’re being purposefully difficult. You can have a KitKat to take on the bus if you’re hungry. Just get dressed.’

  Rain stamps her foot in temper.

  Mum looks at her watch.

  ‘Why are you taking the bus? Haven’t you got your car back from the garage yet?’ I ask.

  ‘Huh?’ Mum scratches her neck and slips her feet into a pair of high shoes.

  Rain slides past her into the kitchen, opens the fridge and pours milk into a baby bottle.

  ‘Rain, what the hell are you doing?’ Mum says. She rubs her temples.

  ‘Jenny has to eat, in case you’d forgotten,’ Rain says.

  Mum checks her watch again and puts her hand on my shoulder. ‘Apple, I know this is a big ask, but can you watch Rain for me? I’ll be home before five. Can you do that?’

  ‘I don’t need a stupid babysitter. Not her anyway,’ Rain says.

  ‘Apple?’

  Mum doesn’t have time to wait for me to deliberate. She rummages in her handbag and throws a tenner at me. ‘Get pizza for lunch,’ she says.

  ‘I’m sick of pizza,’ Rain says.

  Mum lowers her voice. ‘And I’m sick of . . .’ She pauses. Rain stares at her. ‘I’m sick of . . . I’m sick of always being late,’ she says. She grabs her coat from the hallstand, bangs down the stairs and slams the front door behind her.

  ‘Good riddance!’ Rain shouts.

  I fall on to the couch. I don’t want to go to school, but keeping Rain in line isn’t my idea of a day off.

  ‘You don’t have to look so miserable,’ Rain tells me.

  ‘Leave me alone. I’m going to do my homework,’ I say. ‘And if you plan to stay home for a while, maybe you should read some books.’

  ‘I haven’t got any books,’ she says.

  ‘You haven’t got any books?’

  She shakes her head. I’m stunned.

  So we go to the library.

  25

  In the children’s section of the library, a squadron of toddlers are banging spoons, blowing whistles and screaming along to nursery rhymes. I want to leave, but Rain says Jenny might like the rhymes. She sits in the circle with the doll on her lap. Some of the mothers throw her suspicious looks. The singing librarian gives Rain a wide, welcoming wave. After a couple of songs, Rain joins in with the singing. I leave her to it and flop down in front of a computer in the research section.

  A librarian with spiky white hair points at a sign above my computer: 30 min limit for PCs.

  ‘If you’re doing some homework, you don’t have to worry about that. We just don’t want people sitting here and spending five hours chatting online. Do you know how to work the computer?’ She looks about Nana’s age and even has a bit of Nana’s soft lilt.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ I say. I open a new document, expecting her to go back to her work. She stands with one hand on my desk, looking at the screen.

  ‘Is it an INSET day?’ she asks.

  ‘Huh?’

&nbs
p; ‘You’re not at school. Is it a staff INSET?’

  ‘Uh, yeah,’ I say. ‘The teachers have a meeting.’

  ‘And they’ll be on strike next month. What do they expect parents to do with their kids all day?’

  I lightly tap the keyboard without writing anything.

  ‘Well, if you need help, I’m over there,’ she says, and walks away.

  I type slowly and check over my shoulder occasionally to make sure no one is reading what I’m writing.

  ‘War’ by Apple Apostolopoulou

  It doesn’t look like war

  Unless you examine it closely – with your glasses on,

  Drawing your finger over the cracks in the friendship.

  We were a pair,

  A team of two

  Until Donna took her

  Away –

  Swooped down and grabbed Pilar

  Like an eagle diving for fish at the edge of the ocean.

  I never thought that could happen.

  I thought for ever friends meant just that:

  For ever and for ever and for ever.

  Now I know it means

  Until.

  Until someone better comes along,

  Until the conductor swipes her baton,

  Chooses you, not me, and

  Ends our symphony.

  I get to one hundred words then turn to check on Rain. She is fully engrossed in a wild rendition of ‘Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes’. Jenny has lost a shoe.

  I read through what I’ve written but as usual, it’s too close to the truth. I can’t hand it in.

  I open a fresh document and start again:

  ‘War’ by Apple Apostolopoulou

  I don’t understand people who make football into war. My dad loves Arsenal. He’s their biggest fan, but I don’t think he really likes watching them play all that much because when he does, he gets really angry. He shouts and swears and knocks the stuffing from cushions. And he acts as though the players on the other team are evil. He tells me he hates the managers of the other teams too. In England there are a lot of football hooligans who go to games just to have fights. But football is a sport, so it should be fun.