‘Apple and toast … that rings a bell.’ I have no memory of Hilary, but Mum’s told me I did some crazy stuff at playgroup so she could be telling the truth. ‘Sorry about that,’ I say.
‘That’s OK. I enjoyed it.’
Interesting …
Hilary’s eyes light up. ‘I thought you were amazing because you wore boys’ clothes and had all these T-shirts with dinosaurs on them.’
Yep. She definitely knows me.
‘Was there anything else I did? Only, we should probably get it all out in the open right now.’
‘Well, you taught me the words “willy” and “guff” and you told me that one of the helpers would be pleased if I painted her handbag with Tippex.’
‘I’m guessing the helper wasn’t pleased?’
‘No. Oh, and once you made me do a wee in the sandpit.’
Oh, God. ‘How did I make you do that?’
‘You said you’d make me eat it if I didn’t.’
‘The wee or the sand?’
‘The sand.’
‘Wow,’ I say. ‘I was a psychopath … Can I just apologise all in one go for everything my four-year-old self did?’
‘You don’t need to.’ She hits me with her massive smile. ‘You were so funny!’
I’m saved from hearing any more revelations by our new form tutor walking in. Mr Cobb apologises for being late, sloshes coffee over his desk and then hands round soggy timetables. I see that my first lesson today is English literature.
Hilary leans towards me and whispers, ‘Do you remember when you told me we were only allowed to use the trampoline if we took off all our clothes?’
THREE
One of the perfect girls, Romilly, has the same first lesson as me so I leave my wheelchair in S12 and we walk there together. I’ve got a pair of crutches stored in Mr Cobb’s cupboard – Mum dropped them off last week – but I decide to see how I’ll get on without them. With difficulty, it turns out. The corridors are packed and I have to concentrate hard on keeping a conversation going, getting up a flight of stairs and not falling over. Falling over is one of the more out-there side effects of my cerebral palsy.
By the time we reach the classroom, I’m hot and my heart is racing. Thank God for Mitchum Ultimate. Seriously, the stuff’s amazing.
While Romilly goes to sit with a couple of friends, I go to an empty desk by an open window. I take another sip of water and let the cool air from the window wash over me. I could have sat with Romilly, but I prefer sitting on my own – I like to spread out – plus I don’t want to get sucked into a gang of girls on my first day and then have to hang out with them for the next two years.
Our teacher, Miss Caudle, is a young, slim woman with flame-red hair. She takes the register then hands round copies of the book we’re studying, Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë. I pick up my copy, hold it close to my nose, then flip through the pages and breathe in deeply.
‘Ah, a fellow book sniffer,’ says Miss Caudle.
I nod and take another sniff. ‘New book is my favourite smell in the world.’
‘Well, that’s your new book now so write anything you want in it.’ She turns to the rest of the class. ‘That goes for all of you: record your thoughts inside your books. Wuthering Heights is arguably the most powerful love story ever written and I want to hear your opinions about it.’
I take in the mist-shrouded couple on the front cover and have to stop myself from rolling my eyes – I’m not into romances – but then Miss Caudle starts describing the ‘terrible violence and cruelty in the novel’ and I perk up.
We’re just going through the characters when the classroom door swings open and an exceptionally tall boy with short blond hair strolls in. He’s wearing jeans, a tight zipped-up tracksuit top and black trainers. Curiously, draped round his neck is a fringed scarf. He looks like a gymnast who’s had a rummage through his mum’s accessory drawer. He walks straight up to our teacher and clasps her hand.
‘Miss Caudle,’ he says, although he has a strong accent and it actually comes out as ‘Miss Cuddle’. ‘I’m sorry I am late, but an error on my timetable sent me to the wrong room.’
‘Ah …’ Miss Caudle stares wide-eyed at her hand that’s being pumped up and down. ‘Are you Fabian Kaczka?’
‘Yes, that’s me. Fabian Kaczka.’ He says his surname much more smoothly than Miss Caudle, with a long ‘sh’ sound in the middle. ‘“Kaczka” means “duck”,’ he adds, then he quacks. Loudly. In Miss Caudle’s face.
Across the classroom, people gasp and stifle giggles.
Fabian Kaczka turns to face us, points at us and says, ‘But you guys call me Fab.’
A boy at the front bursts out laughing, then says, ‘All right, Fab.’
Fab, either not caring or oblivious to the fact that this boy is laughing at him, sticks out his hand and says, ‘You’ve got it, my friend. Put it here.’
The boy watches in horror as Fab involves him in a blokey hand grab.
Quickly, as if she fears Fab might shake hands with everyone in the class, Miss Caudle tells Fab, ‘Take a seat. Anywhere you like.’
His eyes sweep across the classroom, studying everyone in turn, before finally falling on me.
Ah, come on. Move on, eyes, I think. I’m enjoying sitting all on my own at the back, watching everything that’s going on. But Fab’s clearly made up his mind because he gives a determined nod then walks straight towards me, past several empty seats.
He stops in front of my desk, does this little bow and says, ‘Please may I sit with you?’
Well, this is awkward.
As everyone watches to see what I will do, I feel my cheeks go red. I’ve just done my special walk across college, totally blush free, then Fab Kaczka bows at me and I go red!
‘Sure,’ I say, with a nonchalant shrug, then I take another drink of water to suggest my redness is solely down to dehydration and I move my stuff across.
Fab unwinds his scarf, places it carefully over the back of his chair, then sits down. He’s so tall that I have to shift towards the window to stop our shoulders from touching. Next, he takes a fountain pen, a yellow notebook and a pad of paper out of his bag, then turns to look at me.
Woah. Those are blue eyes. They are the exact shade of Mum’s Bombay Sapphire gin.
‘Hello,’ he says.
‘Hi.’ I pointedly keep my hands on my book. There will be no handshaking going on here. This boy clearly doesn’t understand boundaries and I don’t want to encourage him.
After looking at me for a moment longer, Fab turns to the front of the class, rests his chin in his hand and shifts his intense attention back to Miss Caudle – or, should I say, Miss Cuddle.
Finally, the lesson can begin.
FOUR
I love reading. I mean, I’m obsessed with it. I’m a book pervert, and I do it everywhere and at every opportunity, even when I probably shouldn’t be doing it at all: during assembly, when I’m talking to my Greek nan on the phone (or rather when she’s talking to me), when I get bored during films. Some people think that when you read you’re shutting yourself off from the world. But they’re wrong. When I read, my world just gets bigger and better.
Occasionally, back at secondary school, I’d get a sympathetic look from a girl in my year – Bless, Annie’s READING again, like someone from the olden days! But I didn’t care because generally I was reading a high-octane, violent thriller that I knew had to be better than whatever she was doing (usually her hair). Plus, the difference between what you can get away with reading about in public and looking at in public is mind-boggling.
So, I’m pretty much in heaven as Miss Caudle, eyes glittering, carries on describing the various characters in Wuthering Heights. She shows us pictures of the Yorkshire moors where Emily Brontë lived, and of the waterfalls and crags that appear in the book. As she talks, I type.
Next to me, Fab writes an endless stream of notes in large, flowing handwriting. I don’t recognise the language he’s writi
ng in, but I see that it’s bouncy, with lots of curly ‘K’s and ‘J’s.
Soon Miss Caudle tells us to read the opening chapter and make notes of our first impressions.
With a tingly sense of anticipation, I open the book and start to read. On the surface, nothing particularly dramatic happens – a man called Lockwood goes to this isolated, sinister house to pay a visit to his grumpy landlord, Heathcliff – but every word is loaded with menace and I get the feeling something very bad is about to happen.
It’s a good feeling, which is why it’s annoying when Fab leans towards me and says, ‘Excuse me.’
I put my finger on the book, then look up. ‘Yes?’
‘What is your name?’
‘Annie.’
He nods. ‘So, Annie, I have a quick question: what is a “misanthropist”?’
‘A person who dislikes human beings.’ Like me right now, I think.
‘Thank you.’ Fab writes something in his yellow notebook.
I turn back to a description of Heathcliff as a ‘dark-skinned gypsy’ and ‘gentleman’. I draw a line under the words and write race and class? in the margin.
Two minutes later, I get another ‘Excuse me’, followed by: ‘Annie, what is “peevish”?’
‘When you feel irritable.’ Like me. Right now.
Ten seconds later: ‘Annie, what is “penetralium”?’
‘I don’t know.’ I hold up Wuthering Heights. ‘This was written over a hundred and fifty years ago – it’s full of archaic words.’
His eyes widen. ‘Archaic? What is “archaic”?’
‘Words that aren’t used much any more, but –’
Fab shushes me as he jots something down. ‘Annie, it is very important that I learn the meaning of every word.’
‘OK, but I don’t know the meaning of all the words.’
A cough from the front of the room makes us look up. ‘If you two could keep it down,’ says Miss Caudle, ‘just so everyone can concentrate on the task.’
Great. Now Fab’s got me into trouble. Me getting into trouble was another thing I wanted to leave behind when I came to Cliffe. I wasn’t out of control at school, but I did get a lot of detentions. I blame this on my fiery Mediterranean temperament, but Mum’s less generous and says that sometimes I can be a right pain in the ass. Whatever the reason, I don’t want to draw attention to myself on my first day.
‘Sorry,’ I say to Miss Caudle. Then I whisper to Fab, ‘You need a dictionary.’
‘Like this?’ He pulls a red book out of his massive rucksack. It says POLSKO–ANGIELSKI on the front. So he’s Polish.
‘Wouldn’t it be easier to use your phone?’
He dismisses my words with a shake of his head. ‘No. I prefer this.’
‘But wouldn’t your phone be more practical?’
‘More practical, yes, but less reliable.’
‘Well, OK,’ I say with a smile, then I turn back to Wuthering Heights, leaving Fabian Kaczka tutting, drumming his fingers and flicking through his massive dictionary.
For the rest of the lesson, he keeps relatively quiet, but when Miss Caudle tells us to pack up, he unleashes a torrent of questions. ‘Annie, why were you using different coloured highlighters in your book?’
‘I’m using a different colour for each theme. It’s something my teacher in my old school taught me to do.’
He nods then says, ‘Why do you have the letter “I” on your necklace when your name is Annie?’
I’m a bit taken aback by this – my necklace is tiny, a gold ‘I’ on a thin chain, too small for anyone to notice. ‘My mum got it for me for Christmas.’ Automatically my fingers touch it. ‘She ordered it online, but they sent the wrong letter. We only found out when I opened it on Christmas Day. I told her I liked the “I” and wanted to keep it.’
All the time I’ve been talking, Fab has been putting things in his bag and listening intently. He starts to wind his scarf back round his neck. ‘And Wuthering Heights? Do you like that too?’
‘Yes, so far I love it. It’s very dark.’ I shut my laptop and start gathering up my things. Break’s going to be over if I don’t hurry up.
‘Dark? In what way?’
I turn to look at him. He’s standing there, patiently waiting for my answer.
‘I like the way everything feels claustrophobic and also the words that have been used: devil, fiend, possessed swine.’
He nods. ‘Yes, words are very powerful.’
I’m not used to boys saying this kind of thing. Or girls. I’m used to them saying things like ‘Shakespeare’s boring’ and ‘God, I hate poetry’.
I nod. ‘Yes, they are.’
The classroom’s almost empty, but Fab is still hovering by our desk. ‘It’s breaktime,’ he says. ‘Let’s go to the canteen and talk about books. I will buy you a coffee. Or tea. Do you prefer tea?’
I laugh and shake my head. ‘You go ahead. I want to get organised.’
‘No. It’s fine. I can wait.’
I shrug, then I deliberately take my time checking my phone, slipping it in my pocket, pushing my chair back. I guess I’m hoping Fab will give up and go, but he just stands there, arms folded, like he’s got all the time in the world. Having him hovering next to me makes me feel like I’ve got my old teaching assistant, Jan, back.
Fab’s eyes follow me as I tighten my rucksack straps and a familiar flutter of irritation rises inside me, just like it used to at school when I’d have to convince Jan that, no, I really didn’t want her to wait outside the toilets for me, and, yes, I really would be fine in DT without her.
I must be frowning, because Fab says in a concerned voice, making him seem even more Jan-like, ‘What is the matter, Annie?’
‘Nothing,’ I say, standing up.
He steps aside and I walk past him towards the door, and, just as I expected, he watches me closely. I mean, he was curious about my laptop so my walk must be absolutely fascinating for him. Suddenly, he rushes ahead, pushes the door and holds it wide open for me.
I look from the door to Fab, then say, ‘Why are you doing that?’
He shrugs. ‘To help. You’re an invalid.’
I blink and stare at him. My heart instantly speeds up. All morning I’ve felt so strong, almost invincible, but with one word, Fab Kaczka has whisked my confidence away from me.
And this bothers me more than what he actually said. I thought I was stronger than that. I thought I was over being hurt by words.
Suddenly I feel mad – with Fab, and with myself.
I take a step towards him. ‘A piece of advice, Fab: probably best to avoid that word. It’s a bit offensive.’ I see Miss Caudle look up from her desk. My voice is raised, but I don’t care. ‘It suggests worthlessness. In-valid. Like you said, words are powerful.’ I take the door from him and step through it. I wiggle it backwards and forwards. ‘And look: I can open doors all by myself!’
I’m halfway down the corridor when I wonder if I was too hard on Fab. It’s hardly his fault if he hasn’t fully grasped the complex nature of the English language yet. And all that door wiggling I did … For a moment, I consider waiting for him to catch up so that I can explain that personally I think ‘disabled’ is a better word to use than ‘invalid’ and take him through the numerous ways that language can cause offence.
No. I’ve already missed five minutes of break because of Fab and I’m hungry.
I push him to the back of my mind and head for the coffee shop, taking the stairs instead of the lift and saying a cheery ‘Hi there!’ to a girl whose eyes are glued to my bare, wobbling legs.
FIVE
At the coffee shop, I get my travel mug filled with tea, choose a waffle then look across the common room. It’s rammed and noisy – every seat is taken. R & B is blaring out of the speakers and there’s a lot of Big Laughing going on – heads thrown back, cackles, the type of laughter that seems designed to make you feel left out.
Over in the corner, I see Hilary, sucking on an appl
e juice carton. I walk towards her, deliberately going through the middle of the room, and the stares I get make me feel better, because I meet them head-on.
When I get to Hilary, I’m back in control. I’m at Cliffe, where I chose to be, and I’m not going to waste a moment feeling insecure.
‘Hi,’ she says, shuffling over so I can share her seat. ‘I feel totally lonely. There must be over a hundred people in here, but I hardly know anyone, and the ones I do know I don’t want to talk to.’
‘I know what you mean,’ I say, as Georgina Carr, a grade-A bitch from my old school, walks past. Her eyes settle on me, then they flick away. ‘But think of it as an opportunity. In this room, there are over a hundred people who may be lucky enough to hang out with us.’
‘OK,’ she says, nodding and sipping her juice.
I finish my waffle in two bites. ‘Right,’ I say, dropping my paper plate in the recycling bin. ‘You and me, we need to get out there and make some friends. Everyone’s getting into groups and there’ll be no one left by lunchtime.’
Hilary nods. ‘This feels like my first day of Year Seven.’ She glances at me. ‘I didn’t like secondary school much.’
‘Forget secondary school. This is a new start.’
She smiles. ‘Yeah, you’re right! But how do we do this? How do we make friends with complete strangers?’
‘First we need to narrow down the field. Ever played Find A Friend?’
This is highly unlikely, as I’ve just invented it. In fact, I’ve never been much of a seeker-outer of friends, but right now it seems like a good idea, otherwise I might spend the next two years sitting in the corner of the common room with Hilary. She’s clearly great, but too much one-on-one time gets a bit heavy for me.
Hilary looks excited. ‘What do we do?’
‘Look around the room and choose one person you could befriend. Obviously, you’re going to have to use very shallow selection criteria.’
Hilary nods and her eyes skip from person to person. ‘Well, there’s one person I would never choose,’ she says, pulling a face, then her eyes move on. ‘OK. I’ve found my friend. Yes. Definitely.’
Truly, Wildly, Deeply Page 2