‘I guess so,’ I mutter weakly.
‘You come here every day, right?’ continues Frog Boy. I nod – he seems to have stolen my voice. ‘Cool! Mum wants to visit Grandad loads over the next few weeks because she’s taken some time off work. We can hang out.’
We’ve reached the seat and for the first time in the last few minutes, Frog Boy seems unsure of himself. ‘I mean, only if you want to. I don’t want to invade your space or anything.’
I look at him, my brain trying to think straight. I don’t know why, but I just can’t seem to say the right thing to this boy and, even with his weird frog fixation, I think that I might like him. But I’m messing it up and now he’s smiling at me and nodding a bit and walking away, and in two seconds he’s going to have gone round the corner and out of sight, and I’ll have missed my chance.
‘I’d like that!’ I suddenly call. ‘Hanging out, I mean. I’ll be here on Monday afternoon.’
Frog Boy grins again and holds up a hand to wave goodbye. I wave weakly back in reply and it is only then, as I watch him disappear down the path, that I have two thoughts. One: that he doesn’t seem to know that Martha’s fall was my fault, and Two: that he held my hand all the way from the frog to the seat. And I didn’t even notice.
Fairy Tale*
I spend most of Sunday planning my outfit for Monday and my meeting with Frog Boy. (I know he told me his name but I totally can’t remember it so I’m hoping it just kind of comes up in conversation.) It needs to be fabulous but completely casual – like I’ve chucked on some old clothes but still look amazing. In the end I settle for skinny jeans and my short-sleeved check shirt. Mum used to say that the purple and black in the shirt brought out the dark brown in my eyes. I don’t know if that’s true but it’s always been my favourite top since she said that.
I think I must be quite distracted because Dad asks me if I’m OK at least three times. I tell him I’m fine but I don’t think he believes me. I’ve shown Picasso my outfit and I think he approved. It was kind of hard to tell, though, because all he seems to want to do is sleep at the moment. He’s getting seriously lazy.
I get to the secret hideaway before Frog Boy and wander down to the stream, lying on my stomach and dangling my fingers in the water, watching the sunlight reflect off the ripples and make funny patterns on the stones.
‘Looking for your frog?’ A voice yanks me out of my doze and I look up, squinting into the sun.
‘Huh?’ I say, carrying on the tradition of behaving like a complete idiot in front of this boy.
Frog Boy sinks down on to the grass beside me.
‘Looking for your frog? You know, the one you have to kiss to turn him back into a prince so that you can live happily ever after!’
‘Yeah, well,’ I say, turning back to the stream, ‘I’m kind of over happily ever afters. Turns out they don’t even exist.’
‘Yeah. Happily ever after should be sued by the Trade Descriptions Act,’ agrees Frog Boy, picking a piece of grass and holding it between his thumbs. Then he cups his hands together and blows into them, making a high-pitched, whistling sound.
‘Hey! How do you do that?’ I ask, scrambling up on to my knees. We spend the next twenty minutes with him trying to teach me, but the only sound I can make is a farty, raspberry noise – nothing like the shrill squeal that he can do.
By the time I give up we’re laughing and chatting as if we’ve known each other forever. I can’t remember feeling like this around a boy before – like I can just be myself and not pretend to be someone I’m not.
In fact, I’m so chilled out that when I see the shadow being made by a tree across the stream, I don’t think twice about pulling my sketchbook out of my rucksack. Normally I’d never let anyone see it, just in case they thought I was rubbish. I sit, cross-legged in the grass, and start drawing and even though I’ve only just met him, I’m pretty sure that Frog Boy won’t mock me.
He doesn’t say anything for a while, but after ten minutes or so he scoots closer to me and peers over my shoulder.
‘That’s really good,’ he tells me, and I feel myself flush with pride. ‘I like the way you’ve used the pencil lightly – almost like I have to imagine what might fill in the gaps.’
I look round at him. ‘Do you like art too?’ I ask. He laughs.
‘Like it? Sure. Am I any good at it? No chance.’ He lies back on the grass and looks up at the clouds, skittering across the sky as if they’re in a hurry to get somewhere before dark.
‘I bet you are good. You probably just don’t know it,’ I say. I want to make him feel good too, like he’s made me feel.
‘No. Seriously, I’m terrible at art. If I try to draw a cat everyone thinks it’s a hamster. On steroids. I got an A for effort and an F for achievement on my last school report.’
I wince. That is pretty awful. Frog Boy sees my face and grins at me again.
‘Don’t worry about it. Art just isn’t my thing. What I love more than anything is writing.’
I leap on this with enthusiasm. ‘Ooh – what sort of thing do you write? I bet you’re great.’
He sits up and looks at me carefully, his big blue eyes looking as if they’re trying to decide something. ‘Well …’ he says slowly, ‘I have got this one idea for a book that I think could be huge.’
‘Go on!’ I say, totally focused on every word. My mind is already racing ahead – he could write a book and I could do the illustrations. How cool would that be?
‘OK, I’ll tell you. But you have to swear you’ll keep it a secret.’
‘I swear,’ I breathe. There’s something about Frog Boy that makes me believe he could do anything he wanted.
He looks down at the grass and then peeks up at me through his eyelashes, making himself look even more adorable than usual. He has every single bit of my attention.
‘It’s about a boy,’ he starts.
‘Go on,’ I say.
‘It’s about a boy who goes to boarding school.’ He pauses. ‘A magical boarding school for wizards.’
‘Hang on –’ I say, starting to feel suspicious.
‘Let me finish!’ interrupts Frog Boy. ‘I haven’t got to the best bit yet. Don’t you WANT to hear my idea for a bestselling novel?’
I nod, deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt.
‘As I was saying, it’s about a boy who goes to a magical boarding school for wizards. His name (and this is the genius part), his name is – Gary Botter!’
Frog Boy erupts into laughter as he watches my face. I thump him on the arm.
‘You are such an idiot,’ I tell him, trying really hard not to snigger.
‘Come on, though – I totally had you,’ he says, lying back on the grass.
‘Not even close,’ I tell him, lying next to him on my stomach with my hands under my chin. ‘You’ll have to do a lot better than that to fool me.’
The sun is still hot and it’s totally silent except for the sound of the breeze blowing through the leaves and the stream flowing over the stones. I’m not sure I’ve ever been anywhere this peaceful in my whole life and I think it’d be nice to stay here and not have to worry about other people and how they’re feeling.
‘So, what’s the deal with Martha, then?’ asks Frog Boy suddenly, ruining my chilled vibe.
‘What d’you mean?’ I think it’s best if I play it cool until I’ve figured out what he knows.
‘Well, my grandad told me that you were hanging out with her, but you haven’t even been into the house to visit her since she fell. She’s fine, by the way – just a few bumps and bruises.’
I redden and say nothing. It hadn’t even dawned on me to visit her. I’d be the last person she’d want to see.
‘Grandad thought it was a shame. He said you were good for her.’
I look at Frog Boy in disbelief. ‘Good for her? She hates me. She probably never wants to see me ever again.’
Frog Boy looks at me with a weird expression on his face. ‘Er, OK …
’ he says slowly, drawing out the syllables of each word. ‘Not sure where you’re getting your information but Grandad reckons she really likes you.’
I don’t know what to think about this. It makes no sense. ‘What do you mean?’ I say. ‘She’s completely grumpy and miserable whenever I see her.’
Frog Boy laughs.
‘Oh, she is,’ he tells me. ‘Super-grumpy. Grandad always says that if there were an award for grouchiest pensioner then Martha would win hands down. But he only says it to make her scowl. He likes her really. And he said that she definitely frowned less after she’d had a visit from you. That’s why he thought you were good for her. Gave her something to think about.’
I don’t know what to say to this. I think for a while but my thoughts are all jumbled up and I can’t seem to work out what I should do next. I groan and roll on to my back, looking up at the clouds and wishing that, just for once, life could be simple.
‘What’s wrong?’ asks Frog Boy. He has heard my groan and propped himself up on one arm, looking down at me.
‘I wasn’t actually that nice to Martha,’ I tell him. ‘I thought that she – well, anyway, it doesn’t matter what I thought. I didn’t really think about her at all, I guess. But you know, she’s so old and everything …’ My voice tails off when I realize that there isn’t really any excuse. I thought she was old. I thought she hated me. I forgot she was real.
Frog Boy gets to his feet and grabs my hand, pulling me up to a standing position.
‘I don’t know how to make it better,’ I tell him as we start walking back towards the house.
He stops for a moment, pulling his jumper on, and even though the jumper is muffling his face when he speaks, I can still clearly hear his reply.
‘We’ll think of something,’ he says, and as his head pops out of the neck of his jumper he smiles at me reassuringly. ‘There’s still weeks of the holiday left. We’ll work on it together.’
We. Together. Just like that I feel my guilt get less. Like Frog Boy has actually taken some of it from me. I have someone to talk to who can talk back. Someone who will listen and share their thoughts. I am not alone.
I’m Too Sad to Tell You*
The human body is a weird thing. Adults go on and on about healthy eating and doing lots of exercise but they don’t tell you that if you really want your body to be happy then you have to keep your head happy too. I’m eating just as healthily as I was when Mum still lived with us (in fact I eat way more fruit because it doesn’t have to be cooked, so Dad has given me free rein of the fruit bowl) and I seem to spend most of my time outside at the moment (and fresh air is supposed to be good for you). But my body feels tired and droopy and like it aches all the time. It never used to feel like that.
It aches most when Mum phones me. When I hang up the phone after yet another stilted, difficult conversation, the ache starts in my chest and spreads along my arms and legs until I feel like I can’t even climb the stairs to bed. I want to ask her about how I can make the pain go away, but I don’t. Because it’s all her fault in the first place. She doesn’t get to be the solution.
I felt especially tired after Beatrice spoke to me a few days ago. I’d gone to find her to ask if I could have another chance with Martha. We didn’t talk about the fall, but she must know that something went wrong. She didn’t answer me immediately; instead she stared at me until I thought she must be seeing into my soul, or something. Then she told me that Martha was fragile and needed looking after. She told me about the stroke.
I just can’t figure out why it happens. How can getting ill mean that just one side of the body stops working? It makes no sense. Beatrice told me that Martha can’t move the right side of her body and she can’t talk. That’s why she only uses her left hand and writes everything down – and it’s why her writing is such a state. She said that it was a terrible thing for a woman like Martha to lose her independence and freedom. I can totally sympathize with how THAT must feel.
But I’ve been given another chance and I’m determined not to mess up this time. Martha has agreed to meet up with me so we’re back in our usual spot and I’m reading aloud from a book that Beatrice has given me. I’m not even sure that it’s a book that Martha is enjoying but it’s good to have something to do and anything is better than sitting in silence. I’m seeing Frog Boy again later on and I think how good it’ll be to tell him I’ve actually done something. I think he’s the kind of person who cares about doing the right thing, so he should be totally impressed that I’ve given some of my time to cheering Martha up. I never knew that doing good deeds could actually make you feel kind of happy inside. Maybe I’ve got a talent and I’ll spend my life travelling around the world, bestowing happiness and harmony wherever I go. My role models will be Mother Theresa and Florence Nightingale and, and … erm … other inspirational women who put the needs of others before their own.
I finish the chapter and stretch out, enjoying the warmth of the sun on my legs. Next to me, I can feel Martha relax in her chair. It’s quite nice, sitting here. This week has gone really quickly, between spending the mornings in my hideaway and the afternoons either pretending to garden or with Martha. I can’t believe that the holidays are nearly halfway through.
I start wondering about what Lauren and Nat have been up to. I had an email the other day from Nat, asking if my ban had been lifted. She said that Lauren had gone to Cornwall for a week with her parents and that she was bored. And then she told me that they’ve been planning a barbecue party for next Wednesday and that surely my dad will give me the day off – what with it being my birthday and everything.
Just remembering this puts me in an instant bad mood. It feels like a cloud has gone in front of the sun but when I look up, the sky is still blue. I sit up straight, feeling fury flooding through me. I’ve behaved really well for the last few weeks but I’m still going to have the worst birthday ever. It’s been Seventy-one Days Without Mum and I still can’t get used to the fact that she’s on her sunny, happy summer holidays with her new family and won’t be there when I wake up in the morning.
‘It’s so completely unfair,’ I mutter. Beside me, Martha lifts her head and looks questioningly at me. ‘My parents must really hate me,’ I tell her.
Martha frowns and tilts her head to one side, which I take as encouragement to continue.
‘It’s my birthday next week and my mum is on some stupid holiday with her new, perfect family. She wanted me to go with them – said that she’s never been away from me on my birthday before. That’s not my fault, is it? And my friends are organizing a party for me and there’s no way that Dad will let me go so there’s no point in even asking him. I don’t see why I’m even bothering to be good, it’s not like anybody notices.’
I’m warming up to my theme now and it feels good to be talking about it. ‘Dad isn’t interested in discussing soppy stuff like feelings and I’m not going to speak to Mum – she doesn’t deserve to know how I’m feeling. I might as well have had a stroke like you – except nobody would actually notice if I didn’t speak because nobody actually listens to me in the first place.’
Martha jerks her head and her eyebrows squeeze together – I think she’s trying to tell me that I’m wrong.
‘It’s true,’ I tell her. ‘You don’t know my parents so you can’t understand. They haven’t even asked me what I want for my birthday. How heartless is that? I’ll probably be lucky to get a card. Maybe Mum will bring me a lame straw donkey back from Spain. Ooh, lucky me.’
I get up and start pacing the ground in front of Martha’s wheelchair. ‘I’ve done everything that they’ve asked of me – right down to spending my holidays in this stupid place.’ I look over at Martha. ‘No offence.’
She shrugs at me and I imagine her voice in my head, agreeing that Oak Hill is indeed a stupid place. I don’t think Martha wants to be here any more than I do.
‘I never get anything that I actually want,’ I tell her. ‘Not even when it’s free a
nd wouldn’t cost them a penny.’
I slump back on to the bench and Martha slowly uses her left hand to turn her chair so that she’s right next to me. She pats my knee and I look up into her face. The young Martha’s eyes are gazing at me and if I ignore the wrinkly skin then I could be talking to one of my friends. And actually, it’s so nice to have someone actually listening to me without constantly interrupting that I don’t care about the wrinkles and the loose skin over her cheekbones.
?
scrawls Martha on her notepad. And if it was anyone else I wouldn’t say, but the fact that she won’t repeat my secrets and the way that she’s looking at me as if she really cares, makes me suddenly long to say the words.
I look into her eyes and everything just comes tumbling out of my mouth.
‘I just want my mum and dad back together again. I want to be a family – the three of us and Picasso, my dog. I want to wake up on Saturday mornings and smell Mum making waffles for breakfast. I want to go to sleep listening to the sounds of the television while Mum and Dad watch a film. I want to have them both come to watch my school concert on the same night, not planning it to make sure they don’t meet up. I want Dad to smile again and Mum to tell me off for not washing up my cereal bowl after breakfast.’
I stop, partly because I’m out of breath and partly because I can feel tears prickling in the backs of my eyes. I didn’t even know that I was bothered about some of this stuff.
Martha is waiting, watching my face.
‘I want us all to live happily ever after,’ I whisper, so quietly that I can barely hear myself, and as I speak the words I know that they are true. I’m not stupid – I know that life doesn’t always turn out the way you want it to. I just didn’t know that my family would end up like this – spoilt and a bit rubbish. Like the shininess has rubbed off.
Five Things They Never Told Me Page 7