‘Yes, your royal highness.’ He salutes me and then chucks a ham sandwich across to me.
‘Hey!’ I protest, scrambling to catch it before it falls on the rug. ‘Didn’t your mother teach you anything about presentation?’
He smirks at me and starts peeling an orange. I lean back on my elbows and look around. I’m hungry, but not for the amazing picnic that Frog’s mum has packed for us. What I’m craving is memories. I’m desperate to store up everything that’s happened this summer, because school starts tomorrow and it’s going to suck.
Our secret hideaway looks even better than it did the first time I stumbled into it. The grass is full of cornflowers and daisies and it’s grown really long. Sitting here we are hidden from view. Nobody would know we’re here unless we wanted them to find us. Which we don’t. I wonder for a few minutes if we could hide out in the gardens of Oak Hill and avoid going back to school. Delay September for just a few days. I’m not ready to give all of this up yet – Martha is using the iPad every day and getting faster and faster. It’s almost like having a normal conversation with her now.
She hasn’t mentioned anything about the past for ages. I think it’s because she doesn’t need the memories to feel happy. I think it’s because Frog and I are making her happy. We’re making her better. Giving her a reason to live.
She did give me that same message again the other day, though. She wrote it on a piece of paper and made me take it with me.
Nobody will tell you when it’s your last summer. Enjoy the now, Erin. Live for the NOW.
It’s all very well telling me to live for the now, but Martha isn’t looking at spending the next eight weeks trapped in a smelly classroom, listening to Lauren and Nat witter on about their fascinating love lives with only algebraic fractions to distract me. That’s if they’ll even talk to me at all.
‘Can I have a seggy?’ I ask Frog.
He looks at me with pretend horror on his face. ‘Can you have a what?’
‘A seggy. You know – a segment of your orange.’
He frowns. ‘I’ve just expended more energy on peeling this thing than I’m actually going to gain by eating it, you realize? You reckon I like you enough to share a piece of my hard-fought-for orange?’
‘I know you do,’ I tell him, stretching out my hand expectantly.
Frog passes me two segments of orange. ‘It’s true,’ he sighs dramatically. ‘I am powerless to resist your charms. In fact, is there anything else I can do for you while I’m here? Peel you a grape? Wash your stinky feet?’
He grabs my foot and starts to unlace my trainer. I shriek and thump his arm.
‘Get off me, you weirdo! Don’t go anywhere near my feet!’
‘Ahh, I spot a weakness in your armour,’ says Frog, but he lets go and lies down on the rug. ‘Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. I won’t tell a soul about your foul, fetid, feet.’
‘FYI, I do NOT have smelly feet,’ I tell him, trying to sound huffy but failing miserably. I lie down next to him and put my hands behind my head. ‘Oh god, why do we have to go back to school tomorrow. I don’t think I can cope.’
‘You’ll cope,’ Frog says. ‘You have to. Anyway, aren’t you looking forward to seeing your friends?’
I groan. The thought of Lauren and Nat makes me feel even worse. I feel like I’ve changed a lot this summer and I just can’t imagine spending my lunchtimes sitting on the wall and watching them snog whichever boy is flavour of the month. Particularly when they always choose disgusting coffee flavour and I’ve got delicious mint choc chip right here next to me on this rug and I don’t know how to tell him that I like him.
I really like him. A lot. I like him in that way where I always know where he is, even if I’m not looking right at him. I like him in the way that if he’s nearby then all the hairs on my arm will stand up on end before we’ve even brushed against each other. I like him in the way that I miss him on the days we’re not both at Oak Hill.
And after today it’s all going to be over. Sure, we’ve promised that we’ll visit Martha at weekends but I know he’s got loads of friends. As soon as he’s back at school he’ll forget all about me. Frog’s going to be in Year 10 and it’s pretty much social death for any of them to talk to anyone in Year 9. And there’ll be loads more homework for me and choosing my options for GCSEs and lots of other pointless activities that apparently are necessary if we are all to grow up.
And now it’s our last afternoon. The last afternoon of summer and we can’t decide what to do. Beatrice has brought Martha down to the water fountain and Frog and I are slumped on the bench, trying to agree on a fitting activity.
‘We could practise the jitterbug,’ suggests Frog. Martha looks keen but I shake my head.
‘I am NOT in the mood for dancing,’ I tell them.
‘So what shall we do?’ asks Frog. ‘We don’t want to waste the last afternoon.’
And that’s the exact problem. It’s too important a time to waste doing something rubbish – and nothing seems good enough.
‘A walk round the garden?’ types out Martha on the iPad, but I groan.
‘Boring,’ I tell her and then ignore her grimace. She hates me saying that. Last week she spent ages choosing the words in order to tell me that ‘only boring people use the word boring’, which I told her was even more boring than the thing that had made me bored in the first place.
This is useless. I just want to spend the afternoon having fun with my two favourite people but we’re all sitting here acting like we’re at a funeral. If we don’t decide on something soon then the afternoon will be gone.
I pick up my sketchpad from beside me and grab a pencil from my rucksack. I might as well do something until someone comes up with a plan. Without thinking about what I’m doing I start sketching Martha, using light pencil marks to outline her face.
After a few minutes I realize that Frog and Martha are watching me.
‘Can I have a go?’ asks Frog, and I tear a sheet of paper out of my pad and pass him a pencil. Then I carry on with my drawing. I’ve just got as far as Martha’s nose when she thrusts a note at me.
And me?
I look up at Martha, unsure that I’ve understood her correctly. But she’s smiling and pointing at my sketchpad, so I rip out another sheet and give her one of the art books that I’ve been lugging about for the last few weeks to lean on.
And then we sit quietly, the only sounds the scratching of the pencils. Frog is leaning over, resting his paper on the seat of the bench and glancing up at me every now and again. Martha is relaxed in her wheelchair and I’m pretty sure she’s drawing Frog. I focus on my sketch and soon I am only aware of the picture, as I define the shape of Martha’s face and shade and rework the marks I’m making until I can see her looking up at me from the page.
Eventually, Martha puts her pencil down and stretches in her chair. Frog stops fairly soon after and they talk to each other using the iPad while I finish. I don’t want to rush – I can tell that this picture is going to be one of my best.
When I’m finished I look up. The last afternoon has gone. The sun is sinking fast and Martha looks like she feels cold.
‘Where did the time go?’ I ask.
Frog laughs. ‘I guess we were all busy. Let’s see your picture then!’
I’m suddenly a bit shy. ‘No. you first. Come on – time to reveal your talents!’
‘OK, you asked for it! Just remember that I did warn you about my lack of artistic ability.’
Frog spins his paper round to face us, with a big flourish.
‘Ta da!’ he says.
I was right. He has drawn a portrait of me. And he wasn’t kidding, either – art is definitely NOT one of his strengths. And yet … there’s something. I take the picture from him and look at it closely. It looks nothing like me – the nose is too big and the chin is too square (at least I hope my chin doesn’t look like that), but there’s something about it that makes me feel good. Maybe it’s the eyes
. The me in the picture looks happy. She looks warm. She looks like the person who drew her really, really cares about her.
‘I love it,’ I tell Frog in a quiet voice. ‘Can I keep it?’
‘Yeah,’ he says, and when I look up at him he looks me straight in the eyes and I see that his eyes are warm and happy and full of something special.
‘Show us your drawing, Martha,’ I say, forcing myself to look away from Frog before I say or do something utterly stupid.
Martha picks up her paper and passes it to Frog. I peer over his shoulder and stifle a laugh.
‘Er … that’s great?’ he tells Martha hesitantly.
Martha smiles, which is good because I can’t restrain the giggles that have been building up in my throat any longer. She has drawn a picture of a frog. And it’s pretty awful. One eye is twice the size of the other and some of the lines zip right off the page.
‘You can tell it’s meant to be a frog, though,’ I say, through my laughter. It’s really important to be positive about other people’s art – even when it’s virtually impossible to find something to be positive about.
Martha smiles and wiggles her right hand at us.
I look at her in surprise. ‘You used your right hand?’
She nods proudly.
‘Martha! That’s brilliant! I didn’t know you could hold a pencil yet. You must have been doing your exercises then?’
She nods.
‘In that case,’ says Frog, ‘this is an amazing piece of art. I shall treasure it forever!’
We laugh and I suddenly feel that we’ve spent the last afternoon doing something perfect.
‘Your turn, Erin,’ Frog tells me. ‘Come on, you can’t wriggle out of it any more. Show us what you’ve got.’
I get up and stand next to Martha.
‘I did this for you,’ I tell her. ‘I wanted to show you what I see when I look at you.’
I put the paper down on her lap and wait. Martha looks down at the page and my drawing. I have drawn her, but not how she looks now. I’ve tried to look behind the wrinkly skin and the saggy eyes and the tired mouth. Instead I’ve drawn the Martha who could do the jitterbug. The Martha who loved No-good Tommy. I don’t know if I’ve got it right until she looks up at me, tears streaming down her face.
‘Don’t cry!’ I say, feeling alarmed. ‘I didn’t mean to make you sad. I’m sorry!’
Martha wipes her eyes with her sleeve and looks again at the picture, pointing first at it and then at herself.
‘You can keep it,’ I tell her. ‘Just no cry face, OK?’
Martha leans over and grips my hand, her grasp surprisingly firm. I can feel the bones beneath the soft, wrinkly skin and I think that this is what being old is all about. The same person inside but barely recognizable to yourself in the mirror. I think about how Martha isn’t bothered about rules and all the things she’s taught me this summer. I wonder if I’d have found those things out for myself anyway or if I’d have had to wait until I was an old lady to work out what really matters. I wonder how much stuff we don’t get told before it’s too late.
And that’s it. The last afternoon has been and gone. When I get into bed that night I prop up Frog’s picture against my bedside lamp, where I can see it as I fall asleep. I wonder if Martha has done the same thing with my drawing. The words she gave me are buzzing round my brain and even though I’m trying not to think about it I can’t help knowing two things.
This was the last afternoon. And it was also the last summer.
Fish and Frogs*
The first day back at school is as predictably awful as usual. Teachers prattling on about how much fun we’re going to have this year and how, now that we’re in Year 9, we’ll be given extra responsibility and independence. Why do adults always go on about responsibility like it’s a good thing? I’m more than happy to carry on doing what I’ve always done – which is sit at the back of the classroom, paying just enough attention to get by and counting down the hours until the final bell.
Anyway, surprise, surprise, it’s all lies. By the end of the first day it is obvious that nothing has changed. Lessons are the same boring lessons that they were last year. And that means that they are nobody’s definition of fun. The only good part of the day was art when we had to hand in our summer projects. Miss Jenson flicked through them during the lesson and asked me to stay behind after class. I thought I was in trouble for a moment but then she said that she was really impressed with my enthusiasm and had I thought about doing art GCSE? I was a bit embarrassed but she started talking about the paintings I’d chosen and we ended up having a good chat. She gave me a spare art book to keep at home and said if I wanted to carry on the project then she’d love to see my ideas every now and again. I told her I’d think about it but I took the art book anyway. Just in case.
I don’t see Frog until the second day. I’m walking into the cafeteria and suddenly there he is, right in front of me. He spots me at the exact same moment that I see him and we both stand still, looking at each other.
He looks different. And it isn’t just the school uniform, although I guess that’s part of it. He seems older and more distant and I suddenly feel awkward. I don’t know what to say to him so I keep standing there. And then he’s being shoved towards me by his group of friends who don’t understand why he’s suddenly stopped moving. They’re confident and raucous and one of them says something to him as he goes to walk past me that makes them all laugh really loudly.
‘Hi, Erin,’ he says and raises his hand in a greeting but he doesn’t stop to talk and for some reason I look away. I act like I don’t hear him and make my legs move forward so that I’m rejoining the queue for food. I collect a tray and shuffle slowly forward, then collect a plate and ask for a baked potato and some fish fingers and then I shuffle forward a bit more and take a drink and pay at the till, and the entire time I manage not to glance over to the table where I know he’s sitting. I think I can feel him watching me but I could be making it up. I don’t know.
I’m ready for him on the third day and when I see him coming down the corridor I play it cool. I busy myself putting my books in my locker until I reckon he’s almost next to me. Then I drop one of the books on the floor and bend down to pick it up. He almost walks right into me.
‘Hey, watch it!’ he says, and then he sees it’s me. ‘Erin!’
‘Oh, hi,’ I say, aiming for casual nonchalance but achieving jumpy nervousness. Frog laughs.
‘Hi, yourself,’ he says and grins at me in a way that makes me feel like nothing’s changed.
‘How’s it going?’ I ask him, still feeling a bit small and embarrassed. It seems so weird talking to him here, at school. Like our summer together never really happened.
‘Oh, all as boring as usual,’ Frog tells me, waving his hand dismissively in the air. ‘We still on for Saturday?’
This is the real reason that I’ve been feeling odd. I was so sure that something would go wrong once we got back to school and that all the plans we made at Oak Hill would disappear, along with the summer. I thought that Frog wouldn’t want anything to do with me when he was back with his mates. And Saturday will be One Hundred Days Without Mum and I really, really want to do something fantastic to distract me.
The relief makes me want to sit down.
‘Absolutely!’ I say, trying not to smile too enthusiastically. I don’t want him to think I’m desperate to spend time with him. ‘I’ll see you there.’
We look at each other and for a second I think he’s about to say something else. But then Lauren and Nat ruin it.
‘Ooh, Erin! Introduce us to your new friend!’ Nat is talking in a ridiculous, sing-song voice that makes me want to put my hand over her mouth.
I turn to glare at her and see Lauren gazing at Frog, her hands on her hips and her eyes open very wide. I happen to know that this is her seductive look and she practises it in front of the mirror.
‘Hi,’ she purrs. ‘I’m Loz. I’m sure I’ve
seen you on the football team.’
Frog smiles at her. ‘No, not me. You must be thinking of someone else.’
‘Oh, but you must be on one of the sports teams, surely?’ Lauren is in full-blown attack mode and I need to get Frog out of here. Now. ‘You look so sporty.’
Normally this kind of line would have me snorting in hilarity but today I’m not finding it very funny. I’m plotting the most painful, torturous punishment that I can think of to administer to my so-called best friend. How can she think it’s acceptable to try to chat up MY – My brain freezes. My what exactly? What does Frog actually mean to me? More importantly, what do I mean to him? Maybe I have no right to be offended by Lauren’s behaviour. After all, it’s not like we’re going out or anything. But he’s totally not her type. His hair’s a total state, for starters.
‘Sorry,’ says Frog to Lauren. ‘You’ve got me totally wrong. I am the least active person you are ever likely to meet.’
As he turns to leave he gives me a wink and whispers, ‘Saturday,’ just loud enough for Lauren and Nat to hear. Then he’s gone and I’m left to fend off the thousands of questions being fired at me by the girls.
‘OMG, Erin! Is he your boyfriend?’ screeches Nat.
‘You kept him quiet,’ says Lauren, sounding a bit annoyed. ‘No wonder you weren’t interested in Dom when you had him waiting for you.’
‘It isn’t like that,’ I protest but the honest truth is that I don’t know what it is like.
‘Oh yeah?’ Lauren isn’t convinced. ‘I don’t know why you’re keeping him such a big secret. Is he a bit odd or something?’
‘I thought he seemed quite nice,’ offers Nat and I smile gratefully at her.
Lauren exhales loudly. There is no physical reason for her to do this but it does a good job of conveying her frustration to the rest of us.
‘I didn’t say he wasn’t nice, Nat,’ she says in a slightly huffy voice. ‘I’m sure he’s perfectly nice. He’s quite good-looking too, I suppose. He’s just a bit immature, particularly when you compare him to Dom.’
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