A is for Apple

by Kate Johnson

  “I have to—” I couldn’t say “go to school”. I just couldn’t. “I have to work tomorrow, but I’ll take you up to Harvey’s first thing, okay?”

  He nodded gratefully, stood up suddenly and hugged me.

  “Sophie, you’re the greatest.”

  Funny, I didn’t feel that fab.

  I was woken hideously early by what sounded like a burglar in my kitchen.

  Sighing, I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. But the noises went on. I squinted at the clock. Bleurgh.

  Swinging grumpily out of bed, recalling how late I’d gone to bed and then how even later I’d finally fallen asleep, and took the key for my gun cabinet out of my goodie drawer. Then I got out my lovely SIG Sauer P-239, loaded it, and pushed open the bedroom door.

  Then I stared at the intruder, so surprised I nearly pulled the trigger by mistake.

  “Xander?” I yawned, watching him turn my cupboards inside out. “What are you doing?”

  “Looking for coffee.”

  “It’s right there by the kettle!”

  He looked at it with disgust. “Real coffee.”

  “What’s that? Scotch mist? This isn’t Starbucks. That’s the only coffee I have.”

  “Don’t you got anything with a filter?”

  American grammar.

  I had some filter coffee, but it was older than my flat. I’d last seen it when I used the filters to make hats for Tammy at Christmas.

  “No,” I said shortly. “I don’t.”

  His face softened when he saw my expression. “I’m sorry, Sophie. You’ve been really good. This is fine. You want some?”

  I nodded. “I’m going to take a shower.”

  When I came out, finally free of the faint smell of smoke that had been clinging to me since the gig, I spent a while deciding on what to wear. Eventually I decided on a pair of black trousers and a tight blue top with a loose draped neckline, and my faithful old black boots. I was just packaging up my feet when Xander knocked on the door and came in, bearing coffee.

  I sipped it. “You’re forgiven.”

  “What happened to your arm?”

  I sighed and recounted the story as I did my makeup. Xander was amazed and immediately apologised for being so snarky about me leaving him. Not that he’d realised I wasn’t coming back.

  I glanced at the clock. It had just gone eight. I had enough time to throw all my school things into my bag, lock up my gun again (part of me longed to take it with me and the other part, the part that remembered Dunblane, very much wished that the first part of me didn’t exist) feed Tammy, who Xander was in love with, and take him off up to Angel’s.

  “What’s all this stuff in the back?” Xander was leaning over to look through my warped cardboard folders.

  “Just some old school work of mine.”

  “It’s good.”

  “Really?” I couldn’t help being pleased. Xander was an actual artist.

  “Well, it’s okay.”

  Oh. Cheers.

  Angel lived about five miles away in a pretty village named Ugley. Yeah, I know. Apparently it’s Saxon or something. Her house was a converted medieval church, complete with spire and creepy crypt, and she lived there quite happily with Harvey, the Perfect Boyfriend.

  He answered the door, and his jaw dropped. It was like a weird mirror.

  “Xander? What the fuck are you doing here?”

  Xander gave a wave. He’d taken a shower and shaved with Luke’s razor and I’d thrown his clothes in the washing machine overnight, so he looked a hell of a lot better, but there was still a rough edge to him, a pallid tone to his skin and shadows around his eyes.

  “Long story,” Xander said, looking at me ruefully. “You reckon I could stay here, big bro?”

  Harvey nodded, then he paused and turned to Angel, who was hidden behind him. She looked ridiculously perky for someone who didn’t have to get up so early. “Can he?”

  “Of course! Xander, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Angel…”

  I stepped back. “Okay. I have work to do.”

  Harvey followed me a few steps out of the porch. “Sophie? What’s going on?”

  I explained about Xander coming to me because they’d been out. “I think he’s had a rough couple of days,” I said. “Be nice to him.”

  “Did you hear about Shapiro?”

  I nodded. “Floating in the Hudson. Xander is probably going to be a suspect.”

  “Why? Does anyone know the body was at his apartment? You didn’t tell anyone…”

  “No, I didn’t, and Luke won’t have either, but it won’t be hard for them to find out Shapiro owed Xander money. And that Xander—who is vastly overdrawn, by the way—has now left the country.”

  “Great.” Harvey rubbed his face. “Okay. Looks like I have work to do today too. Thanks for looking after him.”

  “No problem.”

  Harvey smiled at me, and that was reward enough.

  I got back in Ted and pointed him north, towards Longford, on the road to Cambridge. The village was long and old and pretty, with a river running under the main road (boy, they really didn’t have to think so hard about that village name, did they?) and the high school at the far end. It reminded me a lot of my old school. From the road, across the lawn, I could see cars parked outside what I assumed was the main hall, so I turned up the lane that ran through the middle of the school, and swung Ted neatly into a parking space.

  And then I got out, and a stern-looking woman with “History Teacher” written all over her tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I was a student.

  “Of course,” I said, laughing a little nervously. I’d passed the first hurdle. “Why else would I be here?”

  “This is staff parking,” she said. “You’ll have to put that,” Ted was given a disparaging wave, “somewhere else.”

  “But—where?” I fought to keep from scowling at her treatment of my beloved car.

  “There’s a car park outside D Block for students,” she said, and swept off.

  Great. Where the fuck was D Block?

  I got back in and rummaged for my school map. No map. Great.

  So I got back out—by now people were starting to watch me—and grabbed a kid in uniform and said, “Do you know where D Block is?”

  He nodded.

  “Do you know how to get to the car park?”

  He nodded again.

  “I’ll give you a fiver if you show me.”

  Eagerly, he hopped in, looking around my car in amazement, and I remembered what a small economy kids operate on. Five quid was probably a week’s lunch money. And I had a car—when I was at school hardly anyone had their own car. The ones that did drove beat-up Novas older than themselves and thought they were the business.

  He directed me left onto the lane, past a clutch of ugly low-rise buildings, and up a steep drive on the other side of the road. I found a space behind the gym and paid the kid off.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Rob,” he said, looking at me like I was a goddess. “8F.”

  I assumed that was his class.

  “Thanks, Rob. Now, er, run along.”

  And he did. Bless.

  I went back down the slope and round the front of D Block to the newer building Rob had said was the sixth form block. According to my letter of induction I was to go to my form room for a twenty minute registration period, before my first class at eight fifty-five. I was five minutes early. Go me!

  I walked into the S Block lobby (there being six buildings, A-E Blocks, plus the new, bewilderingly named S Block for the Sixth Form. And they wonder why kids today are so confused) and everybody turned to look at me.

  I’d checked myself over in the rear-view mirror before leaving the car and I knew I looked pretty good. The difference between a schoolgirl and a grown woman, I guess. Not that I feel like a grown woman most of the time—I feel like that geeky teenager. Still, I know I look better. Hell, I couldn’t look worse. I’d like to th
ink it’s something in my manner that indicates I’ve grown up, but I’m fairly sure I act like a daft teenager most of the time.

  Better hair and a more experienced hand with makeup had, however, given me the edge, and certainly I’d grown up in terms of clothing since the last time I walked into a school building. I’d given up trying to dress like a skinny clotheshorse a long time ago, and instead decided to embrace my curves, in the hope that maybe someone else might want to embrace them, too.

  By the looks of it, a few of them did.

  I preened.

  “Excuse me,” I asked a girl on her own, “where’s S3?”

  She pointed to a locked door. “You in Devvo’s form, then?”

  I blinked. My form tutor was supposed to be a Mr. Devely. “I guess,” I said uncertainly. “Are you?”

  She shook her head. “Hemlock.”

  “Ah.”

  I hoped this was another nickname.

  For something to do, I got out my phones and pretended to check for messages. There were none. Apparently Karen had finally found something she trusted me with and Luke still wasn’t talking to me. Great.

  Then, aware I probably looked like a prat with two phones, I hastily put them away, just as the door to what I assumed was an office opened and a tall man and the History teacher came out. She gave me a tight-lipped glare as she swept past and opened the door to one of the classrooms. The girl who had said she was in Hemlock’s class filed in after her. Good nickname, I thought, watching the iron back disappear into the classroom.

  The tall man—Devvo, I presumed—nodded amiably at a few students and opened up S3, switching on lights which flickered and hummed, sitting down at his messy desk and taking out a folder. He looked around the class, ticking off names on the register, and I was impressed at his casual control.

  Then his eyes flickered over me, and I looked away instinctively. I learnt to avoid eye contact a long time ago in History lessons when I didn’t want to get asked anything.

  “Right,” he said loudly in a Geordie accent, “shut up, you lot, I know it’s your first day back but we’ve got some notices to get through. Sit down…”

  The class found seats on swivelly chairs and the edges of tables. I perched nervously by a computer. Computers and swivel chairs! In my day it was hard plastic chairs and there were only half enough computers in the whole school for one class at a time.

  My God, now I felt old.

  “Okay. Firstly, anyone here does Art…?”

  I meekly raised my hand. So did one of the girls and a boy I hadn’t noticed before, a very pretty boy with black hair and long lashes. I ached to see what colour his eyes were, but they were cast down at the floor.

  “Okay. You have no class today, ‘cos the new teacher hasn’t arrived yet.”

  There was a chorus of “typical” from the class, which Devvo gamely ignored.

  “Don’t forget to sign in and out when you go down the village for your lunch and don't forget that’s the only time you’re allowed to go,” he read off a note, and his expression matched that of his class—not bloody likely.

  “Auditions will be held in the Music Suite for a new saxophone group… All right, sod this, no one cares. How was everyone’s summer?”

  People shrugged and muttered “All right,” and generally turned to each other to chat.

  “And before I forget,” Devvo raised his voice again, “we’ve got two new students. Marc Shapiro and Sophie Green. Would you like to come forward.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  I found myself liking this man—it was better not to think of him as a teacher—and his lazy, dry manner. Why hadn’t I had a form tutor like him? Why was mine the floopiest, most risible flake ever to get a teaching degree?

  The pretty boy and I shambled to the front of the class to be presented.

  “Would you like to tell us something about yourselves?” Devvo went on, and I revised my opinion of him. He was a sadist.

  Marc—not Marc-Paul, I noticed—glanced at me, and I sucked in my breath. He had the most dazzling, sapphire blue eyes I have ever seen. Wow. I could live in those eyes.

  Aware I was staring, and the class was sniggering, I wrenched myself away and looked back at the dozen or so bored faces before me. Marc was making no effort to speak, so I cleared my throat.

  “Hi. I’m Sophie.” I gave a little wave, which was parodied at the back of the class. “But I guess you know that, since I don’t look like a Marc.” B’dum chh.

  Nothing. I tried again.

  “I, um, I just moved here. From…Yorkshire.” Well, I did move here from Yorkshire. When I was two. “I’m taking Art and English and Drama.” In which I already have A levels, so this should be a cinch. “I, er, hope we all get on…”

  Okay, that was the worst introduction speech ever. I looked up at the ceiling as Marc straightened.

  “I’m Marc,” he said, and there was a very slight hint of an American accent there. “I used to come here, for, like, a year, then I moved. I got thrown out of my old school for setting someone on fire. My parents are divorced, I live with my mom in Green Roding and I’m doing the same subjects as her.”

  He jerked his thumb at me, then, without making eye contact with anyone, sloped back off to the back of the class, leaving me there on my own, feeling completely uncool.

  Green Roding, I thought, to try and distract myself as I went back to my seat. I knew whereabouts Leaden Roding and Margaret Roding were. I guessed Green Roding was nearby.

  The bell rang, and I had to try and remember what lesson I had first period.

  Marc was gathering his bag and moving towards the door. I caught up with him, wincing as my own record bag (thankfully, apparently still cool) bashed into my bruised thigh. I took it off and swung it to my other side, accidentally catching him.

  “Oh, sorry.” I tried a smile, which he didn’t return. He was moody behind his black hair and long eyelashes, with a pretty mouth and cheekbones almost as good as Luke’s.

  Almost. Not quite.

  “Hey, erm, do we have a lesson now? You know, doing the same subjects. How weird is that?!”

  He shrugged. “English.”

  “We have English now? Great.” No, not great, what was I talking about? “Where is it? I, er, lost my map.”

  He looked at me like I’d just announced I liked Elton John (which I do, but would never admit to a seventeen-year-old).

  “E Block,” he said, and walked out.

  I made a face and started following.

  E Block was up a flight of outdoor steps—they sure made you get your exercise at Longford—and was a single story, depressed-looking building of grey cement with aluminium-framed windows. I followed Marc in and made a right. He went into a classroom and slouched at a table on the far side of the room. I decided that to sit beside him would be pushing my luck, so I took a seat at the next table.

  The room quickly filled up and I found myself on what was plainly the loser table—all the people no one else wanted to sit with. Girls flocked to Marc’s table, and loads of boys came up to say hi. No one seemed to know anything about his father being found dead yesterday. I wondered if Marc even knew.

  The teacher, a bored, frazzled-looking woman who probably had kids my age, came in and asked the class to get out their copies of Tess of the d’Urbervilles. Eek. No one had told me what we were supposed to be reading.

  I put my hand up.

  “Yes?” Ms. Williams asked wearily. “Who are you?”

  “Sophie Green. I’m new—”

  “And you don’t have a book.” She sighed. “This is what set lists are for. Okay. Go next door and see if they have one. And be quick.”

  I got up, aware everyone was watching me, and went and knocked on the door next to my classroom. It was full of first years, looking mildly terrified as they were interrogated by someone who was clearly the head of department. Big, grey-haired, a hard expression on his face.

  I was less scared. I’ve done all t
his, I told myself, I’m a hell of a lot better than them.

  “I need a copy of Tess,” I said. “Ms. Williams said you might have one.”

  I was looked up and down briskly. To him I was just another student.

  “You might ask more politely.”

  I put on a big fake smile. I wasn’t making any friends here. “Please may I have a copy of Tess of the d’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy?”

  “Where’s your own?”

  “I don’t have one. It’s my first day.”

  “Well, I don’t have any either.”

  I gave another fake smile. “Thank you,” I said, and walked out, leaving the door open.

  When I went back in it was clear the class had overheard it all. I glanced at Ms. Williams. “He didn’t have any,” I said.

  “Well, you’ll have to do without. I presume this means you won’t have read it over the summer?”

  I paused. I did this for GCSE. “I’ve read it,” I said. “I did it at my old school.”

  “Then you’ll be able to tell me one of the main themes of the book.”

  I was back in my seat now, and everyone was looking at me.

  “Guilt,” I said easily. “Self pity. Martyrdom.”

  She looked surprised. “Martyrdom?”

  Well, in for a penny and all that. “Tess is a born martyr. She does everything for other people, but she does it so they know how much she’s suffering. She even gives herself up at the end. She pushes Angel away from her—”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Well,” I said, settling back in my seat, “he tells her his secret and she confesses hers is just the same, and then she sits there and feeds him everything he needs to leave her. All this ‘Am I too wicked?’ stuff. She gave him an easy way out and he took it.”

  “Typical bloke,” said one of the girls from my form group, and the class sniggered.

  “You don’t think Tess got the short straw?” Ms. Williams asked me.

  “No. Well—maybe. She got some tough choices. But she made herself what she was—she made herself a victim. Hardy has all this sympathy for her and it drove me mad. She should have stood up for herself.”

  I was amazed to see a couple of people nodding. How cool was this?