Charlie and Me

by Mark Lowery

  “The dolphin, you muppet!” snaps Charlie. “Has she started coming back to the harbor or not?”

  “Maybe,” I say. I ruffle his hair and wink at him as I slip back out into the train car.

  Sand Dune

  A Shape Poem

  My

  brain’s

  a sand dune,

  thoughts like tiny

  jumbled grains of sand

  piled up into a hairy mountain.

  And sometimes the weight of it becomes

  too great so that one of the grains slips and tumbles,

  dislodging others and dragging them downward in a chaotic,

  swirling mini-avalanche that temporarily changes the shape of everything,

  until later, when a gentle gust of wind eases across the dune, filling the holes

  and smoothing out the drifts until the dune is reshaped and peaceful once again.

  By Martin Tompkins

  Age 13

  Stage 4b

  Somewhere Just Past Bristol

  to an Alleyway by the Side

  of a Cheap Hotel in Exeter

  via Exeter St. Davids Station

  Distance–About 80 miles

  plus around 984 feet

  Train and Sprinting

  Kick in the Shins

  I’m feeling pretty pleased with myself as I saunter back down the train. I bet Charlie’s going nuts in the bathroom right now.

  Ever since we left the house this morning, I’ve been waiting for the right moment to let him know about the dolphin. According to Dolphinwatch, it disappeared during the autumn and winter, but then it came and went through the spring and summer. But it’s been back every day for the last few weeks, so the time’s right for us to go. High tide’s at seven this evening. We’ll get in at five-ish, so we should have plenty of time. Of course the ocean’s not an aquarium, but still, I just know the dolphin’s going to be there.

  The happy feeling doesn’t last long. As I slip back into my seat, I realize that Angry Girl is reading my poetry book. She’s folded the page right back, and she’s just reading it like she owns it. I must’ve forgotten to put it in my bag. What an idiot. Without thinking, I snatch it away from her.

  She raises her eyebrows in surprise, then fixes me with this strange look that I can’t quite understand. Her dark lips are pursed, and she’s gazing hard at me. Is she mad at me for taking back my own book? Or is she poking fun at my poems?

  Either way, I decide to ignore her and look out of the window. I don’t feel bad about grabbing the book off her. The poems are mine. No one else is allowed to read them apart from Mr. Hendrix. What made her think she had the right? Immediately the train shoots into a tunnel. The noise and the sudden darkness make me jerk my head away from the glass. Angry Girl smiles, which doesn’t suit her face. Why are some people such idiots?

  There’s a light kick on my shin. I move my leg to the side, but she does it again.

  “You all right?” she asks.

  I shrug.

  “Interesting poems.”

  I don’t answer. Like I care what she thinks?

  “Where you going?” It’s more a challenge than a question.

  Still I say nothing. The pressure from being underground rises in my ears.

  Another kick when we burst into sunshine again. “Come on. Tell me. Where you going all alone?”

  I can’t place her accent. It seems a bit posh. Maybe Devon? And her face and voice are so unreadable that I can’t tell if she’s making fun of me. For the first time, I actually look at her. She’s probably about seventeen, but she’s small and thin so she could easily be three years older or three years younger. She’d be pretty if it wasn’t for the crazy coat and the stupid blue hair and the aggressive eye makeup.

  Okay, so there are quite a few barriers to her being in any way likeable. Not that looking good is all that counts. I mean, a personality is just as important as being beautiful. Unfortunately, it seems like she might be missing one of those as well.

  This time she boots me really hard. “Don’t be rude, answer the question.”

  Rude? I think kicking someone is a bit ruder than ignoring them.

  “St. Bernards,” I say, doing my best not to wince. Hopefully she’ll leave me alone now.

  “Cornwall? Oooh, very nice,” she trills. “Might go there myself.”

  “Oh. Right.” Like I honestly care.

  “Wanna see something?”

  Not really, I think. I’m just about to ask her to go and bother someone else when she loosens her backpack, pulls out a large plastic bottle, and dumps it onto the table with a thud. “Pretty cool, eh?”

  The plastic isn’t see-through, so I can’t tell what’s inside. Grinning smugly, Angry Girl spins the bottle around and points to the label. A few of the words jump out at me.

  PARAFFIN. CAUTION. HIGHLY FLAMMABLE.

  She snaps her fingers, and, as if by magic, a lighter appears in her hand. “Imagine,” she says, licking her lips and slowly turning the flint with her thumb. “One spark from this and KABOOM! No more train.”

  My head is light and I feel like I’m looking down on the train car from a long way up. I don’t like it. Not one little bit.

  Angry Girl slides it proudly back into her bag. She looks delighted to have scared the pants off me. “So you’d better be nice.”

  There’s something really unsettling about the way she says this. It’s almost friendly and almost threatening, and the way she stares at me for a little bit too long afterward. . . .

  What is she? A pyromaniac? A terrorist? Got to get away.

  Grabbing my backpack and making sure I’ve got my poetry book this time, I wobble nervously to my feet and stumble down the aisle. I want to change train cars, but then I realize I’m heading the wrong way. This is the front of the train. There’s nowhere else to go. Just a locked door and a sign telling me not to distract the driver.

  Oh God.

  I turn around. She’s still in her seat. At least she hasn’t chased me yet. But I’m not going past her again. No way. I look around. Think. Think. I could pull the emergency lever, but it says there’s a fine of 250 pounds for improper use. Would this be improper use? I don’t know. But I do know I haven’t got 250 pounds.

  Maybe I’ll tell the conductor when he comes along and only use the brake if she follows me. Good idea. Take it easy. She hasn’t moved yet. I plop into the sideways-facing seats that are near the exit doors. When I sit down, I take several deep breaths and try to keep it together. I’m about ten rows away from her, I think, and if I stand up, I can just about see her. Unfortunately, Charlie is still in the bathroom down at the other end of the train car. I figure out a plan. At the next stop, I’ll get off, sprint along the platform, and get back on again farther down the train. Then I’ll hide in the bathroom with him until we reach Plymouth.

  This plan relaxes me a bit. Eventually I feel brave enough to see what Angry Girl’s up to, so I peer over at her. The way that she’s looking out of the window, all moody again, makes me think she might not be about to follow me. I’m all right for now. As long as I stay calm that is.

  It’s okay, I tell myself. Write a poem. That’ll help. No. Even better, read your old poems. You won’t get carried away then. You can keep one eye on her.

  The notebook automatically falls open on the third or fourth page, which must be where she’d folded it back. It’s one of my first poems from last year, right from when I started poetry club. It’s a pretty weird one about a sand dune. Only it’s not about a sand dune. It’s about my brain. I remember that I didn’t want to show it to Mr. Hendrix at the time. As soon as I’d finished it, I’d slammed the notebook shut. He just said, “No problem. I understand. Sometimes the poems you write reveal something that catches you by surprise.” When I finally allowed him to read it a few weeks ago, he patted me on the back, then flicked ahead to my more recent stuff and said, “Look how far you’ve come.”

  Personally, I didn’t think the sand
dune poem was all that bad. But still, that doesn’t mean I wanted Angry Girl to read it.

  Hairy Mountains

  When we drove around to it, the cottage didn’t disappoint. It was a beautiful log cabin nestled among some pine trees. Inside was even better. An airy, open-plan kitchen and living area, and three bedrooms (even though Charlie said he preferred to share with me). There were leather sofas, a great big television, a sound system with a dock for your iPod or phone, and even an Xbox.

  But that wasn’t the best thing.

  The whole back wall of the living room was made up of these patio doors that kind of folded back on each other. Through them was a wooden balcony with a table and chairs and our very own barbecue.

  “Oh wow!” exclaimed Charlie, leaning over the balcony railings. “Hairy mountains.”

  “They’re sand dunes,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  Topped with spiky, green grass, the dunes stretched in a ragged line across the back of the row of cottages. The balcony was perfectly placed so you could see the ocean framed between two of them.

  “It’s gorgeous,” whispered Mum, joining us on the balcony.

  “You should sing more often, son,” said Dad.

  But Charlie didn’t reply. He was already climbing over the railings. “Race you to the top!” he called to me, leaping off the side of the balcony and landing on the sand three feet below.

  “Careful!” Mum called, but he was off. “Go after him, Martin. Make sure he’s okay!”

  Doing as I was told, I followed him. Charlie was halfway up the dune by the time I got to the bottom, but I soon overtook him, my feet sinking deep into the fine sand. I collapsed at the top, my thighs and lungs burning, but I hardly noticed. I was looking out on the most amazing sight—a huge arc of golden sand curling off for miles in both directions. Hundreds of people were sunbathing, playing on the beach, and surfing or bodyboarding through the huge, white breakers. Over to the left, the harbor and white cottages of St. Bernards poked out from behind a rocky outcrop, tiny and hazy in the distance.

  “Check that out,” I gasped, but when I turned around, Charlie still hadn’t joined me. He was lying on his back halfway up the dune, wheezing and spluttering.

  “You okay?” I said, sliding down on my backside to meet him.

  “In-ha-ler,” he wheezed, clutching his throat and jabbing his thumb toward the cottage. His eyes were round with panic and his face was bright red.

  “Oh nuts!” I exclaimed, and I half ran, half tumbled down the dune to get help.

  Poems and Announcements

  It takes a long time before I convince myself that Angry Girl isn’t going to blow the train up. For a while, she looks out of the window, occasionally flicking her eyes toward me. Then she takes out a book, shoves her backpack up on the shelf above, and starts reading. Amazingly, she even manages to read angrily, flipping the pages over like she’s trying to hurt them. I’m relieved her paraffin is out of reach, and I feel myself starting to relax.

  Soon, the conductor comes along from the back of the train and asks for her ticket. I hear Angry Girl say something that sounds like, “Non capisco inglese.” It could be Spanish or Italian, but it might be total gobbledygook. She’s frowning at the conductor like she’s no idea what he’s talking about. The conductor repeats himself slowly and tries to draw a ticket in the air.

  “Non capisco,” she says again, shaking her head apologetically and sounding out every syllable. “Mi dispiace. Sono una straniera.”

  “I said. Ticket. Now. Or no travel. Understand?” the conductor says.

  He’s beginning to lose patience with her, but she seems not to notice and just nods happily back at him. “Grazie mille, signore.”

  With this, he gives up. As he walks along the carriage toward me, he tells her over his shoulder that she’ll be getting off at the next station. Angry Girl blows him a kiss.

  She’s clearly a total lunatic! And an armed one at that. I should definitely tell the conductor about how she threatened to blow up the train. And how she’s only pretending to be foreign. As I’m handing him my ticket, I say “Excuse me,” but at that moment, his phone rings.

  “Sorry, gotta take this,” he says, giving me back the ticket without looking at it before bustling his way back along the train and chatting into his phone. “Remember. Off next stop,” he says to Angry Girl as he passes, putting his hand over the receiver.

  “Ti amo anche,” Angry Girl calls after him.

  I take a deep breath, put my notebook back in the backpack, and slip it onto the floor for safekeeping. Everything’s okay. She’ll be off soon; then I won’t need to worry.

  An announcement over the speaker suddenly breaks my thoughts. “Ladies and gentlemen, we will shortly be arriving at Exeter St. Davids,” says the crackly voice, which I recognize as the conductor’s. “If there’s a Martin Tompkins from Preston on board, please could you make yourself known to the police at this station?”

  I freeze.

  The police!

  Why do they want me?

  Is it about the orange juice?

  Or has Mum called them?

  Whatever. This is not good.

  As the train slows, Angry Girl strolls along the train car in my direction, backpack over one shoulder. I catch her eye, which feels like a mistake. She must notice the panic on my face because I can tell that she’s realized it was my name that was announced.

  When she passes, she leans in toward me and whispers, “Quick tip: Try not to look so obvious. Don’t let them know who you are.”

  I’m still trying to figure out if she’s actually being kind as the train begins to creep into the station. The platform we’re stopping at is on the other side of the train from my seat. Two police officers, a man and a woman, are standing there, watching the train come in and talking to a guard. There’s a dull, heavy feeling deep in my gut as we inch past them. I ignore Angry Girl’s advice and scramble across the aisle so I can get a better look. Finally we squeak to a stop.

  For ages, the train doors don’t open. Have they stayed locked for a reason? From somewhere down the train, I can hear someone jabbing at the button, then swearing when it doesn’t work. Pressing my face against the window, I can just about get the angle to see back along the platform. Our conductor has stepped off the train and has joined the police officers and the guard. They’re about a hundred feet away, level with the middle of the train.

  The policewoman shows the conductor a piece of paper. He squints at it, rubs his chin, then wags his finger toward our train car. The police officers follow him along the platform. I want to run, but there are a couple of people standing in the aisle.

  Stay calm. Don’t let them know who you are.

  I sit, frozen, trying and failing to look casual. My eyes follow the conductor and the police as they walk along the platform and past my window. Now they’re at the doors right next to me. The conductor takes out a kind of T-shaped key, plugs it into the side of the train, then turns it. There’s a clunk-hiss as all the doors on the train open at once. I can see that the piece of paper in the policewoman’s hand is a photo. A photo of me?

  It’s too late. They know exactly who I am.

  I don’t have time to think. The people trying to get off are shuffling awkwardly to one side of the car so the conductor and the police can squeeze past.

  All except Angry Girl that is.

  “Ciao, bello,” she says, placing her hands on the conductor’s chest.

  “Not again. . . .” he moans.

  “Excuse us, please,” calls the policeman from behind him.

  But Angry Girl refuses to budge. As the conductor tries to shift her out of the way, she turns to me. “Go!” she urges, yanking me out of my seat with her free hand. “Run!”

  In a split second, I’ve made my decision and I’m wriggling out of the seat and back along the train, away from the police and past a couple of people in the aisle and there’s an old guy in front of me putting on his coat but I manage
to shimmy around him while the police are calling behind me but they struggle to get past Angry Girl and I’m in the clear along the aisle and out through the next set of doors, barging off the train past the people trying to get on, and I have a quick pause on the platform to find the exit sign, then I’m up over the footbridge two stairs at a time with my feet slapping the ground and down the other side and someone’s yelling for me to STOP NOW and another guard gives a puzzled glance at me as I run past, but before she can react, I’m out of the station sprinting past a line of taxis, looking over my shoulder but there’s nobody following. I turn left then right and then right again and the next thing I know I’m leaning against a wall down the side of a hotel, retching and spitting and trying to catch my breath.

  It’s only then that I realize I don’t have my backpack. And I don’t have Charlie.

  Lost

  A Chant

  Lost in a strange town

  I sat and cried

  Cause I realized I’d lost you

  And lost something inside

  Repeat again and again

  By Martin Tompkins

  Age 13

  Stage 4c

  The Alley by the Side of a Cheap Hotel in Exeter to the Worst Car in the World

  Distance–30 feet

  Walking

  Pains and Memory Loss

  I don’t know how long I’ve been squatting here, leaning against the wall and rocking backward and forward.

  The only thing I do know is that when I realized I didn’t have Charlie and the backpack I blacked out big-time, maybe the second-worst one ever, and it felt like my brain was spurting out all over the place like lava from a volcano. I must’ve been screaming or something because I remember that someone (an old woman?) came down the alley to see what was up but I waved her away, howling like an animal. In my head, I can just about picture her terrified expression, but when I think about it, her skin peels off, her eyes turn dark red like a zombie’s, and she begins clawing at my face. I know this didn’t happen. I think it’s just my brain going wacko again because it can’t deal with the sudden shock.