One of Us

by Jeannie Waudby

  Raymond trots beside me to the middle of the playing field.

  “Raymond,” I say. “Do you think I’m some kind of criminal now? For pretending to be someone else? What do you think? You’re a police dog. Is that a crime?”

  Raymond looks up at me briefly.

  When he’s finished following scent trails we play fetch. I bring him back before the light goes. A cold flurry of wind skitters leaves along Mr. East’s path and Raymond makes a sudden puppy dash for them.

  “He’s a clever dog,” I say as Mr. East opens the lodge door to let Raymond in.

  “Working dogs always are. Why do you like walking him anyway?” he asks.

  “I just like having someone to talk to.” Someone I can be myself with. He’ll think I’m such a loser.

  But Mr. East nods.

  “No one better than a dog for that,” he says.

  CHAPTER 34

  WHEN I PUSH open the door into Reception, warmth rushes out.

  It’s a moment before I notice the figure sitting on the bench. Greg. He glares back at me, his eyes dark. I keep my hands in my pockets. That way, I won’t be able to put them around him.

  He stands up. “Verity,” he says. “You have to talk to me. You can’t just break up with me, avoid me, then run off with no explanation.”

  I feel something in the middle of my chest lurch down toward my new boots. I stand and stare at Greg, unable to speak. He doesn’t look like he’ll just go away. He stares back at me, a hostile stranger, waiting for me to speak.

  I hear words come out of my mouth. “OK,” I say. “Let’s go in there.” I jerk my head toward the waiting room where I first met Ril.

  It’s empty, and at least in here nobody will hear us. I walk into the room before Greg has time to object. He follows me in, closing the door behind him. I sit down on the couch by the window. After a moment he does too.

  Then he reaches out and takes my hand. I hide the tremor it sends through me. I leave my hand, cold and still, in his warm one.

  “Why, Verity?” he says. “What’s so wrong that we can’t fix it?”

  I glance at his face. “Everything,” I say. “The whole thing. It was a mistake. I’m sorry.” Oh, it wasn’t a mistake. It was the best thing I ever did.

  Greg pulls his hand away angrily. “I don’t believe you,” he says. “How can you, one minute, be so . . . and then so cold?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. Cold. Be cold. “I just don’t feel anything for you anymore. I can’t help it.” I look at the coffee table while I tell this lie. I’m not so good at lying now.

  “Verity,” says Greg. “Look at me.” He tries to lift my face in his hands. But I know I can’t trust myself to look at him. Instead I bury my face in my arms. My head is throbbing.

  “Is it because of me?” His voice is hesitant, not like Greg at all. “I was going to tell you . . .”

  I leap up, and that makes him pause. He wants to tell me how Brer Magnus asked him to watch me. But I don’t want to hear it from him. I take a cold, deep breath and look at a place behind Greg’s eyebrows. “I don’t know how to tell you any other way,” I say. “It’s over. Finished. So could you please just stop . . . could you please just leave me alone? Please.”

  There’s a crash of the plant pot as Greg thumps the table. His eyes burn into mine. I love him so much. But we’ve been in here together for too long. What if Oskar is hiding in the woods across the road, watching me here with Greg through the tall windows, the way he saw me with Jeremiah at the cafe? I move toward the door.

  Greg springs to his feet too, pushing the couch back so that a picture on the wall above it shudders. “This is what you want?”

  I nod.

  “I can’t believe I got you so wrong.” Greg’s voice has a hard edge that I’ve never heard before. “I thought I was a good judge of character.”

  Like me. I trusted Oskar the moment his hand reached down from the platform for mine.

  “Yeah?” I say. “That’s why you think Brer Magnus is so great?”

  A flash of anger passes over Greg’s face. “What would you know?” he says. “You don’t have to agree with everything a person says to respect them.”

  “He’s a bigot,” I say. “He’s an egotistical control freak. He . . .” But I stop, because we’re staring at each other angrily, and I know that all it would take would be the flicker of one tiny muscle to turn the anger into laughter.

  “You’re the one who went to the BSF,” says Greg, in his hostile voice. “None of the rest of us would go if you paid us. Except Jeremiah.”

  I remember Verity Nekton’s militant parents, and I feel myself flush, because that’s where he thinks I come from.

  But then he sits back down on his hands. “Verity,” he says. “Verity. Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Sure.”

  “OK.” He gets up again. “Well. I’ll try and stay out of your way, then.” But still he hesitates.

  I say, “Thank you.” And then I see that he believes me at last.

  CHAPTER 35

  EVERY MORNING I’M the first person into the canteen. That way, I’ve left before the others have even come in and I can work in the Art room before school begins.

  Today the radio is softly playing the piano music that Mr. Williams likes. I look on the windowsill for the plastic bag I keep my chisels and apron in, but instead there’s a cardboard box with Verity written in perfect script on the side. Mr. Williams must have done that.

  I take the apron out of the box and tie my hair back with a knotted scarf. When I’m printing I can switch off the hum of worry. That’s what I think.

  “What did you say?” Mr. Williams has come out of the office.

  “Sorry? Me?”

  He looks around theatrically. “There’s nobody else in here.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Yes, you did,” says Mr. Williams. “I thought you said, ‘I don’t know what to do.’ So I came over to help.”

  “Oh,” I say. “I was wondering how much red to mix into the brown.”

  But I wasn’t. I was worrying aloud. I know I can’t just tell Oskar that I want out. What about Ril and Col? I wonder uneasily. I need somewhere to live and some money first.

  Mr. Williams shrugs. “Carry on,” he says. “See how it goes. That’s nearly finished. You should start planning your next print.”

  It’s hard to concentrate when he’s around. He whistles or sings along to the radio while he works. He’s singing now, in his deep voice, over the drone of the radio news bulletin. Now and again the presenter’s voice breaks through: “Reconciliation Agreement . . . civil liberties . . . Brotherhood fingerprint database . . . As mixed Reconciliation Rally draws near, anti-integration activists gain in opinion polls . . .”

  I wish he would turn it off and just sing, because now I can’t stop thinking about Jeremiah. Is he in a prison cell? Is he alone? What about Verity Nekton’s parents, though? Greg will now always believe them to be my parents. I can never tell him that’s not who I am. Or that I didn’t know about the bugs.

  I roll brown ink over my sunflower woodblock, and after I’ve printed it and washed it with white spirit, I chisel out everything that was brown. Then I get out my sketchbook and draw a row of beach huts with pointed roofs and a ruined castle behind them.

  THE NEXT DAY I go down to the Old City after school and call about the bike ad I saw on the Pelican bulletin board. It’s very cheap. I arrange to meet the owner on the bridge later on. As I pass the Meeting Hall, I see that they’ve started taking the scaffolding down. Of course, they cleaned it for the Reconciliation Rally.

  When I see the bike, I understand why it’s so cheap. But it has new tires and inner tubes, and a rack on the back, and even the lights and brakes work. The Institute is too far from the city to walk, but it shouldn’t take more than an hour on a bike. I fix my bag onto the rack and put the lights on. The hill up to the woods is a lot steeper than it seems on the bus. I pound up, my feet warm bec
ause of the pedaling, my hands frozen to the handlebars. At last I see the Institute roof, circled by a flock of starlings wheeling and swooping above it.

  My cell phone beeps and I can’t help jumping guiltily. I stop to read the text. Oskar wants to meet in Jubilee Park at the gate behind the fish market, at four thirty tomorrow. I don’t want to reply, but if I don’t he might get suspicious. I need to act normally until I’m ready to disappear.

  I key in a quick text:

  See you there.

  The trees trace black veins on to the mauve of the darkening sky, which holds all the colors of my sunflower print around the golden ball of the setting sun.

  It’s not much, having the bike, but it’s the first step to becoming free.

  CHAPTER 36

  THE WHEELS CRUNCH and flick gravel on the road. As I get nearer to the Institute, I see someone walking toward the gate.

  “Verity?” It’s Emanuel.

  I brake and put one foot down.

  “You’ve got a bike,” he says.

  “Yes. Just today.” I’m still out of breath from the hill.

  There’s a silence.

  Then Emanuel says, “Are you all right?”

  He speaks hesitantly, in a soft voice, and I have to turn away for a second.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “Fine.” And I smile at him to prove it. And because he’s so sweet. “What about you?”

  “Good,” he says. “Apart from, you know, Jeremiah. Greg’s missing you.” He hesitates again. “Did you know about Serafina and me?”

  “Not really,” I say. “That’s nice.” And I really mean it.

  But then I start to wonder whether anyone could be watching me talking to Emanuel. Maybe Oskar has a hidden camera trained on the Institute. I don’t want Emanuel to be associated with me. So I put one foot back on the pedal. “Nice to see you,” I say. “Bye!”

  I cycle off before Emanuel even has time to say good-bye. The wind rears up and shakes the poplars beside the drive, pressing a ball of cold air into my chest.

  I put my bike away in the shed behind Mr. East’s lodge. When I get to the canteen I see Serafina and Emanuel sitting at the table by the french doors. Emanuel moves closer to her, and they laugh into each other’s faces. They don’t even notice when Greg puts his tray down in front of them. He looks thin. Maybe because he’s wearing a black shirt.

  I go and get my meal: pizza and salad. I’m really hungry after the cycle. I sit near the carts. I can hear them talking about the rally, which will be held next weekend in the Old City Meeting Hall the day before the Reconciliation Agreement is signed. I’ve never heard Celestina so excited. “All sitting together,” she says. “No special areas for anyone. And hopefully that’s how it will always be.”

  “I don’t know,” says Serafina. “Look what’s happened to Jeremiah. How can we trust people like that? And how can we stay pure if we get all mixed up? That’s what Brer Magnus said anyway.” Her voice falters to a halt.

  I hear the scrape of a chair and feel someone standing behind me. It’s Greg. I don’t mean to, but a small sigh escapes from my chest.

  “Verity?” Greg half-sits on the chair beside me. He doesn’t wait for me to reply. “Meredith sent me some photos,” he says. “Of summer. I didn’t think you’d want me to keep them.” His voice hardens. “So you can have them. Burn them, if you like.”

  He places an envelope on the table and stands up. I don’t know what to say. I look at him, but he’s turned away. His face is closed off, not even frowning. He walks back over to the other table.

  I know I shouldn’t look at the photos now, but I tweezer open the envelope with my finger and thumb to glimpse what’s inside. I see Meredith and Greg and me, walking down to the beach, arm in arm. Meredith’s brown eyes are just like Greg’s. They’re both taller than me. I look happy. Greg is laughing. I can almost smell the pine needles in the heat, and see the wood ants scurrying in the brown needle carpet of the path. Angelina took this photo, skipping backward just in front, because it’s at a crazy angle and it’s slightly blurred. And now it’s completely blurred and I have to get out of here fast.

  I run upstairs to our room and put the photos under my pillow. I don’t look at them until I’m under the duvet, with a flashlight, just in case there’s a hidden camera here. I’m turning into Tina.

  There’s everyone except for Meredith eating the picnic at the beach. There’s Greg with his blackberry pie in one hand and his other arm around my shoulders. Rosanna and me sitting at the table, Rosanna frowning up from her medical journal. I’m in all of them. It’s OK to cry here, hidden and mercifully alone.

  Afterward, I get out of bed and I go down to the kitchen to burn the pictures in the sink. Oskar will never see them now. I go back to bed even though it’s so early and I lie awake with my eyes closed, remembering the pictures in the darkness. My hands smell of smoke.

  I can’t bear another dinner like that.

  Now I can’t sleep. I get up and pad over to the wardrobe. I open the drawer and feel around in the dark. Right at the back I find something soft and old. As I pull it out, sand dusts across my fingers. I get back into bed and curl up under the covers with Greg’s baseball cap under my chin. Nobody will see. It smells of summer.

  HE GAVE ME his cap on my last day there . . .

  He was wearing it, sitting on the bench in the garden. I paused in the open doorway, watching him and listening to the beads on the side of the blind as they ticked lazily against the window.

  Greg looked around, his face lighting. “You’re up early.”

  I went over to sit down beside him, but he pulled me onto his knee instead. His arms were cold from the breeze, in spite of the sun. I brushed little kisses all over his face, to remember every detail, and he laughed at me.

  “Do you mind going to the beach, all of us together?” he said. “Mom wants us to have a picnic.”

  “I don’t mind.” I never expected that we’d have the last day alone.

  Greg pushed a piece of hair out of my eyes. “You sure?”

  “I haven’t been to the beach since Yoremouth,” I said. “When I went with . . .” I stopped, unsure what to say. Greg and I didn’t go to the beach when we went to the Reconciliation youth meeting together.

  Greg waited.

  “With Ril. The social worker? When I went away for the weekend.”

  “I FEEL SICK,” said Angelina. “You’re going too fast, Dad. Are we nearly there yet?”

  “It’ll be nice when we’re there,” Greg said.

  “Hmmph,” said Angelina. But she held on to his hand.

  He left his arm resting along the back of the seat, almost as if he had his arm around me.

  “Where’s your hat, Verity?” said Angelina.

  “I forgot it.”

  “You’ll get sunstroke. Won’t she, Mom?”

  Rosanna glanced around. “Probably not. But it is hot today. Maybe we can sit in the shade.”

  “I’ve got a spare hat,” said Greg. He jammed the old baseball cap on my head, and smiled his half smile.

  “That old thing!” snorted Meredith, pulling it off from behind me.

  I held the cap in my hand. It was the one he’d worn when he’d followed me to the Old City.

  We ate the picnic, and drank plastic cups of sweet tea from Rosanna’s striped flask. Meredith lay on a beach mat with her eyes closed. Gerontius went off for a walk along the beach. Rosanna watched Angelina dig a sandcastle.

  “Verity? Come for a walk?” Greg was standing beside me.

  Rosanna looked up quickly. “That’s a good idea,” she said. “You too, Meredith?”

  But Meredith rolled over onto her stomach. “No, you’re all right,” she said. “Too sleepy.”

  “Come on, then,” said Greg.

  We walked off toward the other end of the beach, crossing the expanse of sand where dogs were allowed to run free. Greg took my hand. I looked at him.

  “I don’t care who sees,” he said crossly. �
��You’re going tomorrow.”

  So we walked along the beach hand in hand, not speaking. Greg dovetailed his fingers between mine. The beach wasn’t long enough.

  We reached the rocks. Greg smiled at me. “Let’s go behind there.”

  “OK.”

  Under the cliff there was a sort of cave, an overhanging rock above and a sandy miniature beach below. Greg sat on a ledge and pulled me down onto his knees.

  “My dad will be hurrying over here to save you,” he said. “So we’d better not waste time.”

  I didn’t mean to, but I heard myself sigh. Greg laughed. He said, “Wait until we get back to Gatesbrooke.”

  “Mmm.” But then I remembered that first I had to tell Greg my true story. And that could be the end of us, before we’d really begun.

  Then we kissed, while the sea sucked away and shushed smoothly up the beach. I put my arms around Greg’s neck, to remember the way his hair felt so downy near the nape, and the shape of his head and his shoulders under my hands. His hands were remembering the shape of me.

  We walked back across the sand.

  “You’re very quiet,” said Greg.

  “You know why,” I said. “Did you like me better the way I was before?”

  “I like you any way.”

  BUT WAS THAT true? Would he still have liked me if he knew who I was?

  Could he still like me now?

  The cap smells of sunshine and summer, but now it’s damp with tears.

  CHAPTER 37

  MY SUNFLOWER WOODCUT is almost finished. I peel back the print with the slicking hiss of ink. This time it’s rusty red, the color of old blood.

  I cut away the last few bits for the final printing tomorrow. Everything I cut will stay red, everything that’s left will be midnight purple. The block is almost all carved away now, in jagged ridges. All that’s left is the darkness.

  In my sketchbook I rough out views of the sea, from behind the beach huts and then in front. Although I’m imagining it in bright sunlight, the sea looks angry and the huts cast dark shadows on to the pebbles. I can work on it tomorrow, maybe put a figure on the beach.