the edges were hundreds of tiny, wispy lines that were like ghosts of the finished drawing, or expressions of it or something. I don’t know. It was beautiful. It took my breath away. ‘It’s amazing,’ I said.
I didn’t look up, but I saw Alice out the corner of my eye twist her lips and give a little shrug, like maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. ‘Thanks,’ she said. Some of her hair fell forward. It was inches away, pale and gold, like a waterfall or something, even though I know that sounds corny. The point is, it was right there. I could’ve touched it.
That’s all I could think of then: imagining how her hair would feel slipping through my fingers, pooling onto my palms – cool, like water. My chest felt like it had an owl in it trying to beat its way out and I wanted to tell her, suddenly, about Alice’s Box – her box – and how it feels when I hold her things. I wanted to tell her about you as well, and how she should be really scared but at the same time not worry about any of it because I was protecting her and because I wasn’t going to let anything happen.
Robert came in with Max Bailey, though. I didn’t think so at the time, but it was probably lucky, because otherwise I might not’ve just closed Alice’s sketchbook and given it back. I might’ve flung my arms round her.
A couple of days after, when I was watching the path for you from the PE hut after lunch, I saw someone through the trees and hurried down to the fence with my bag. It wasn’t you. It was two women in wellies walking three big dogs.
I kicked the fence. I was annoyed. I knew you were planning to take Alice, so where were you? Why weren’t you there? Then the bell rang and right after that – after I’d turned to go back across the field – I heard a dog bark.
It was high-pitched and quite far off, but it came from a small dog. It’s yours, I thought. It’s your dog. I walked along the fence to the cut-through, did a quick scan of the playing field to see if anyone was looking, then a few steps and I was on the path.
I stood under the canopy of trees and listened. A bird was rustling about in the undergrowth and I could just make out the engine hum of cars on Aldenham Road.
Then I heard the bark again. It came from the other way, towards Finch Lane. I walked as fast as I could, wishing I didn’t have to lump my school bag with me. I can’t run because I get wheezy, which is one of the ‘motivators’ Dr Bhatt wanted to put on my list, as if running is something I’d do all the time if I could because it’s such a fun thing to do. I told him I never even need to run. The only time I probably should is for the bus when I’m late for school, but then I wouldn’t dream of actually doing it, because any time I don’t have to spend at school is a bonus.
The end of the path was ahead of me – an archway of white light. When I got there, I stood in the brightness of Finch Lane squinting up and down it and panting, the insides of my thighs stinging from being rubbed together. (Dr Bhatt doesn’t know about my stinging thighs or he’d add them to the list.)
The lane was empty. There was nothing except a cat dozing on the windowsill of one of the terraced houses on the other side.
I took my inhaler out of my bag and had a few puffs, then stripped off my cardigan, tied it round my waist and starting walking slowly back along the path. I thought about how the dog bark could’ve come from the other direction or a garden somewhere or from any small dog – there are enough of them around. I thought, I haven’t even heard your dog bark. I just really wanted it to be your dog.
I’d never been on the wooded path in the middle of the day before. Once I’d calmed down a bit and got my breath back, it was like being in a fairy tale. The sun was sparkling through the leaves high above me, birds were fluttering about with twigs in their beaks and squirrels kept popping their heads round tree trunks or running across the path. I felt like Snow White as I stepped along, looking all round me and listening to the birdsong. I thought how Snow White would’ve started singing, so I sang a couple of notes, but then I stopped because I didn’t sound anything like a Disney princess. I know I don’t look like one either, but imagining how I look when I can’t see myself is a lot easier than imagining I sound lovely when I can hear I don’t.
Some fat people, like the ones that sing in operas, have amazing voices, don’t they? And they look really smug to be as massive as they are because they can do this special thing they wouldn’t be able to do if they were thin. I don’t have a good voice, though. I’m just fat. So I forgot about the singing and just looked at all the animals running and flying about and the sun spilling through the trees and enjoyed being on my own somewhere so nice.
When I got back to near the cut in the fence, I sat on a tree stump just off the path. I still had more than half an hour before the end of sixth period. I was missing History, which if you’re going to skip class, is a good one because Mr Caplin is so blind he never notices if people are missing. He didn’t notice the bin Robert put halfway between the door and his desk either.
There was only one chocolate Hobnob left in my bag. I ate half of it, then crumbled the rest up and threw the bits on the path. None of the animals came though, even after ages. I thought, they can probably see me sitting here – or maybe they’re all on diet programmes too, only better at them.
It was obviously ‘smokers’ seat’ I was on, because there were cigarette butts everywhere. I picked one out of the grass. It had candy-pink lipstick on it and had been mashed out so fiercely the tobacco was all splayed out like crazy hair. I sniffed it, then dug my fingernails into the filter and pulled it apart to look at the fluffy yellow stuff.
I don’t smoke. I wondered if you did. I thought you probably did because you’re old and most old people smoke, especially old people that are bad. Then a voice said, ‘Unlucky for you, Yasmin.’
It was Mrs Wilcox, the French teacher and probably the one person you don’t want to get caught by. She made me walk the proper way to the Head’s office: down the path to Aldenham Road, then along that to the main entrance. She stood watching me till I was out of sight. Then I suppose she must’ve called the school office because the secretary said, ‘In you go, Yasmin,’ when I got there.
Miss Ward didn’t believe I was looking at squirrels. She gave me the usual spiel about smoking, the usual spiel about skipping class, then sent me home, saying that because I was already on report, I was suspended till Monday.
Whoopidoo, I thought, suspended for a whole day. Actually, it was a day and nearly two hours and I decided I was going to make the most of them. In my head I was already there on my bed with all five pillows (four behind me, one under my knees), a bowl of sweet ’n salty popcorn in my arms and Star Trek: The Next Generation playing on my laptop.
I let the first bus go past, though, because I remembered Gary. He might be there. He’s a plumber, which is a pain in the bum because sometimes he goes home between jobs or finishes early, and if he was there, he’d say, What’re you doing home? straight off without even looking at his watch, and then he’d give me the Spanish Inquisition (whatever that is), then phone school to check my story word for word against theirs. The pull of The Next Generation was too strong, though, even in the face of a possible Gary-encounter, and I got the next bus.
I stared out of the window and thought about how it’d be just my luck if you took Alice while I was suspended, and I sent you a message via telepathy telling you that you couldn’t do it yet. I also told you that even though I was happy I was suspended, it was because of you that I’d got in trouble – that because of you, I’d have to explain myself to Mum and maybe even (please God, no) Gary.
It’s official now, I told you. You owe me.
Gary
