Things We Have in Common Page 2

  I was different, though. And I knew why. It was because I had a purpose now, because I had to save Alice. It put a new angle on everything. It’s like the perspective thing we did in art last year: far away = small, close up = big. It’s obvious, I know, till you’ve got to draw it (unless you’re Alice, of course, who could even make rotting fruit look lush). What I’m trying to say with the perspective thing is that I’ve always felt like I’m far away, like I’m the dot in the distance, and that everyone else is close up – big – living. But suddenly that day I didn’t feel like the dot anymore. I felt like I was the one that was close up – the one who knew the score, who could see the big picture – and I walked around the place like Bring it on!

  I didn’t get much of a chance to look for you, other than out of the top corridor windows on the way to History. For one thing, it was raining all morning and I wasn’t so desperate to see you I’d get wet for the privilege, then there was a GCSE Drama meeting at lunch. I’m not really any good at drama. I only took it because I thought it’d be easy. And because I knew Alice would take it. And because I knew none of the Klingons like Katy or Sophie would choose it, meaning I could look at Alice without getting evils off them all the time.

  Anyway, when I walked into the drama studio, Alice was in there on her own, sitting at one end of the semi-circle of chairs, drawing in her sketchbook.

  Normally I’d have sat at the other end, or maybe in the middle somewhere. I’d definitely never have had the guts to sit next to her. But with my new perspective I just strolled over like it was the most normal thing in the world and plonked myself down beside her. ‘Alright?’ I said, like no big deal.

  She said ‘Hi,’ but she was a bit surprised, I think. She closed her book and did that leg-crossing thing where if you cross them away from the person, it means you don’t like them. (She crossed her legs away, if you were wondering, but I wasn’t going to let a little thing like that stop my rocket.)

  ‘That’s good,’ I said, meaning her drawing. I wasn’t just saying it either, although I’d only caught a glimpse, because everything Alice drew was incredible. ‘Can I see?’

  She hesitated and I thought I’d gone too far then. I thought she’d get up and move away – sit over the other side. But she didn’t. She put the book in my hand. In my hand – just like that! And I thought of that saying that Dad used to tell me: If you don’t ask, you don’t get.

  Everyone else at school plasters their sketchbooks with things cut out of magazines, like words and dismembered bits of models and any other stupid stuff they can find to stick on. Alice’s cover was blank, though. Black – just how it was when Miss Trainer handed them out. I loved that. It was like she didn’t need to impress anyone; like she was telling the world that all the good stuff’s on the inside and it’s up to you to find it, like it didn’t matter to her if you did or you didn’t.

  I flicked through with my thumb, catching colours and sketches and words written in fine pencil lines, and the beautiful delicate flowers she’d drawn in the corners with the page number in the centre of each – some in colour, some in pencil, some just in black ink, depending on whatever she had in her hand I suppose. I wanted to stop on every single page of course and stare at it all – at every line – but obviously I couldn’t. Not with her there. I got to the drawing she’d been working on. It was a girl, like a Manga girl, that glared out at me from the paper with gleaming eyes beneath a thick, black fringe. She was standing defiantly, like she should have a sword in her hand or something, though what she was actually holding was an apple.

  Alice’d spent time on it, you could tell. The shading was brilliant – cross-hatched so it got darker and lighter just where she wanted it, like Miss Trainer’s always trying to get me to do instead of smudging with my thumbs. And round 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 voic
es, 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 wasn’t at home, but Mum was. I could hear her in the kitchen going ‘Mmmm’ into the phone and sighing every few seconds and when she didn’t put her head round the door to wave at me like she usually does if she’s on the phone, I knew she was talking to school. I thought the Head was probably giving her the same lecture she’d given me about smoking (as if no one else in the world’s ever been told about the dangers of smoking and it’s her duty, as the lone crusader, to spread the word). Then Mum said, ‘Well, we’ve been trying. We’ve done that.’ There was another long pause, another sigh, louder this time, like she was getting annoyed, then, ‘It isn’t easy, you know.’

  I went into the sitting room and waited for her, watching a magpie stabbing a snail on the driveway with its beak. When she came in, she flopped into the chair, leaning her head back and closing her eyes like she was completely knackered. She’s a mystery shopper, which means she has to push a supermarket trolley round different supermarkets all day, pretending to shop when really she’s spying on people that hand out those tiny bits of cookies or cubes of cheese on toothpicks to make sure they’re doing their job and not playing on their phones. It’s hard work, even though Gary’s always making fun of it, going, ‘And who’s watching you? Who’s making sure you’re doing your job properly?’

  ‘I wasn’t smoking,’ I said.

  She lifted her head and looked at me. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  I wanted to say, You won’t tell Gary, will you? but it didn’t seem like the right moment. I said, ‘What d’you mean?’

  She sighed again and picked up the Pizza Hut takeaway menu that was on the arm of the chair. ‘I’m just too tired,’ she said. She was looking at the menu, but I could tell she wasn’t really looking. She wasn’t reading it. I thought she probably didn’t even know what it was. It was making me hungry, though.

  I said, ‘I didn’t have any lunch.’

  She shot me a look to tell me 1) that she knew that was probably a lie; and 2) that she also knew exactly what I was doing and that, in the circumstances, it wasn’t really acceptable. Then she said, ‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow, OK? I’m not letting it slide, though.’

  I nodded. I said, ‘Don’t tell Gary.’

  She pursed her lips and gave me the look again, but I was pretty sure she wouldn’t. I don’t think she relished the thought of a Gary lecture either.

  I went upstairs then. I didn’t have to tell her to get me the Deep Pan Stuffed Crust Hawaiian with extra Garlic and Herb Dip because that’s my number one favourite thing to eat (along with Cadbury’s Dairy Milk Turkish Delight and sweet ’n salty popcorn). And because Gary wasn’t home, it meant she’d probably order me one that was actually big enough to fill a hole.

  One thing I love about Mum is that she never makes things into massive dramas like most people. She usually just shrugs and sighs or says ‘Ah well’ or ‘Never mind’. I suppose it’s because of losing Dad. Once you’ve been through something like that, it puts things into perspective – things like your teenage daughter possibly smoking a cigarette on a tree stump when she should be fifty metres away listening to someone so old he can only mumble in monotone.

  I typed How to spot a paedophile into Google on my laptop. About a billion sites came up. I took a quiz on one. It showed pictures of people (men mostly) and you had to click Yes for paedophile or No for not a paedophile. I only got half of them right, which technically means there was a 50 per cent chance I was wrong about you. Except I knew I wasn’t. Anyway, I thought, you weren’t just a photo, you were real. You are real, and I deduced therefore that it’s a lot easier to tell a paedophile in the flesh than from a picture. It’s the same with telly or pop stars, isn’t it? They seem super-duper lovely on screen but then you hear they’re really vile and treat the people who work for them like crap. Hanna Latham at school said her friend’s cousin was a runner on this TV show and that there was a really horrible presenter who’d tip packets of mixed nuts all over his desk, then make her pick out the cashews because they were the only ones he liked. Hanna said you’d never know he was like that from watching him, all smiles and jokes and floppy fun-guy hair. I bet if you met him in real life, though, you could tell straight away he was mean.

  This other site said to pay particular attention to the mouth, to look out for the paedo-smile: apparently paedophiles usually have thin lips and are often smiling – especially if you’re a child doing the looking. Obviously, you weren’t smiling when I saw you because you were on your own and too busy, I expect, imagining what you’d do with Alice when you got her.

  The website said to look o
ut for props too, meaning things that would interest kids and make them trust a person, like bikes or scooters or kittens. It didn’t mention dogs, but obviously dogs – especially one as scruffy and cute as yours.

  The one thing all the sites did say was that predators like you are almost always known to their victims. I thought that bit didn’t really fit unless you did know Alice – which is possible, I suppose, but you didn’t look like you knew her. I mean, you weren’t exactly ready to wave at her if she happened to notice you. You were holding your dog’s lead with one hand and the other one was stuffed deep in the pocket of your jeans.

  Mum brought me a tea at 9 o’clock the next morning. She said, ‘You awake, love?’ even though it was obvious I wasn’t, or at least hadn’t been, and sat on the bed. Because I was officially in trouble, I couldn’t tell her to pee off, so I pushed myself up, took the mug from her and had a couple of slurps.

  She believed me about not smoking, but I had to come up with a reason for being on the path. Watching squirrels obviously wasn’t good enough (even though it ending up being the truth) and I couldn’t tell her about you, so I told her I was just feeling a bit down.

  ‘Oh love,’ she said. She leant forward and tucked my hair behind my ear. ‘You’ve not had an easy time of it, have you?’

  I was thinking, stop tucking my hair behind my ear, Mum, but I said it was no big deal and that everything was fine really, I just had my period coming. But the way she was looking at me all sympathetically made it impossible not to think about Dad, which made me get tearful.

  She patted my leg through the duvet. ‘Hey, c’mon,’ she said, ‘let’s go to the shop and get something nice.’

  I reminded her I had to see Dr Bhatt in the afternoon, but she said she was sure he was going to be pleased with me. She didn’t know about the family-size Cadbury’s Dairy Milk Turkish Delight in my bedside table drawer or the other three in my suitcase on top of the wardrobe, or about the packet of chocolate Hobnobs I buy in the corner shop near school every day.