Run, Rebel Page 2
I stride past
the bookies,
the chippy,
the newsagent’s.
Get to our secret place – quicker.
See Tara and David – sooner.
Turn on to streets that
enjoy sky and
green spaces.
Breathe air that
suggests it’s cleaner,
pass houses that promise
better futures and
shops that
promise healthier
hearts and minds,
as the eyes of the
high-rises
fade
into
the
distance.
St Martin’s Church
dominates the skyline.
A thing of beauty
in a place that
has been ‘voted’
Britain’s
worst town.
Unhealthiest town.
Grimmest town.
And – the latest –
most deprived town.
An unfair review
of a town that’s
split in two.
St Martin’s stands
at the divide
between council tenants
and homeowners.
Between the unemployed
and the employed.
A divided town
where prosperity
and poverty
are neighbours.
A postcode lottery
cementing futures.
At St Martin’s
none of that matters.
It’s neutral, it’s beautiful,
it’s safe.
If I stand on the toilet in our house and look out of the bathroom window,
I can see it.
Ruby and I would rush to tiptoe-peek out of the window
when the church bells rang on a Sunday morning.
In religious studies we were told the spiritual weight of a church bell
could drive away ‘evil spirits’ and storms.
Hypnotized by the melodic chimes, we stood transfixed.
Our toes numbing on the cold plastic rim as
we prayed the bells would drive away the tempest
that engulfed our own home.
St Martin’s has many hidden places
concealed by oversized gravestones.
I head towards our secluded corner, screened in
on three sides and camouflaged by a giant oak.
I can hear their voices. I poke my head round.
Tara squeals and jumps up and down.
AmberAmberAmber!
She grabs me and gives me
the biggest squeeze ever.
I’ve missed your beautiful face!
Tara is the only person who calls me beautiful.
I try and believe it.
David holds out his arms.
Sister from another mister,
come here!
He gives me an almighty hug, which makes my
heart do a little flip.
Bro-ther f-rom a-n-oth-er mo-th-er!
I can barely get the words out, David’s embrace is so tight.
He smells of strawberry chewing gum and Lynx.
I take a moment to try and breathe him in
and sink into his shoulder.
Being with these two grounds me
like the giant oak that shields us.
I feel rooted and protected as he
stands in front of me, his hands still on my arms,
grinning, chewing and smelling great.
He looks different. Slightly more tanned,
streaks of blond in his dark hair.
His eyes wider, his lashes longer.
He looks way hotter than I remember him six weeks ago.
Waaaaaay hotter. I didn’t think that was even possible.
Hot,
I say.
Not in my head but out loud.
What?
Tara, staring at me, staring at David
for way too long.
Hmmm?
Nothing.
I’m just hot.
Are you hot?
I’m really hot.
Tara and David talk
excitedly about
their summer holiday.
Their lips
bouncing words
back and forth,
finishing each other’s
sentences.
I barely get a word in.
I bought you something!
Tara starts rummaging in her bag.
She gives me a beautiful box
with pastel flowers painted on all sides.
Her eyes sparkling,
her mouth all smiles
and cherry lipgloss.
I open the box and
give the contents a sniff.
It’s a sage candle.
It’ll help cleanse any negative energy
by balancing out your emotions.
You should light it when you meditate.
David and I share a look.
It’s not to be unkind.
It’s just that this is so
Tara.
I saw that look!
It works, OK! Trust me.
My mum cleanses the energy in our house
with a sage stick every week.
It’s great, honestly. Thank you.
Any-waaay! Tara rolls her eyes.
It really was THE BEST holiday, Amber!
I’m trying my best
to look neutral,
not resentful.
It was a last-minute deal.
My mum just booked it.
David,
trying to act –
a little cooler.
He leans in closer,
his mouth at my ear,
his breath hot
as he pulls me in tighter.
It wasn’t a big deal. Honestly.
His arm round my waist –
it feels glorious.
I try and act cool,
… but I can’t help wonder …
try not to
… is he …
draw attention to
… flirting?
the blood
… no …
rushing to
… never …
my cheeks.
… impossible.
… And then we were like,
ahhh, we’re going on holiday!
Tara unable to act –
cooler.
I do my best
fake smile,
fake happy voice.
Wow, must have been so much fun.
The weather was amazing!
We went DIVING, Amber! DIVING!
It was sooooo cool!
That sounds amazing.
My mouth doing all sorts of lying,
saying the opposite
of what my heart’s feeling.
We missed you.
Wished you were there.
The way he looks at me …
it’s like he’s saying,
I missed you,
I wished you were there.
David moves his arm
up from my waist
to round my neck,
resting his head on my shoulder.
Fake smiles
and fake voices
don’t fool him.
He gives me a wink.
Which makes my stomach
do another flip.
I tell myself I’m imagining it all.
He would never like me,
not like that –
ever.
Here we are,
going on and on.
How was your summer break?
Option 1: Lie.
Option 2: Tell the truth.
Fine. Nothing to report. So boring!
I don’t believe that for a second.
Believe it. It’s true.
Come on, so
mething cool must have happened?
Ummmmmmm, nope, not really.
Something traumatic?
Yes.
Cool?
NO.
Keeping silent about all
the bits that make
you up creates
a lot of noise
in your
head.
Despite these two being my best friends,
I am unable to fully commit to
option 2.
They don’t know
where my mum works.
(Their mums have really good jobs.)
They don’t know my dad
doesn’t work.
(Their dads have really good jobs.)
They don’t know we rely
on benefits.
(Don’t want the label benefit scum.)
They don’t know I rely on
second-hand clothes.
(They have all the latest gear.)
They’ve never been to my house,
although they know where I live.
(They live in the nicer part of town.)
I told them about Ruby,
how we are no longer the sisters we used to be.
(Because that was too painful to keep inside.)
They know about The Man
who lives opposite me.
(Because I was too frightened.)
I don’t tell them about
what goes on in my house.
(Because some things are best kept secret.)
Nothing
is as
lonely
as a
secret.
Caramel skin,
hazel eyes,
thick wavy dark hair.
Correction.
Thick wavy dark hair
with streaks
of blond.
Average height,
athletic build,
great smile.
Correction.
Gorgeous smile.
A swoon-worthy smile.
A smile that has
the power to leave me
in a giddy mess for days.
I’ve liked him
since day one,
Year Seven.
I’d never seen
eyes
hair
eyes
mouth
cheekbones
face
mouth
eyes
cheekbones
eyes
mouth
mouth
mouth
mouth
like his before.
He sat behind me in registration in the corner by the window, and if the sun was shining just right I could catch his reflection in the glass.
Tara says he’s got a quiet confidence. He’s not like other boys. He’s quiet, sensitive, self-assured without the arrogance. When Tara’s
sanitary towel fell out of her bag and all the boys in the class threw it round the room like a frisbee, David snatched it out of Paul’s hand, gave it
back to Tara and told everyone to grow up. That’s when we started hanging out and we’ve been inseparable ever since. I was over the moon when he
joined athletics club. Two evenings a week. Just us. And yet we remain JUST friends. Strictly school friends. Apart from athletics we NEVER hang
out after school. In school, I’m his sister from another mister and he’s my brother from another mother and it
hurts.
Petite and curvy.
Long wavy red hair
down to her lower back.
The brightest, bluest eyes
you will ever see.
Ocean blue.
Walking with Tara
always results in boys
doing double takes,
drowning in her good looks.
Tara is kind, quirky
with a big heart.
It was just the two of us
until David joined.
It’s not quantity,
it’s quality.
That’s what she always says.
Not the number of friends
but the type of friend.
Tara is always coming
out with gems like that.
Tara refers to my anger as
passion.
You just feel things really deeply is all.
She says it with an arm
round my shoulder,
trying to soften the truth.
Her mum is an ‘alternative therapist’
and Tara’s always telling me to meditate.
It’ll help when you feel yourself getting worked up, she says.
Or give up gluten!
Food allergies can make us freak out.
They say three’s a crowd,
but not with us.
Lanky
long-faced
some say
hard-faced.
Dark
small eyes
some say
mean eyes.
Warm
try to be
some say
ice-cold.
Supposed to inspire
the next
generation.
Concrete blocks
and shipping containers
do nothing but
motivate you to
swim away.
Classes so big
they give teachers
breakdowns
because they’ve been
let down.
Just like the kids.
Not many go on to do anything
special.
Some defy the norm, breaking
free.
Giving us all hope we can
soar.
I notice them giggling.
Looking in David’s direction.
Looking at each other whispering.
Accidentally on purpose pushing
into him.
Tara gets knocked into a wall
as cool girl Cora
steps in front
of us.
Love the highlights, David.
Cool girl Cora
runs her fingers
through
David’s
hair.
It’s natural actually. Just happens in the sun,
he stutters.
You’re SO adorable!
she says and struts down the hall,
all perfume and hitched-up
skirt like she’s on a
catwalk.
Tara rubs her arm, trying not
to be bothered by
cool girl Cora.
Such weird energy today, she says.
I knew I should’ve brought my crystals with me.
We head to registration,
the three of us together.
New school year,
new class,
new rules.
We scan the room.
We consider where
best to place ourselves.
These will be our seats
for the rest of the year –
not a decision to be taken lightly.
The cool girls and boys sit at the back.
The loners sit in the corners.
The swots at the front.
That leaves
the middle row.
Our new home
for the rest of the year.
A ball of paper strikes the back
of David’s head.
Oops, sorry!
I just wanted to say hi.
Cool girl Bryony sits leaning over her desk,
all blusher and fake eyelashes.
Looks like everyone’s noticed David’s hotness
has gone up over the summer.
Er, hi.
David’s cheeks flush
with embarrassment.
Did you have a good summer?
Her smile wide,
her eyes fluttering.
Er, yeah.
Bryony, surprised by the abrupt ending
to the conversation,
starts whispering, all flustered, with
the other cool girls.
David starts taking books out of his bag,
cheeks still red.
I look at Tara.
Tara looks at me.
It seems we are both equally troubled
by this exchange.
I nudge David in the ribs.
Ooh, did you have a nice summer?
Ooh, hi, David.
Sorry, just wanted to get your
ATTENTION.
OOH, DAVID, I LURVVVVE YOU.
Oi, shut up!
You better not ditch us for the cool gang.
As if!
Plus, they are so far from cool.
We’re the actual cool ones.
They’re just sheep,
WE are the shepherds!
Yeah, right!
I agree with David and, if you don’t believe it,
just fake it till you make it!
We all hold
our heads a little
higher
our backs a little
straighter
as we march
to our first lesson
of the year.
English class
with Mr Walker.
He talks about truth.
It’s where all good stories come from.
We’ll be focusing on autobiographical writing this term.
Write your truth.
He gives me an extra long
icy stare.
Raising his eyebrows
like he’s expecting me
to disappoint him.
Mr Walker has told me
on more than one occasion
that I lack creative flair.
He had high hopes
for me.
He taught Ruby.
Ruby was his
star pupil.
But
words don’t flow
from my brain
on to the page.
Fear builds
an Everest of walls
in my head.
I look round the class.
No one can know my truth.
A pact made before
I could speak,
silenced before
my first words.
The secrets I keep,
the fears I carry
must remain
behind the closed doors
of the home
they were birthed in.
Once again,
like most people
from estates like mine,
it feels as though I’ve lost
before I’ve even started.
In geography,
permission slips
for field trips
for my parents to sign.
Correction.