Читать книгу Dear Charlie - Natália Gomes - Страница 8

Chapter 3

‘What Would the Community Think?’ (Cat Power, Autumn 1996)

The weekend flew by in a hazy stream of contorted nightmares and news headlines. My mum remained in her room for most of it. Occasionally I could hear her cries seeping in through the thin walls. My dad paced in front of the door trying to gather the strength to walk outside and face the judging looks and intentionally loud whispers of the patrons of his local pub, The Olde Black Lion. But he never left. His feet pounded the wooden floor, only briefly stopping to glance out the window, but he never walked out the door.

Before the panic could sink in, it was already there – my first day at my new school. Mum felt like it was too soon. She was worried it would come across as disrespectful to the community and those in mourning. What did they want from me? Did they want me to complete Charlie’s life sentence? They couldn’t have him – he was smart enough to concoct his own exit plan – so they’d take the next best thing, his brother. An eye for an eye. His blood runs in my veins too so I must be guilty along with him.

I wanted to leave this house more than anything, but my stomach churned just thinking of setting foot outside the front door. My first day at Knightsbridge Academy had thankfully been kept out of the papers, for my first week anyway. But Pembrook was a small town and in small towns people talk too much. That fact had become glaringly obvious over the past couple of months.

The cereal bowl sat full in front of me, the spoon still clean. I picked it up, scooping out the contents into the rubbish bin and placed it down into the sink, being careful not to wake my dad who snored on the living room sofa. He had slept there since it had happened, although the irreparable distance between them had grown long before the shootings.

I glanced up the stairs briefly – no one to say goodbye to. As I reached for my school bag, my hands trembled and a warm sensation filled my insides. I couldn’t bring this bag today. This was the oversize rucksack that had cradled my body through my Pembrook years. This was a bag with a past, with an emotional baggage tag labelled ‘heavy’. I slid it gently off the bannister and walked with it to the bin. Fabric and contents swaying gently over the lid, I opened the lid and smashed it down deep inside.

Sliding a hand into my trouser pocket, I looped some loose lining fabric around my finger like an infant searching for its comfort blanket, and stepped through the front door. A mix of rain and light mist trickled from the sky leaving a faint glistening on the grass. Snow would fall from that very sky in only a few months. That was Charlie’s favourite time of the year. He loved painting the streets blanketed in soft white. I wondered if his paintings were still in the art room. I bet they were dry by now, but there would be no one to bring them home.

Pushing away memories of the winters past, I hurried down the street to the bus stop on the corner of Windham Drive. I had been told in the orientation letter that bus 09 would go right to the new school. Seventeen miles and 40 minutes later, the bus flew past the tall black gates of Knightsbridge Academy.

‘Excuse me?’ I leaned forward and loudly cleared my throat. ‘This is my stop,’ I called out. No response. I stood up and shuffled to the front, my legs wobbling underneath me as I shifted from side to side. ‘That was my stop,’ I said again, pointing to the school in the rear-view mirror.

As the brakes suddenly slammed on, my body hurtled forwards, hitting a silver pole. The driver turned around to face me. ‘Sorry, didn’t see you sitting way back there…’

When I looked up, I saw him staring at me with wide eyes and a gaping mouth, like I was an animal at the zoo. Interesting, amusing, but unpredictable and therefore dangerous. Does everyone know my face? Do I look like my brother?

Scrambling to my feet, I hurried down the stairs hearing the squeak of my soles on the wet rubber lining. When my shoes touched the slippery concrete, I felt the urge to look back. I couldn’t help it. I needed to know. So I did.

‘My neighbour’s grandson went to Pembrook Academy,’ he said, his eyes suddenly dark. Then he spat on the steps of the bus, shut the doors and drove away, leaving me standing there in my shame and confusion.

By the time I got to Knightsbridge Academy, it was 8.40am. I would need to leave earlier the next day. Maybe if I walked a little further from the house I could take a different bus. I would wear my hood up over my face so the new driver wouldn’t recognise me. Who knows how he would be connected – maybe his daughter’s friend went to Pembrook Academy, or his postman’s nephew taught there. Everyone seemed to be just one more piece of this intricate puzzle, waiting for their turn to be noticed and slotted into the big picture.

When I got to school, the main doors were already locked. I had to use a buzzer to get inside and when I did I had to go through a metal detector like at the airport. Knightsbridge Academy had clearly stepped up its security since June. Or, perhaps it was only installed after they heard of my enrollment here.

A stout secretary with curls on her head and above her upper lip greeted me in the office with a forced smile. ‘Samuel Macmillan?’

‘Yeah,’ I said, gripping the strap on my bag until the fabric pinched my palm.

‘You’re late.’

I nodded, noticing how her voice quivered slightly when she addressed me. Was she scared of me?

Quickly averting her eyes, she handed me a white envelope. ‘School begins promptly at 8.05am but since this is your first day, we’ll give you a pass. Here is your timetable. English has already started so show your late pass to the teacher. Room 212.’

Beyond the office, the building opened up into a large hall with high ceilings. Peach tiled flooring stretched out and disappeared under several closed doors that were interspersed around the hall. The ceiling was comprised of long glass panels angled into a peak, like the steeple of a church. The walls were dotted with framed awards, certificates and the occasional art project. It didn’t look much different to Pembrook Academy.

Seeing a student come out of one of the classroom doors, I hurried towards him. ‘Excuse me, where’s the stairs?’

He opened his mouth to respond then his eyes darted to the white envelope in my hand, and my name written in bold font across it.

‘Find it yourself,’ he said, gently pushing past me.

After several loops around the hall, I finally found the stairwell. Peering into classrooms, the envelope already damp from my sweaty hands, I tiptoed down the hall on the second floor. Each step mimicked the wild pounding of my heartbeat and every room I passed seemed to shift towards me, as if the walls were slowly closing in. By the time I had reached room 212, I had sweated through my T-shirt and my flannel shirt. My breathing was heavy and loud, and alarmingly erratic. I hadn’t realised that I would be this nervous. If I had, I probably wouldn’t have left the house.

Palm slick on the shiny silver doorknob, I opened the door and cautiously stepped over the threshold. Fourteen heads instantly spun around to look at me. I opened my mouth to weakly announce myself, but the teacher stopped me.

‘We’ve been expecting you. Take a seat.’

Locating the last seat in the back row, I plopped down on the wooden chair. My body suddenly drained of energy, the anxiety depleting my reserves, I rested my back against the wood.

The teacher loudly cleared his throat, gaining back the attention of at least half of the class. The rest eventually turned back around after they got bored of waiting for me to do something.

‘As I was saying, due to the recent… incident… we will be working from a new text list for our American Literature unit. Please dispose of your old ones – ’

‘ – Excuse me, Sir? What if we’ve already read the books from the old list?’ called out a mousy brunette from the second row.

‘Loser.’ A few kids from the back rows laughed, and looked at the student they knew had said it.

‘That’s enough, Noel. For those who have already read the texts from the old list, please talk to the headteacher for credit.’

‘What books are off the list?’ asked another student seated near the window. Looking around I saw that all the window blinds were down, shielding those inside. Not even a sliver of daylight snaked in from under the horizontal slats. But judging from people’s expressions, the threat wasn’t lurking outside. It was inside, sitting in the back row. I shifted in my chair and pulled at my shirt collar, feeling the heat from their silent stares.

‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest; The Catcher in the Rye.’ He cleared his throat suddenly, ‘And we won’t be studying Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood,’ he said, not meaning to send a glance my way. But he did. And everyone saw.

‘But those are classics!’ shouted one boy from the middle row, which set off a wave of comments and frustrated outbursts.

‘What are we going to be reading instead? Children’s books?’

‘This is meant to be Advanced English, not nursery school.’

‘Why are we getting punished for something that he did?’ said Noel loudly.

‘He’? Is he talking about me, or Charlie?

The class fell silent, and slowly heads turned over frigid shoulders, looking back at me. My toes squirmed in my shoes and I tucked my chin to my chest, avoiding their piercing eyes, their angry thoughts, their fears. Glancing down at the floor beneath my desk, I wished I were back home in my bedroom, hidden under my covers where no one could find me.

‘If anyone has anything to say, you can talk to Ms Bevins. I don’t make the rules. In the meantime, let’s get back to the current syllabus: Shakespeare.’

After that, English class flew by in a haze of discomfort, as did Physics then Maths. This Noel kid ended up being in most of my classes, and had a comment to say in almost every one. And just when I thought I had peaked, the day got progressively worse. At lunch, a pretty raven-haired girl from the year above walked over to me. I was sitting at a long thin metal folding table, six empty seats to my left and to my right, and this girl chose to sit right beside me. At first, I was confused then surprised, and by the end I was even optimistic. She turned to me, smiled sweetly with her cherry-stained lip-gloss and asked, ‘Are you Sam Macmillan?’

Of course, I was beginning to get excited at this point and probably too quickly nodded my head. Then she said, ‘This is for Pembrook,’ before pouring most of her ice-cold Diet Coke into my lap. She threw the remainder of it, with the paper cup and straw, into my lunch tray, making my food completely inedible. She laughed, then walked away to join Noel and his friends sitting at the table beside me, who high-fived her.

I battled with whether to stand up, let the ice cubes fall from my lap and walk away, or remain seated until after the lunch bell rang. I stayed in my chair – bad choice. By the time the bell rang and everyone rushed by me, my lap was filled with half-eaten sandwiches, more ice-cold drinks and even the odd apple core. I was a human rubbish bin, and that too was how I was beginning to see myself. And despite what Dr Albreck said, it didn’t get much better.

Having only ‘re-immersed’ myself back into the archaic ritualistic behaviours of a teenager for a couple of weeks, I was already aware of my status at this school and the divide that it caused. The student population here seemed to be partitioned into three distinct groupings. For purposes of convenience, I called them Group A, Group B and Group N/A, where the current ranking was as the label states, ‘Non-Applicable’. Unfortunately, Group A had attracted the bigger number – those who hated the sight of me. They had no qualms about conveying this to me, at most times of the day and in most places in the building. The raven-haired drink-wielding girl was certainly a member of this group, seemingly led by Noel. Those who tripped me in the halls passed hate notes to me in class and frequently knocked into me while I walked, were also members of this group.

Group B consisted of primarily girls and highly sensitive theatre-driven boys whose heightened emotional awareness prevented them from looking me in the eye or acknowledging my presence in classes. Often they walked by me with a glistening in their eye and a slight trembling of the bottom lip. That group didn’t bother me, and I was happy to avoid them if that’s what they wanted. It was the third group that fascinated me the most – the non-applicable group. Those were the ones who rimmed their eyes in dark liner, wore various music shirts depicting album logos and who spent their afternoons after school sitting on the steps at the High Street Art Gallery debating which Radiohead song best defines the decline of modern society. They were the ones who occasionally and nonchalantly passed glances my way and who didn’t seem to display any of the typical responses that I had grown accustomed to: anger, hatred, fear, confusion. It was Group N/A that I decided to sit next to at Free Period one day.

At first, no one looked my way as I slid into an empty seat, but when my geometry book slid out of my hands and onto the floor loudly, that’s when they took notice. It was easy to see who the group leader was because many glanced towards one particular boy who sat at the head of the table, his eyes fixed on me. Some flitted between him and me, while others waited for his response to influence theirs. But instead of telling me to leave, he grinned at me and continued his conversation.

‘So, my cousin says he can get us in around 10 tonight.’

‘I don’t know, Dougie. I’m still grounded from last weekend,’ shrugged one of the other boys who I would later find out was nicknamed Worm.

‘So, tell your dad that you’re going to the library to finish a Physics project,’ chimed in a pretty brunette sitting beside Dougie with her arm around the back of his chair. Her eyes were wide and her lashes were so long they skimmed her eyebrows when she glanced up at me occasionally. I didn’t know why but she made my cheeks burn slightly.

‘He’ll never buy that,’ Worm scoffed.

‘Then tell him you’d be happy to finish it at home but that Sam here is your Physics partner,’ she grinned, winking at me.

‘Sam Macmillan!’ he blurted out, as if my name caused him physical pain. ‘My dad would never let him in the house.’ He quickly glanced at me. ‘No offence, I don’t even know you.’

‘Exactly. The library will sound pretty nice to your dad then,’ she laughed.

‘So, it’s settled,’ the group’s leader announced loudly, silencing the others beside him. ‘We’ll meet at Griffins Park at 9.30 and get the bus over.’ He shoved a couple of books into his torn leather backpack and stood up from the table, pushing away the chair. Immediately, everyone else followed. But before they left, he turned to me and in front of everyone, talked directly to me. ‘You coming with us?’

I looked around to see if there was someone else he could be talking to. ‘Me?’

‘Yeah, you. My cousin is a bartender at this music club in the city and there’s a good band playing on Saturday.’

‘I don’t have a fake ID,’ I answered quickly, hoping that would be the end of the conversation.

‘Neither do we.’

Every immediate excuse in my mind induced some elaborate story that would mean talking out loud for a long time to a group of people staring at me. So, to avoid more embarrassment, I just nodded.

‘Good. See you at Griffins Park. We meet at the big slide.’

Their backs turned, I replayed that conversation over and over in my head. But no matter how much I analysed each word exchanged, I couldn’t make sense of what just happened. I opened my mouth to call them back, explain that I couldn’t make it Saturday night. But then I realised – I wanted this. I wanted to go with them. But did they really want me there? Was this my big turning point? Or was I about to find out that I hadn’t actually reached the bottom, and that I could, in fact, fall much deeper into the hole that my brother had dug for me?