Читать книгу Finding Cherokee Brown - Siobhan Curham - Страница 11

‘It never ceases to amaze me how many writers seem to forget that they have five senses. When you are describing a scene don’t just tell the reader what your character is seeing, write about what they can hear, smell, touch and taste as well.’

Agatha Dashwood,

So You Want to Write a Novel?

When most people hear laughter they instantly look around to see where the joke is and whether they can join in. But when you know that you actually are the joke, even the slightest snigger makes you want to crawl behind the nearest rock and hide. Unfortunately there aren’t any rocks on the way to school. There isn’t anything much except house after boring house, all exactly the same with their paved front gardens and green wheelie bins standing guard like giant toads. I’ve tried loads of things to make the walk more interesting and less like a death-row march. Spying through gaps in net curtains, making up weird titles from the letters on car number plates, only treading on the cracks in the pavement. But today, for the first time in months, I didn’t have to do anything to take my mind off the laughter that I knew was coming. My head was rammed to the brim with my mum’s revelation. I was Cherokee Brown, or at least that was what I’d been called when I was first born, and the card was from my real dad whose name, apparently, is Steve Brown.

But why had he got in touch now – after fifteen years of nothing? Why had he come back from America? What had happened to his ‘commitment issues’? Question after question kept popping into my head, but I still didn’t have any answers. Mum had told me we’d have a proper talk about it after school, when Alan took the twins to Beavers, but I wasn’t sure I’d be able to make it through the day without going crazy from the shock. Once upon a time I had been called Cherokee Brown.

‘Oi, hop-a-long!’

I didn’t need to turn round to know that the person shouting at me was David Marsh. And wherever David went, Tricia Donaldson was sure to be swaggering along beside him, pursing her glossy lips and flicking her straw-blonde hair. David and Tricia are the pretend-gangster king and queen of Rayners High, worshipped by their adoring, pretend-gangster followers. I carried on walking and tried to distract myself. What would someone with a name like Cherokee Brown look like, I wondered. She would probably have long dark hair in braids and wear –

‘I’m talking to you,’ David called out. A load of laughter rang out like machine-gun fire; there were obviously quite a lot of them today. I quickened my pace, still not turning round. Cherokee would wear beads and boots and be really good at horse riding. I felt something hit my back and heard more machine-gun laughter. In my mind I saw Cherokee Brown pull an arrow from a leather sheath on her belt and spin round to face them, her eyes glinting with rage. I took off my blazer. The shattered remains of an egg were sliding down the black nylon, slimy and glistening in the sun.

‘Ew, something round here stinks,’ I heard Tricia say from right behind me. ‘Like blocked drains. Or rotten eggs.’

More laughter; this time it was so high-pitched it seemed to drill right into my brain. The sunshine felt like it was getting brighter too, but no matter how hard I blinked I couldn’t stop my eyes from burning.

Someone shoved into me as they all jostled past.

‘Stupid cripple.’

‘Watch out, she might come after you.’

‘Nah, she ain’t got a leg to stand on.’

This last line got the most laughs, even though it’s complete crap. They just can’t seem to get over the fact that one of my legs happens to be a few centimetres shorter than the other. I walk with a limp; big deal. But the thing is, in our school you only need to have one freckle out of place and it’s enough to have you labelled a freak. When Helen was here it was fine. We didn’t really have many other friends but we didn’t need them. No one seemed to notice my limp back then; it was as if our friendship was like some kind of cloak of invisibility. But now it feels as if I walk around with a big spotlight on me all the time, under a banner saying CRIPPLE.

David and Tricia and the others walked off, still laughing. I stuffed my blazer into my bag. I’d clean it when I got into school. I looked down the road to where Rayners High loomed like a concrete monster, waiting to swallow me whole. And I thought of yet another crappy day spent drifting round the edges of the corridors, trying to make myself invisible. Don’t let them beat you, I told myself for about the millionth time. Anne Frank wouldn’t let them beat her. She didn’t even let the Nazis beat her. Not where it counted, in her head. I took a deep breath, pulled myself up straight so my limp wouldn’t be so noticeable, and carried on down the road.

After washing my blazer in the sink in the disabled loo – I didn’t want to run the risk of bumping into Tricia in the normal toilets – I headed straight for my form room. The bell for registration hadn’t gone yet but I like being the first one there; it makes me feel better prepared. When I got to the classroom I peered through the small pane of glass in the centre of the door. Miss Davis was sat behind her desk with her eyes closed and her chubby hands clasped in front of her. White iPod wires snaked down from her ears, over her huge chest and into her lap. I opened the door and stepped inside. As usual the classroom was baking hot and stank of stale sweat and Miss Davis’s floral perfume.

‘I am strong.’

I stopped dead and stared at Miss Davis in shock.

‘I am strong,’ Miss Davis murmured again, her eyes still closed. ‘I am strong as a mighty oak rooted in the ground.’

I stood, frozen in horror. She was obviously repeating something she was listening to on her iPod; something she thought she was listening to in private. I started tiptoeing backwards towards the door but just as I reached it the bell for registration rang, making us both jump. As soon as she saw me standing there Miss Davis ripped her iPod from her ears and flushed bright red.

‘I was just – it was – it’s registration,’ I stammered.

‘How long have you been here?’ Miss Davis asked, her voice all squeaky with embarrassment.

‘Oh, I just got here, just this second. Literally.’ I felt my own face begin to burn and looked down at the floor.

‘OK, well don’t just stand there, go and sit down.’

I hurried over to my desk and took my copy of Anne Frank’s diary from my bag. I had tucked the birthday card to Cherokee Brown inside it before leaving for school. I opened the book and started re-reading the card. I carried on reading it as my classmates began drifting through the door in giggling, chatting groups. For once I didn’t mind that no one wanted to talk and joke with me. I had more important things to think about.

‘OK, quieten down everyone,’ Miss Davis called out above the noise.

As usual, everyone carried on messing about.

‘Please!’ Miss Davis cried. ‘I need some quiet so I can take the register.’

I peered at her over the top of my book and watched as she took hold of the elastic band she always wears around her wrist and pinged it hard against her pale skin.

‘This is your final warning,’ Miss Davis yelled. ‘If you don’t quieten down I’ll have to –’

The whole class, including Miss Davis, fell silent as the door crashed open and Tricia and her best friend Clara sauntered in.

‘So I told him he couldn’t give me a love bite until he had a shave,’ Tricia said to Clara.

Jeremy and Gavin, two computer geeks who sit at the desk in front of me, started to giggle.

‘Got a problem, virginoids?’ Tricia snapped at them.

They immediately went quiet.

As Tricia walked past me, reeking of cigarette smoke, spearmint chewing gum and hairspray, every muscle in my body tensed.

‘OK, class, can we please take the register?’ Miss Davis called.

‘Are you going down the bus station tonight?’ Tricia said to Clara as they sat down at the desk behind me.

‘John Avery,’ Miss Davis called.

‘Here, Miss.’

‘Helen Buckland.’

‘Tony said he’s gonna bring some bubblegum-flavoured vodka,’ Tricia continued.

‘Cool!’ Clara replied.

‘Tricia Donaldson,’ Miss Davis said, looking up from her register.

‘And after that we’re gonna go round Alfie’s Uncle Gary’s house,’ Tricia went on, totally ignoring Miss Davis. ‘He’s just got out of prison and Alfie’s auntie’s throwing him a welcome-home party. She’s even had a new tattoo done for him on her boob. It says “Gaz’s Forever”. It’s well romantic.’

‘Tricia!’ Miss Davis shouted.

‘What?’

‘I’ve been calling your name.’

‘So?’

‘For the register.’

‘So?’

‘So, can you answer me please?’ Miss Davis gave her elastic band another ping and the skin on her wrist flushed red. ‘Tony Dunmore.’

‘Why?’ Tricia asked.

Miss Davis sighed and looked back at her. ‘Why what?’

‘Why do I have to answer you?’

Miss Davis’s face turned as red as her wrist. ‘So that I know you are here. Jenny Edwards?’

‘Yes, Miss,’ Jenny answered, but she, like everyone else in the class apart from me, was looking right at Tricia.

‘So, are you blind as well as fat then, Miss?’ Tricia asked.

Jeremy started laughing again and I wanted to lean over my desk and shake him.

‘James Evans,’ Miss Davis said, looking back at the register. I could see beads of sweat erupting on her face like dewdrops on a tomato. I looked down at the picture of Anne Frank on the cover of my book and wondered what she would have done if she’d been trapped inside this classroom instead of the annexe.

‘I said, are you blind as well as fat, Miss?’ Tricia said.

Miss Davis continued taking the register.

‘Ha, she’s obviously deaf an’ all,’ Tricia snorted.

‘Wow!’ The word burst from my mouth before my brain had time to censor it.

I smelt Tricia leaning in right behind me. ‘What did you just say, cripple?’

I carried on looking at Anne Frank. If she could deal with the Nazis then surely I could deal with Tricia. ‘I said, wow!’

‘What did you say that for?’

I took a deep breath and turned round. In my head I could almost hear Anne Frank yelling, Go on! ‘Because you managed to say a word with four whole syllables.’ Inside my ribcage my heart started freaking.

‘Theresa Smith,’ Miss Davis called in a ridiculously fake cheery voice, as if her class was one big, happy family and she was the greatest teacher ever.

‘What?’ Tricia growled at me. She was so close I could see the clumps of blue mascara at the ends of her eyelashes.

‘You said obviously. Ob – vi – ous – ly. Four syllables. Well done.’ I clenched my hands into tight fists.

‘No talking please, Claire,’ Miss Davis said sharply.

‘What?’ I turned back and stared at her in disbelief. Why was she telling me to be quiet and not Tricia?

‘No talking,’ she repeated.

‘Yeah, shut your mouth, cripple,’ Tricia said, loud enough for the whole class to hear.

Miss Davis looked back down at the register. ‘Claire Weeks.’

I stared at her.

‘Claire Weeks,’ she said again, but she wouldn’t look at me.

‘Here, Miss,’ I eventually replied. But in my head I was yelling, I’m not Claire Weeks, I’m Cherokee Brown, you pathetic coward.