Ten of the Best (7 page)

So it was a sad day, that last Friday, when Mum gave us the only day off school we’d ever had without being at death’s door ourselves. Dad’s train would leave at some time after five in the afternoon, so we went for a last picnic and play in a local park; a desultory affair, as miserable as the solitary monkey in a cage that lived there. We played a game of hide-and-seek – when I wanted never to find my father so he wouldn’t have to go back – and we couldn’t swallow much of the picnic because we were too choked. This smiling-too-hard, bright-eyed dad was leaving us today to go back to the war. This might be the last time we ever played with him.

At the end of it we went back to the house to pick up his suitcase and go with him to the station to see him off As we were walking for the bus the school was coming out; and we were still in Cintra Terrace when Lennie Bamber came running along the opposite pavement. He saw me, crossed the road, and came running through us – without a word, as if he didn’t know me. And as he ran through he thrust something in my hand, didn’t break step, gave me something and went running on: something small and secret that I clutched in my palm before quickly shoving it in my pocket.

‘What’s that you’ve got there?’ my mother asked.

‘Nothing.’

‘That boy gave you something, in your hand.’

I showed her my empty hand.

‘The other one, in your pocket.’

She wasn’t being unpleasant, prying for its own sake, but she was more upset than any of us at what we were doing, saying goodbye to Dad – so she was making something out of nothing just for the sake of it, passing the awkward time. Now she used emotional blackmail.

‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s have a look. Let Dad share it.’

So I couldn’t refuse. I was dying to see what it was myself, but not right then, thank you. I took my hand out of my pocket and opened the palm. It was paper, folded over and over into a sort of cube.

‘That’s a note,’ Mum said.

‘Yeah,’ I said nonchalantly, going to put it back in my pocket.

‘Well, let’s read it! Let Dad check the spellings!’

Her look, on this unhappy day, told me I had a duty to brighten it with whatever sport was going. So I opened the note.

The paper was longer than it was wide, with a rough side and a smooth, three thin sheets joined in a vertical way by lines of perforations. And the message was written in pencil, on the rough side. We all read it together, silently.

Dear Bernard,
it said,
I love you. Do you love me
? That was the first sheet, along the bottom of which ran a line of green print on the shiny side:
NOW PLEASE WASH YOUR HANDS.
This note was on school lavatory paper – the sort we had before tissue.

‘Ooh!’ said Dad.

‘Wow!’ said Mum.

‘Who?’
said Michael.

I stayed silent, eyes bolting, reading on.

Shall we go out together? Shall we go up to the park?

NOW PLEASE WASH YOUR HANDS.

And the finish –
All my love,
with Cupid’s heart pierced by an arrow dripping not blood but kisses, which formed the name of – Clare!

Clare
!

I didn’t hear what people were saying, I was out of it! Clare loved me! The one day I hadn’t gone to school and she’d missed me – and gone into the girls’ lavatories to write me a love letter!

Shooting stars! Exploding bombs! It takes two to
feel
in love, so now I really was in love! Official! I floated to the bus stop, deaf and blind to the others and their questions, this trio of sadness – and my solo joy.

My solo
guilt.
Because at the station just before the train left, the train taking my father back to danger and possible death, saying goodbye for what could be the last time, he hugged us all and kissed us. And he cried, and Mum cried, and Michael cried – and I tried to cry. But I couldn’t. In all their grief I was so happy.

Which was when I first discovered how complicated life can be – a lesson of growing up that some unfortunate kids are born knowing.

So, Clare was my sweetheart for a few weeks – until the Friday that Mum had a letter from Dad saying that the bombing in London had stopped and we could go back. Which we did – a bolt home on the morning train the next day. Living in someone else’s house had been hardest of all on my mother; preserving the peace, sharing the kitchen, keeping tabs on our rations, and she was packed before Friday’s school was over.

So we went – and I never said goodbye to Clare nor ever saw her again.

‘Didn’t you chuck her first?’ a boy asked me recently.

‘No, there wasn’t time. I didn’t know her address to write to, and there were few phones in the houses then.’

‘Well,’ the boy said, ‘that means
officially
you’re still going out with her.’

In that case I’m two-timing, I suppose.

MALORIE BLACKMAN was a database manager and systems programmer before becoming a full-time writer.
Hacker won the W H Smith’s
Mind Boggling Books Award and the Young Telegraph Children’s Book of the Year Award.
Thief
! won the Young Telegraph Children’s Book of the Year Award and
Pig-heart Boy
won an UKRA Award.
A.N.T.I.D.O.T.E.
won the Stockport Children’s Book of the Year Award.
Noughts & Crosses
won the Lancashire Book Award and was declared the outright winner of the 2002 Children’s Book Award. Her books for younger readers include
Whizziwig
, which was made into a popular BBC Television series.

E
mma never warned me. She never said a word. So I found out the hard way that Jessica was a bully. It only took two or three days in my new class to realise it. None of the other girls spoke to her – except Sarah. Even the boys gave her a wide berth. But me? I didn’t know any better. As the new girl in an old class I was desperate to make friends. And I was only too aware that all the other girls had their best friends and their best groups and their best gangs already sorted out. Mid term was not the greatest time to start a new school – to say the least. Emma was given the task of looking after me but I wanted to make friends with everyone. And Emma never warned me.

‘Hi, Jessica,’ I smiled hopefully.

She looked friendly enough. Long, blonde hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. Ice blue eyes and a straight line of a mouth. She wore pink nail varnish too. Okay, so it was chipped and peeling, but she still wore it. That was more than my mum would let me do.

Jessica looked me up and down and didn’t answer. Alarm bells started to sound but they were way off in the distance.

‘Hi, Jessica,’ I tried again, my smile broader this time. Maybe she hadn’t heard me the first time.

‘Malorie isn’t it? What kind of name is that?’

‘I like my name.’ I told her. The scorn in her voice wasn’t quite enough to stifle my response. Almost, but not quite.

‘What school were you at before?’ asked Jessica.

I told her.

Jessica turned to Sarah standing next to her and sneered, ‘Get her! Doesn’t think much of herself, does she?’

What’d I said? I’d answered her question and told her the name of my old school. What was wrong with that? The alarm bells were getting closer, louder. Sarah smiled at her friend before turning to me, her light brown hair fanning out as she whipped her head around, her cat-green eyes glistening with dislike. Jessica turned back to me, her face a mask of deep scorn. The class was only half full of the lunchtime stragglers but they were all silently watching, like a cinema audience who knew that a good bit was coming up.

‘How well can you fight?’ asked Jessica.

I frowned, sure I’d misheard her.

‘How well can you fight?’ Jessica repeated impatiently.

I shrugged. What was I meant to say to that?

‘Hit her, Sarah.’

All the hopes and thoughts and alarm bells in my head stilled at that. It was like I’d stepped out of myself and stepped back to watch what was going to happen next. I turned to Sarah, still wondering what I’d done. She wasn’t going to hit me just because Jessica said so, was she? I’d never done anything to her. She had no reason to hit me.

Sarah drew back her fist, then threw it forward with her whole weight behind it. I tried to jump away but I backed into a desk. Sarah’s fist thumped into my shoulder. If I hadn’t moved, it would’ve been my face.

Dad’s words rang in my ears. ‘Don’t let anyone push you around, Malorie. If someone hits you, hit them back.’

But I didn’t want to. I’d never had a single fight in my previous school. Not one. When I was six, one boy had spat at me and told me to go back to the jungle, but even that didn’t lead to a fight.

And I didn’t want to fight now. But I had no choice. Shocked at what I was suddenly caught in the middle of, I pushed her back. Sarah drew back her fist and this time I had nowhere else to move to. She punched me full in the face. Sparkling lights flashed and danced before my eyes. My ears rang. My heart pounded. My face felt like I’d been picked up and slammed into a wall. That was all it took. Still seeing stars, I flailed around wildly, trying to hit Sarah even though I couldn’t really see her, through the lights still bopping before me. I tried to move around her and away from the desks to give myself more room. Sarah hit me again. A swift punch to my stomach. I doubled over, holding my stomach and rushed at her, head-butting her in the stomach. Blood poured from my nose, splashing down on to the floor in small pools like scarlet raindrops.

Sarah grabbed me by my hair, pulled my head up and hit me again. I sunk down on to the floor, grabbed her leg and bit as hard as I could. Her pained scream wasn’t much but it was better than nothing. My body wasn’t hurting any more for some strange reason. Maybe because all I could think about was hurting Sarah the way she was hurting me. I pulled at Sarah’s legs, toppling her over. Mistake. She kicked out with both legs, one of her feet kicking me in the shoulder.

We both scrambled up. Sarah hit me. And hit me. And hit me.

And all I could think was, ‘Don’t cry…don’t cry…’

‘That’s enough,’ Jessica said at last.

My shirt was sticking to me, not with sweat but with blood from my nose bleed. The only part of me that was hurting were my eyes, which were stinging horribly.

Don’t cry, Malorie. Don’t cry.

‘You’re a useless fighter,’ Jessica said, shaking her head.

And she turned to walk out of the classroom. The others in the class silently parted to let her pass. She didn’t hurry, she strolled without a single backwards glance. And that was worse than Sarah wiping the floor with me. I was nothing. Not worth looking at, not worth rushing for, not worth anything. Jessica left the room at the same unhurried pace. I turned away from her, hating her.

‘Come on,’ said Sarah softly. ‘I’ll help you get cleaned up.’

It took a few moments to realise she was talking to me. Sarah tried to take my arm, but I angrily shrugged her off

Don’t cry, Malorie.

‘I want to help, okay? Come on. I’ll help you wash the blood out of your shirt,’ said Sarah.

She led the way out of the classroom and to the girls’ toilets. No one else came with us. My eyes were still stinging, but that was nothing compared to the rest of my body now. Every part of me hurt. My nose, my cheeks, my stomach, my chest, my shoulder. For some strange reason, my ears were hot. Had she hit me on the side of my head or was I just filled with burning shame at being such a useless fighter that my whole face, including my ears were on fire?

Sarah got some toilet paper and wet it, before rubbing it over the many blood stains in my white shirt. All she did was smear it but I couldn’t trust myself to speak without breaking down so I said nothing.

‘I’m sorry about that,’ Sarah said as she held another piece of toilet paper to my nose to try and stop it from bleeding. ‘Jessica does that to all the new girls. I’m sorry. Every girl in the class has had to fight me at some time or another. She just does it to see how well they can fight. She’s the best fighter in the class and I’m the second best. She just did it to see how good you were. She’ll leave you alone now. I’m so sorry.’

Sarah carried on apologising and rubbing away at my shirt as I tipped my head back, swallowing the blood that gushed down my throat like I was some kind of thirsty vampire. I was proud of myself though. I hadn’t cried. Not one tear. Not one.

‘I’ll get you, Jessica. You just see if I don’t.’ I consoled myself with that one thought, playing it over and over in my head like a spell. And the more I thought it, the more real, the more likely it got. Jessica may’ve been a better fighter than me but I was going to get her if it was the last thing I ever did.

Over the next few months, Sarah and I actually became friends. Not close friends. Not like me and Pauline and Emma and Suzanne, but friends nonetheless. Even Jessica and I had the odd conversation. But only when she spoke to me first. I didn’t avoid her, but I didn’t seek her company either. The fight was over and done with. Yesterday’s news. Or so I thought. I really believed I’d put it all behind me.

But the first day back at school after the Easter holidays taught me differently.

Emma, Suzanne and I were playing French skipping in the playground when Pauline came rushing over to us.

‘Where’ve you guys been? I’ve been looking for you all morning. Guess what?’ Pauline said, her velvet brown eyes sparkling with delight.

‘What?’ asked Emma, annoyed at having our game interrupted.

‘I found out something about Jessica’s family during the holidays,’ said Pauline.

‘What?’

‘It’s a secret about Jessica’s mum and dad,’ Pauline whispered.

French skipping was forgotten. We all huddled together, sensing a secret juicy enough to keep us licking our lips for a week.

‘Come on then,’ I prompted. ‘Let’s hear it.’

And Pauline told us all about Jessica’s mum and dad. And we were shocked, appalled. I’d never in my wildest dreams thought that sort of thing happened outside nasty horror films. It never happened in real life – and certainly not to the parents of a girl in my class.

‘I don’t believe you,’ I told Pauline when she’d finished.

‘I swear it’s true,’ Pauline said indignantly.

‘How did you find out then?’ asked Emma, just as sceptical as the rest of us.

‘Jessica’s mum and my mum are cousins,’ Pauline replied.

‘You never told us that before,’ said Emma.

‘Would you admit to being related to Jessica?’ said Pauline.

And she had us there.

‘Is that really true?’ I asked, still not quite sure whether or not to believe it.

‘Every word,’ said Pauline.

We all stood in silence as we considered exactly what Pauline had just told us. It certainly explained why Jessica was the way she was.

‘Go and get everyone to come over here,’ said Suzanne.

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘’Cause we’ve got something to tell them,’ said Suzanne, her eyes gleaming.

‘The boys too?’ asked Emma.

Suzanne mulled this over for a moment. ‘No, just the girls.’

‘You didn’t get it from me – okay?’ said Pauline.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Suzanne.

Suzanne, Emma, Pauline and I spent the next five minutes desperately trying to round up as many girls in the playground as we could before the bell sounded. We had at least twenty and probably closer to thirty around us by the time Jessica wandered over to find out why such a large crowd was gathering.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked with a frown.

She didn’t stand a chance.

‘We know all about your mum and dad,’ Suzanne said at once. And she shouted out Jessica’s secret at the top of her voice for everyone to hear.

Like I said, Jessica didn’t stand a chance. Her face collapsed like wet newspaper. Tears immediately streamed down her face. Her shoulders sagged, her whole body drooped like a deflated balloon. We all stood watching her with undisguised hatred and satisfaction and as Jessica looked around for a friend, she could tell exactly what we were all thinking. With a sob, she turned and ran.

And that’s what I call getting my own back,’ said Suzanne viciously.

Others in the crowd around us murmured their agreement. Jessica had hurt too many people, too many times to have any friends in the crowd. Even Sarah stood with us.

I stood there, watching Jessica run away, her face buried in her hands, thinking, ‘We shouldn’t have done that. That was so mean. Too wicked.’

But part of me thought, ‘Good! Serves her right. Now she knows what it feels like to be hurt.’

But as I watched her disappear around the corner from us, I realised something. Far, far worse than being bullied was to become a bully myself It was never going to happen. I swore there and then that I’d never, ever do that again.