The Bone Dragon (15 page)

And then the Dragon is in front of me and saying,
No. This is not for us
.

And I want to say ‘But’ and invoke the names of Amy and Paul’s family like a spell, but the Dragon breathes warm, moist smoke in my face and I turn away, creeping along, bent over, until I can’t stand the pain the position calls up in my ribs. And then I am running. Running, running, running. Trading hurt for hurt as the air and ice bite sharp and bitter in my chest as if I’m breathing fir needles. I stumble to a halt, bent over the stile to the canal path, and gasp as pain blinds my thoughts.

The Dragon settles on the back of my hand, splayed shaking over the top of the fence post.

Ms Winters is studying me, waiting to see if I’ll decide to fill the silence if she doesn’t speak. I’m not biting today, so I just study her back. But I’ve got no clue what she’s thinking. I don’t recognise the expression on her face at all and wonder what to make of that. Is it a good or a bad thing, this look that I’ve not seen before?

Then Ms Winters’s expression shifts: she’s come to some sort of decision and, sure enough, a moment later she says, ‘You seem happier today, Evie.’

I take a minute to answer, not quite sure what to make of this statement: not sure what sort of response she’s looking for. ‘My ribs don’t hurt all the time and I get to sleep every night,’ I offer. ‘Proper, deep sleep, not just little catnaps where I wake up every time I move. Before, I had maybe one day a month when I really slept, rather than just dozed all night. And now I
sleep
,’ I say, drawing the word out reverently, ‘and it’s
lovely
. Why wouldn’t I be happy?’

‘And school?’ Ms Winters asks, and I still can’t tell if the questions are as simple as they seem or if they’re leading somewhere.

‘It’s good,’ I say cautiously. ‘I’m getting back into things. I mean, I’m still sitting and watching during PE, working on that stinking pencil case,’ I say, wrinkling my nose as I think about the number of times I’ve let my concentration wander for a moment and ended up clumsily sticking the blunt needle under a nail. ‘Lynne’s always running by sticking her tongue out at me.’

‘Does it upset you that she’s jealous?’

‘No.’

Ms Winters sighs. She thinks I’m being difficult and maybe I am, but I wish she’d just come clean with what this is all about.

‘What I
meant
,’ Ms Winters continues, ‘was that it might bother you that Lynne is thinking about not wanting to do sports and being jealous that you aren’t, rather than thinking about the fact that you can’t . . . and why you can’t.’

‘Lynne thinks I broke my ribs in a car crash. Everyone at school thinks that, apart from you and Mrs Henderson, and she only knows because my stupid social worker insisted that my headmistress needed to be told,’ I say, a hint of irritation creeping into my tone.

Not all of it is directed towards the stupid social worker: Ms Winters knows exactly what everyone else at school thinks, so why would she expect me to hold what Lynne doesn’t know against her?

‘Perhaps we should talk about whether you should confide a little in your friends,’ Ms Winters says then, and my heart sinks. ‘You’ve been best friends with Phee and Lynne for almost four years now.’

‘And that means I shouldn’t have any secrets from them?’

‘It’s not so much that you
shouldn’t
have secrets, Evie, but perhaps you shouldn’t let your close friends believe a lie.’

I roll my eyes, slouching down into my chair. ‘So what if it’s a lie? They don’t need to know the truth. It’s nothing to do with them. The only thing it’ll do is make everything awkward. They’ll be all sorry for me. Even more than they already are. They’ll look at me and all they’ll see is . . .’ I shut my eyes, trying to close out the images that flood across my mind. ‘The first thing they’ll think of every time they see me is all the things I don’t want them to.’

‘I know it might feel that way, Evie, but . . .’

‘What do you think of first when you think of me?’ I snap.

Ms Winters’s face goes blank. ‘That’s different, Evie,’ she says, but I can see that the calm, even tone takes effort. ‘Especially at the moment, when part of what I’m doing here, out of school, is talking with you about your problems. But it’s not always the first thing I think of, you know. Sometimes I think about how nice it is to have a pupil who really loves books the way that I do: sometimes I think about how much I’m looking forward to sharing my favourite books with you, especially the ones you haven’t read before. It almost makes me feel like I’m reading them for the first time all over again.’

I turn my gaze to the window. A robin darts into the pyracantha, tearing away a stem of berries, then flutters off again. ‘Does it really count as a lie when you have to tell people something to explain things but you can’t tell the truth?’

‘Who says you can’t tell the truth?’ Ms Winters asks. My face must have done something peculiar then, because she hurries on, ‘I’m not trying to criticise you, Evie, or call you a liar. I’m just suggesting that you might want to think about telling your closest friends about some of your problems.’

‘It’ll end up all over school.’

Ms Winters frowns. ‘Do you really think Lynne and Phee are so untrustworthy?’

I shake my head, wondering why Ms Winters is being so thick today. ‘They’re fine. They’re just
normal
. They tell people things. Even secrets. They tell one person and then that person tells one person . . . And how could I blame them? No one wants to hear this stuff. They’ll be upset.’

‘You don’t think it’ll be enough that Phee and Lynne can talk to each other?’

‘They’re
normal
,’ I say again, and can’t stop it coming out sharp and impatient.

‘What does that mean to you, Evie?’

I roll my eyes and slump lower in the armchair. Surely this is the sort of thing she should be explaining to me, not vice versa.

Today, Ms Winters is the one who fidgets. I outwait her. After a while she sighs, uncrosses her legs, then crosses them the other way. Finally, she sighs again and says, ‘Let’s go back to what we were talking about earlier. The fact that you’re sleeping better, feeling happier, not being in pain. It’s natural that you’ve been focused on those things, but since that’s all in hand I think it would be good to start talking about what your goals are now.’

I frown, still stuck on why she’s so keen on my blabbing my secrets all over the place.

‘OK,’ Ms Winters says, ‘I can see that that’s a pretty broad subject. How about we start by exploring what your general goals are? What do you want to accomplish? Do you have any plans for things you want to do?’

‘At school, you mean?’ I venture.

Ms Winters shrugs. ‘At school, at home . . . Do you . . . want to get picked for a sports team? Or get a part in the school play? Or get invited to a particular party?’

I squirm around so that I can tuck my feet up underneath me. ‘I want to catch up with everything that I’ve missed,’ I say.

‘Well, I think we’re pretty much there on the schoolwork side. How about everything else?’

I tug a strand of hair loose from my ponytail and start twisting it around my finger, round and around. I’m trying to get out of the habit of chewing the ends when I’m thinking, but this alternative just isn’t as effective.

‘It’s OK, I guess. Sometimes they still talk about things I’ve missed, but not so much now. And I’m not really missing anything important any more. Jenny is having her birthday party at the pool, but I should be able to go in the water by then so . . . And there’s the D of E thing, but it’s not such a big deal any more. I think Lynne’s going to give it up soon anyway.’

‘And how about the things you’re looking forward to after Jenny’s party?’

‘I don’t know,’ I have to admit, somewhat surprised at the realisation. ‘I don’t really know now that my ribs don’t hurt and I can sleep without it being awful. I guess I’m just getting used to it all being different.’

‘Well, it’s not unreasonable that you need some time to adjust, Evie. Those were pretty big challenges – pretty all-consuming – and now those things are resolved, it’s natural for you to feel a little unsettled: a little unsure what to focus on next. But we all need goals: things to aim for and work on. Maybe it’s time to start figuring out what those might be.’

A wisp of thought crosses my mind but by the time I try to grasp it, it dances out of reach. It feels important and I know I am frowning as I try to catch hold of it. It’s something to do with the Dragon. And lightness: a feeling of lightness. Of expansiveness. As if there were something made up of broken glass somewhere inside me that’s been taken away with the broken bit of my rib.

I give up twisting the strand of hair and bite down on the ends instead.

‘You don’t have to figure it out right away, Evie,’ Ms Winters says when I remain silent. ‘But perhaps that would be good homework for the next few weeks: to have a think about what good things you want to accomplish now that so much bad stuff is out of the way. It doesn’t have to have anything to do with studying, though it can if you like. But even if it’s just saving up for a pair of jeans you really like, I want you to tell me about one new goal by the end of the month: about a goal and what exactly you’re going to do to try to accomplish that goal.’

‘So a goal and a plan,’ I say thoughtfully, not fully paying attention. I am still trying to work out what exactly it is that got taken away, apart from the rib, and whether that bad thing got turned into a good thing when the rib turned into the Dragon, or whether it was the Dragon that took the bad thing away in the first place. I spit my hair out and brush the wet strand away from my cheek. ‘I can do that.’

I have one leg over the window sill when I hear the winch-squeak of the back gate.

‘Shhhhhh!’ someone hisses.

I practically fall back into my room. Biting my lip over the pain exploding in my ribs, I wrench the window all but closed. My hands shake as I coax the curtain rings along the rod. Along, along . . . Somehow, with all that’s happened, I forgot what day it is: every Friday now, Paul and Uncle Ben go off together, late at night.

I crouch below the window, splinting my hand across my ribs as I listen to the scrape of the garden chairs on the flagstones.

‘Look at all this mud,’ Paul says. ‘Next door’s blasted cat’s been on the table again.’

‘Big feet for a cat,’ Uncle Ben says and I freeze.

My shoes may be clean when I climb down on to the table every night, but they’re not when I’m climbing back up to my room
after
an adventure with the Dragon.

‘Disgusting beast,’ Paul says dismissively. ‘Has this huge, bushy tail matted with filth.’

Tomorrow, I tell myself, I will find an old dishcloth from the shed and keep it in my pocket whenever I go out so I can clean away enough mud that there won’t be any more footprints on the table.

‘Maybe this whole thing’s been a waste of time, Ben,’ Paul says, drawing my attention back to their conversation. ‘Amy’s going to be none too happy to find I’ve dipped my trouser cuffs an inch deep in mud again, and where’s it getting us?’

‘The opportunity will present itself eventually,’ Uncle Ben says in a surprisingly bullish tone. ‘But it only needs one of us: no need for you to keep coming along.’

Paul sighs. ‘Not what I’m saying, Ben,’ he replies softly. ‘Just . . . Friday night’s clearly not the night. So what is?’

They’re quiet for a while. ‘Things like this . . . People go for darkness, right?’

‘And it’s not been dark at eleven o’clock at night every blessed time so far?’ Paul says irritably. Then he sighs again. ‘Cloudy nights?’ he suggests.

‘Nights where it doesn’t matter. New moon nights.’

‘Well, they do say the full moon brings out the crazies. Maybe it’s similar with the new moon,’ Paul says and I can hear he’s trying to make peace.

My heart clenches at the thought of another dark moon stolen.
It’s mine!
I want to shout.
It’s
my
dark moon, not yours.

Uncle Ben forces out a huff of laughter. ‘Sounds about right for the two of us.’