Danny and I were upstairs in Barry’s living room, the telly on, a packet of Scampi Fries ripped open in front of us. I glanced at him curiously. I used to, I told him. I used to all the time.
He frowned. What changed then?
You, I wanted to say, but I pushed the thought away. It were just one of them things I’d do when I were a kid. Stories I’d write and that.
I still think about it now, and I’m older’n you.
Who would you be then?
Danny picked up a Scampi Fry and threw it in the air before catching it in his mouth. I dunno. Someone who fitted somewhere.
Well, at least you don’t have to stick out like a sore thumb at a divvy school like mine.
I stick out everywhere, Neef.
What?
He shook his head, straightening his back against the stiff sofa cushions. Nowt, he said. What’s it like then? Yer posh school?
I shrugged. Posh. Proper old and fancy, and everyone walks about like they’ve got a stick up their arse. Leaning forward, I pressed the pad of my thumb onto the foil of the crisp packet, licked the orange crumbs from my skin. The grounds are nice, mind. There’s some decent plants and that, near the woods at the bottom, you’d like it down there. I found this old bench, half hidden in the bushes, so’s it’s good fer skivin. It’s rotten in parts and I reckon someone would’ve chucked it out if they knew it were there, it don’t fit in with owt else in that place.
You not made any mates then?
Nah. I screwed up my nose, turned my gaze back to the telly. I aren’t bothered, though.
There wasn’t any getting around the fact that I didn’t fit in at Boroughford. Most of the teachers acted like I wasn’t even there, and I couldn’t blame them, I spent all of my time wishing I wasn’t. Mrs. Herrington had been right about it being a different school from what I was used to. Even when I did understand something, I knew better than to say so, knew that there’d be a line of girls waiting to snark a clever comment about the way I talked. And there were so many rules, stupid, stupid rules. Rules for rules’ sake, rules that I still don’t understand, and penalties that came with them. Bloody penalties, they called them. Penalties for not asking if you could sit down, for taking your blazer off without being told. Penalties for dropping t’s and h’s, for wearing the wrong-color tights or not-quite-the-right-length tie. Penalties for rolling your eyes, for looking away, for this, for that, for every time I opened my mouth and every time I didn’t.
Miss Bell never pulled me up on any of those things, though. She was too hell-bent on becoming my savior. I could see it upset her that I wasn’t up for her rescue attempts; holding me back after the morning register to “check in,” or calling on me to join in during English class. The more she did it, the less I gave her. I didn’t want anyone nebbing into my business.
I hadn’t tried to make friends, didn’t see the point in wasting everyone’s time. At break I’d sit at the back of the library, or if it was dry out, I’d go down to my secret bench and scrawl in my notebook. I rarely did any homework, but I always wrote stuff for Miss Bell. Not because I cared what she thought. Just because I liked writing.
I was down there skiving one afternoon when I felt the graze of a pebble bouncing off my neck. There was a movement in the woodland behind me, maybe some pervert coming to get his kicks off all the posh girls in their uniforms. Unlucky for him he’d got stuck with me.
I didn’t stand, didn’t want to give whoever it was the satisfaction of looking like I was bothered. I only jumped to my feet when the predator let out a low growl, making me back away with a gasp. I heard the laugh then, a laugh I knew.
Bloody hell, Danny! I hissed, glancing over my shoulder and clambering over the low fence that marked the end of the school grounds, my skirt catching on the splintered post. He was crouched down in the shrubbery, his shoulders shaking, eyes creased. I reached out, shoved him so that he fell backward. What you playin at, you muppet?
Danny stood, brushing the soil from the back of his legs. Thought I’d come steal you fer a bit. He grinned.
I bit down on the inside of my cheek, tried not to smile. I thought you were some dirty flasher with a thing fer pleated skirts, I told him.
He laughed. Mebbe I am.
Danny took my hand and led me to a clearing a few hundred yards from the fence. I sat with my back against the damp tree trunks, but he tugged me to my feet again. Come on, he said, nodding his chin to the sky. Up there. I’ll race yer.
He didn’t wait for me to argue, scampering up through the branches while I scrabbled behind, following his lead. When he reached halfway he paused, resting in the crook of a tree limb to pull out a baggy from the inside of his sleeve. We’d been pocketing cut-offs of Denz’s stash on the sly for weeks by then. I perched awkwardly on the branch below, scrutinizing the deft flicks of Danny’s fingers as he skinned up. He looked down at me once it was done, spinning it in his fingers, a satisfied smile on his face. I held out my hand but he shook his head, put the jay to his lips. Roller’s rights. He grinned.
How did you find me?
Bus. Then walked. Fer miles, man. This place is rural.
I laughed. They’ve done that on purpose. Makes it too hard fer anyone to escape.
Danny took a few tokes, passed it to me, and I closed my eyes, leaned my head against his calf, easing into the warmth that wrapped itself around us.
You were right about there bein some decent plants down here, he said. Good trees and all.
I stayed quiet, the sound of his voice soothing me.
D’you know, he carried on, trees’ve been on earth fer three hundred and eighty-six million years. Three hundred and eighty-six million. How mad is that?
Mad.
They reckon there might be one hundred thousand species of trees on earth. Reckon they ain’t even found half of em yet.
I nodded, listening, listening.
This tree’s older than us. Older than me nana, probably older than anyone we know. Imagine all the stories it could tell us, all the people it’s seen, the secrets it’s heard. If I could have one superpower, that’d be it. To be able to talk to the trees.
I smiled, looked up at him. Nice to see yer, I whispered.
Nowt better to do, Danny shrugged, but his voice was kind. For a moment we were quiet, listening to the sounds of the woods as we passed the joint back and forth between us.
Did you not bother with school?
I went this mornin, he replied. Meant to be doin a group presentation after lunch with all these divvies in me English class. Teacher says we’ve got to talk about our hero, stand up in front of everyone and talk about it fer fifteen minutes, man.
Sounds shit, I murmured.
Yeah, well…it wouldn’t be so bad, ’cept all they want to talk about is Ryan Giggs and Eric-fuckin-Cantona. No one’s interested in talkin about a hero, a proper hero.
Don’t tell me…you wanted to talk about yer dad, did yer? I snickered cruelly and Danny tensed, inched away ever so slightly.
Course I didn’t want to talk about me dad, fool.
Who then?
I dunno—a geezer who actually did summat decent with his life.
Like who?
Danny took a deep drag, let the smoke filter slowly from his mouth. You ever heard of a fella called George Washington Carver?
The president?
Not the president, you eejit. He were an American agricultural scientist. Started out enslaved, so no one ever thought he’d be able to do owt with his life. Probably thought he were thick as pig-shit. But he weren’t. He were bright, man, Danny said, tapping the side of his temple with his index finger. Bright as they come.
Anyway, when he were a kid the Civil War happened, so all the whites had to get rid of their slaves. He got lucky, this George fella, because the people who had owned him—the slave owners—turned out they had a sliver of conscience after all and they decided to look after him. Raise him good and educate him, and that. He weren’t allowed to go to school, though, bein Black, and so they taught him at home until he got a bit older and things changed and they found this school, miles away, that would take him. He ended up goin to live with another family then, so that he could get his education. Except one day he sees all these white fellas kickin the shit out of a Black guy. They kill him, right there in front of George, and course that messes his head right up and he decides to leave, but still it don’t put him off learnin. He just keeps movin from school to school, doin what he needs to do, until eventually he gets his diploma. Happy days.
He thought he were on a roll then, gets a place at college. But when he turns up and they see what color he is, they send George off on his way. And fer a while he thinks he’s screwed, but then he winds up claimin this bit of land, yeah, and he starts collectin all these plants and flowers and shit. And he’s good at it, lookin after it and ploughin it and gettin the most out of all these crops. He starts growin stuff like rice and corn and fruit trees. But still, he wants an education. And so a few years pass and he gets a loan, to study art and piano, but his teacher sees his talent fer plants, fer botany, and she encourages him, tells him to apply to uni in Iowa, and he’s not sure because he’s been knocked down that many times before but in t’end he gives it a go, sends off his application, and y’know what? He gets in! First Black student they’ve ever had. And after that he’s flyin, right. He’s top of all his classes, he’s gettin people wantin a piece of him from all over.
Then when he finishes uni, he starts teachin at this other place that’s been set up, this institute that’s especially fer Black students, and so by doin that he’s givin all these other kids a chance. And not only that, he’s a mint scientist, the best around, and by this point all the white farmers have ballsed up their farms because fer years they’ve just been plantin cotton, over and over, so the land’s all knackered. But George comes up with all these ways of makin it better, plantin peanuts and that in t’soil to improve it. Crop rotation, they call it. And that means the farmers get another way to make cash, which is good fer everyone, innit? Next thing he knows even the president gets wind of it, starts publicly admirin his work, and then bloody Gandhi’s gettin in touch, all the way from India, and he wants George to help him sort out all their agricultural problems. Mad thing is, no one thought George’d ever amount to owt. But he did. Didn’t matter what they all thought. He did.
My eyes had fallen closed at some point while Danny was speaking, the insides of my chest vibrating at the sound of his voice. How d’you know all that? I asked him sleepily.
Me dad told me.
You’ll amount to a lot of things, Dan, I said, lifting my head toward him.
For a beat he was quiet, but then he looked down at me. I don’t need you to tell me that. He grinned.
Danny started appearing often after that, giving me all the more reason to skip my lessons. I didn’t think anyone would notice, but I’d forgotten about Miss Bell.
She started getting on my case more and more, commenting on how tired I looked, how withdrawn I’d become. And some of the work you’re handing in, Jennifer, she said to me one day. I mean, it’s interesting, certainly. But it’s not really related to the syllabus.
I just thought you’d enjoy readin it. I shrugged.
Miss Bell looked perplexed then, like she didn’t know what to say. I could tell she liked that I shared my words with her, it fed into her savior complex. But it’s true I hadn’t been paying any attention to what we were learning about in class, the assignments being set.
It must be exhausting, she said at last, changing tack. Living above a pub. When I told her it could be a lot worse, she seemed confused, like she couldn’t imagine how.
I can’t remember what lesson I was in when I got the giggles, only that I’d had a smoke in the woods with Danny just before I went in. The teacher sent me out in the end, everyone staring after me like I was unhinged, but still I couldn’t stop. That afternoon when I got home, Chrissy got a phone call. They wanted her to come in, for a meeting. An “intervention,” that’s what Mrs. Herrington called it on the phone—I know because I heard Chrissy repeat it back, her voice thick with mockery. Ooooh, an in-ter-veeeen-tiooooon, is it?
The teachers were concerned about my disinterest in the curriculum, my inability to socialize, Miss Bell explained earnestly while Mrs. Herrington sat back, observing us with a bewildered sort of disdain. We were back in her posh office, my eyes fixed to a point on the fancy rug to stop myself laughing. What a sight we must have looked. Barry like a deer in the headlights, and me and Chrissy, two bored delinquents under the gaze of haughty eyes. I could have told them from the start that this would happen. Didn’t matter how smart I was, how good with words. Someone like me could never do well at a school like that. More fool them for taking the chance.
It’s our duty of care, to flag it up, Miss Bell was saying, a note of unease in her voice now. And there is potential. Really, there is. We would just hate for someone with such talent to fall through the cracks.
Barry nodded along, at least pretending to listen, but Chrissy made a point of looking disinterested, picking at her nails, letting her eyes wander. Every so often the room would fall into silence and the three of us would cast blank sidelong looks at one another, unsure what was expected.
After a while Mrs. Herrington decided to make her presence known, clearing her throat and placing a folder on the desk that had been sitting on her lap. Inside was a stack of A4 pages, all of them filled with my handwriting. I tried to catch Miss Bell’s eye but she wouldn’t look at me. This was a treachery from which there would be no going back.
Generally speaking, Jennifer has failed to stay on top of her work in the majority of subjects, Mrs. Herrington yapped. But in her English class the term started off very positively.
She pulled out the essay I’d written on The Catcher in the Rye, laid it before Chrissy, who swallowed a yawn, crossed and uncrossed her legs.
Jennifer handed in some exceptional work, Miss Bell cut in. She really seemed engaged. But lately the work I’ve been receiving, although interesting and certainly well written, well…it’s completely off-topic.
Barry frowned, confused. What d’you mean by that?
Well, said Miss Bell, shifting uncomfortably, it’s all very creative. Lots of short stories and imaginings. Some interesting poetry. But the themes are concerning. Domestic violence, drug use. Some rather unsavory characters—apart from anything, the work simply isn’t in line with the assignments being set. Now, as much as we admire Jennifer’s writing, there is a syllabus to adhere to—
Right, Chrissy cut in. So what you’re sayin is, she’s got wrong end of t’stick. About the work she’s meant to be doin, is that it?
Not exactly, I—
So she just needs to get her head round what work’s bein set, is that what it is?
Well, perhaps, but it’s more—
Here’s an idea fer yer, then. Chrissy was up on her feet now. Mebbe it’s your job, as a teacher, to make sure she understands better. Whatever it is you’re tryin to teach her. Because it seems to me like we’re payin you a right lot of money fer not a right lot of teachin.
Miss Bell’s eyes widened in surprise and Mrs. Herrington smiled thinly. I’m not sure—
Chrissy left the room before Mrs. Herrington had finished her sentence. I trotted after her, leaving Barry to mumble a stream of half-baked apologies.
Stuck-up cow, Chrissy muttered as she clip-clopped down the wooden staircase in her heels. And that silly bint wi t’glasses, did she get dressed in t’dark?
The school never called them back in again after that. I don’t suppose they really cared about me falling through the cracks. So long as Barry paid the bills on time.