Home.
A single word has so much power.
I practise being Normal. Cross my legs and tilt my head as if I’m listening to someone. Fold my arms and pretend to be having a scintillating conversation. Stand up and walk about at different speeds. I’m going to have to practise lots.
Peering through the slanted window, I long for that shiver of sea on the horizon.
‘Lemonade.’
Mae comes in and puts the tumbler down on an old worn desk. ‘It’s like drinking washing-up liquid so I brought you a jug of water to swill the taste away.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You won’t say that once you’ve tasted it. It’s so good to have you here. Properly. I’m really thrilled, and we are going to have so much fun.’ She runs her hand along the empty bookshelf and loads her fingerprints with dust. ‘It’s going to be fine. Fun,’ she repeats. ‘And there’s plenty of room for your things.’
Talking of fun: ‘How do I use your wi-fi without my phone?’
‘I’m afraid, Wilde, that I find having wi-fi on all the time in my house completely unmanageable. The waves in the air give me a headache. Also, I have no willpower when it comes to online shopping, so, for the most part, I manage without.’
I search for an answer and come up with nothing. Taking a sip of lemonade to be polite, I have to suck my cheeks to hold the disgust in.
‘I’ll introduce you to the animals tomorrow.’ Mae is notorious for letting any waif and stray into her house. ‘Of course, you know Mrs Danvers, because I brought her on holiday with me.’
‘Yes, she’s adorable.’ The lie ricochets, whizzes past my ear, then bounces off the wall to clip the back of my head.
‘Isn’t she?’ Mae pats a space for me to sit, smoothing the choppy waves of duvet. ‘Let’s meditate.’
Let’s not, I think, but I sit and let her close her eyes. I want to show I’m grateful to her. The Witch Point uniform sits on the chair like it already has a person inside it. I wish it would walk away. The jitter of first day nerves jolts through me and I bite one of my nails too low. I’ve been to lots of schools. Why am I still so scared?
Outside the window, the day burns itself out. A fox slips through the bushes at the end of the garden, bushy tail quivering. The day pinks into lavender, stars button the sky, a chitter rises from the brittle parched grasses. The sea lines the edge of the distance and pulls at me. Soon everything is shadows and I am full of ache.
Mae gets up and flicks on the light. ‘Now. Isn’t that better?’
‘Yes, much.’ This time, the lie gnaws the inside of my cheek, as vicious as Mae’s lemonade.
‘Will you be OK up here?’
I nod.
She blows a kiss and leaves the door ajar.
Wrestling my daps off, I wriggle my swollen toes. I could try to make the most of it here. It’s not long till the holidays and surely Mae won’t mind if I don’t go to school? I can tell her I’m too traumatised, or simply be honest. Some people don’t make friends easily because they are too shy. Some people are weird and mess everything up. Some people have to cause trouble and leave even if they aren’t troublemakers at all and doing it terrifies them.
The ceiling of my room is v-shaped, so I duck into the corners to check for spiders. I feel better when I find some. I like to watch them knit their webs and dangle on the draughts. Not that there is any draught. The skylight is open to the stars. Not a breath of air for anyone in Witch Point.
Emptying my possessions from my case I place them on the shelf. One of the raven’s legs is broken and its silver is so tarnished it looks more like gold. When I have enough money, I’m going to get its leg soldered. For now, I put it back in its box to sleep.
The sticks of rock ooze inside the cellophane, but they remind me of the yellow flat where I live with Dad, so I open one and bite off the end to combat the taste of bitter lemons.
My Shakespeare book is heavy and takes up lots of space in my case, which is why I can never pack many clothes when I run. I lift it up and brush the travel fluff from the cover. I take the seagull skull out and delicately kiss it. I flick through my travel plans to make sure they are undamaged. One day I’m going to set off around the world and never come back. The photo of my mum goes next to the bed. She looks happy there caught in a rectangle of waterfall and river.
Claiming the room with my things makes it feel better. Music swans its way up the stairs. I’ve heard it before. It’s called ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ and the singer is a crooner called Frank somebody or other. I lie back on the bed and let the song filter through my body. I wish I had my phone so I could listen to something good instead. I concentrate on choosing where I’m going to live when I have my own life. Venezuela, near Angel Falls? Canada, somewhere with bears? Norway, so I can see the Northern Lights? For now, I’m here, like it or not.
Another chapter starts. Will it be a good one?
The question keeps me from falling asleep. Until it doesn’t.
2
School. The first day. Is there anything more awful in the whole wide world? Even though I’ve had plenty of practice at starting new schools, I never get used to it. If anything, it gets worse.
My legs wobble as I walk across the yard, concentrating on not tripping over.
Everyone else has friends already. They all walk about in pairs, threes, or gangs, hollering out to each other and guffawing with laughter. A girl lassoes her bag over her head with jubilant whoops, until the strap snaps. It thwacks a boy in the chest. A shove flares into a fight and spectators break the four-minute mile to get a ringside view. Two teachers appear from nowhere, trying to retain an air of authority as they leg it into the fray.
I follow the lines from Macbeth painted on the tarmac, which point the way to the reception.
When shall we three meet again,
In thunder, lightning, or in rain?
My mum was in lots of Shakespeare plays with Mae. That’s how she met my dad. It’s a long story, which comes out at special occasions.
When the hurlyburly’s done,
When the battle’s lost and won
That will be ere the set of sun.
All the other schools I’ve been to have hands pointing the way, or yellow footprints. I’m sure they’ve chosen these words instead because Witch Point has a history of witchcraft and I really wish they hadn’t, but the Shakespeare is a good sign all the same.
Where the place?
Upon the heath.
I find reception and wait for someone to notice me while trying my best to disappear. A man with huge teeth slides back the thumb-printed glass and grins out at me. His teeth are coffee-coloured and he has breath to match.
‘There to meet with Macbeth!’ He waits for me to join in. I know the line but I just squirm.
‘Oh, don’t you know the great play? We are very big on drama at this school. Macbeth is a play by Shakespeare. We have lots of copies in the library.’
I smile. Part of me wants to tell him that at one of my schools I made a replica of the Globe Theatre using matchsticks and slid it across the frozen Thames (made from kitchen foil) to see how they had managed it, but I figure most girls my age wouldn’t have done that kind of thing, and I’m on a mission to blend in.