In my old secondary school there was a girl an orphan. She lived with her gran, a very old and devout lady. Every Sunday theyd walk to the parish church past our house, both thin as twigs, wrapped in white kerchiefs. Rumour had it that Gran wouldnt let her watch telly, have sweets, or laugh out loud she was scared the devils would get a hold of her, and she made her splash her face with icy water every morning.
We used to tease the girl. Shed stare at us with those dull, almost adult eyes and mutter, Lord, have mercy on them, they dont know what theyre doing. Nobody befriended her; they thought she was a bit cracked. They called her Poppy, or sometimes Emily.
Back in my childhood, the school canteen food was pretty bland. But on Fridays we got jam scones with tea, or sausage rolls with a bit of cocoa and a tiny chocolate bar. One day, while a bunch of us were ribbing Poppy, someone gave her a shove and she barreled straight into me. I knocked over a tray stacked with cocoa mugs, and the whole chocolatey river spilled all over two senior pupils.
Whoa, they said, trying not to slip.
Run, I whispered, grabbing Poppys hand, and we bolted back to our form room.
It felt like a herd of cows and a troupe of football fans were thundering after us, shouting and hooting. The last two lessons were maths. Behind the glass door two lanky figures loomed. The door would crack open now and then, and two heads would peek in, then disappear with a whisper. I realised what was coming a proper investigation, a hearing, maybe even punishment.
Main thing is to slip out unnoticed, then I know a way up to the attic. We can hide there till dark and make a dash home, I told her.
No, Poppy replied, lets go the proper way, like proper girls. Quiet and neat.
But Poppy, theyll theyll
What? What will they do? Dump yoghurt on our heads? Throw a tantrum? Beat us fiveyearolds?
Maybe.
Even if they give us a onceoff slap, it wont be the end of the world. If we dont go, well live in fear every day.
We walked out of the room with the rest of the class, as girls are supposed to, all prim and proper. Two seniors were propped against the wall.
Hey, little ones, lost something? one of them asked, holding my HarryPotterthemed wallet with ten pounds inside (for the pool and art club).
Here you go, he tossed the wallet into my hand, and dont run off again.
I made my way home, swinging my backpack, thinking how sweet life felt now that everything had turned out alright. And how lucky I was to have a new mate.
Should I ring my mum? She could call your gran, get you out of school, and we can watch cartoons at my place. You okay with that? I asked.
Poppy rolled her eyes.
Lets go, grab the custardfilled waffles Gran baked today, she said.
We stayed friends for years, until life eventually pulled us onto different continents. I still remember that one moment.
Jumping off the high dive into the blue pool was terrifying but only once. Trying something new scares you, too. What if they call you a fool? Just once, maybe. And then you keep telling yourself its okay every day.
Fear is scary once, or every day. You beat it once, or it lingers over you all the time. The choice is yours.
