“That’s good.”
She strides in a confident small circle on the pavement.
“It’s not totally fixed yet,” she says. “But it is nearly.”
“That’s fantastic. Did it hurt?”
“Yes. And still does, a bit.” She strides a circle again. She kicks her feet and sways her hips. “But it was worth it.”
“That’s great, Sophie.”
My voice sounds so small, really like a little chick’s.
“Did you have yours?” she says.
“Pardon?”
“Your operation. The destrangification operation. Remember?”
“O. Yes, I remember. No, I haven’t had it yet.”
“Still strange, then?”
“I suppose so.”
She smiles.
“That’s good. You might still come back, though?”
“Pardon?”
“You might come back to school? I often wonder about you.”
I look at the leaves around me. I suddenly feel so stupid up here. I feel so small and so inarticulate. She wonders about me? I haven’t a clue what to say.
“I don’t know,” I mutter. “No, I don’t think so. I think that schools are …”
My voice trails away. I can’t even finish the sentence.
“Even Mrs. Scullery said it might be nice if you came back again,” says Sophie.
“Scullery? You’re joking!”
“No.”
“Huh!”
Someone calls Sophie’s name. I look along the street. Three girls are there, at the far end, sitting on a low garden wall.
“Sophie! Come on!”
“I have to go,” she says. She laughs. “You’re crackers, aren’t you?”
Again I hardly know what to say.
“Am I?” I squeak.
“Yes. But you’re nice. And I’m crackers as well in my way. So are lots of us.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
I bite my lip again. I stare down at her, then I glance at the girls along the street. Can it be true?
“Well,” says Sophie. “Maybe we’re not quite as crackers as you are. But crackers anyway.”
“Sophie!” they call again.
She shrugs and smiles.
“Nothing wrong with being crackers, is there?”
“No,” I squeak.
“If you did come back, I’d help you.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Anyway,” she says. She does a couple of jumps on the pavement. “I just wanted to show you my limplessness!”
She jumps and jumps again.
“Limplessness,” I whisper. “Limp-less-ness!”
“Not bad, eh?” says Sophie.
“No. Not bad. Very good.”
“And I just wanted to say hello. And now goodbye.”
Then she’s gone. I say goodbye after her. I want to jump down and run after her and grab her and tell her she’s nice, too, and that I’m very pleased for her, and that … But I don’t. She goes back to her friends. I close my eyes.
“Stupid Mina!” I squeak to myself.
“She wonders about me,” I squawk softly.
“She says I’m nice,” I whisper.
“Limplessness,” I murmur, and I slowly write two lovely words in my book.
There they are, two brand-new words brought into the world by Sophie Smith and written in my book by me. So maybe she is crackers, too, as she says she is.
She’s gone from the street with her friends.
I write again, so shyly, so timidly.
Sophie’s nice. I wish she had stayed a little longer. I wish I had asked her to stay a little longer. Silly silly Mina!
I think about what Sophie said about Mrs. Scullery and this gets me to thinking about Mrs. Scullery and I write again.
A CONFESSION. OK, maybe Scullery wasn’t quite so horrible and screechy as I made her out to be. And maybe THE HEAD TEACHER wasn’t quite so thick. And maybe they both showed a bit more understanding than I said they did. But when you’re writing stories, sometimes you just have to do these things. You have to EXAGGERATE, otherwise there wouldn’t be any DRAMA. It’s just what writers DO!! OK?
Weird, how I can feel so frail and tiny sometimes, and other times so brave and bold and reckless and free, and … Does everybody feel the same? When people get grown-up, do they always feel grown-up and sensible and sorted out and … And do I want to feel grown-up? Do I want to stop feeling … paradoxical, nonsensical? Do I want to stop being crackers? Do I want to be destrangified? O yes, sometimes I want nothing more – but it only lasts a moment, then oh I want to be the strangest and crackerest of everybody, to be … O stop it, Mina! Sometimes I just think too much and ponder too much and … Stop it, I said!
Then there’s no time to squeak or squawk or wish or wonder anything else because a great big white van pulls into the street and stops outside Mr. Myers’s house. Then the blue car pulls up behind it and the family gets out. The mum has the baby all wrapped up in white in her arms.
“Already?” I whisper.
She looks along the street. She holds the baby close like she wants to protect it from the world. The dad moves close and hugs them both. I hear the baby crying. She carries it inside. I imagine them in there, in the still-half-dilapidated house, the brand-new baby, the ancient neglected place.
Then the doors of the van open and the dad and two burly men start carrying furniture into the house.
The boy stays all alone, glaring at the earth, glaring at the sky. He holds a football under his arm.
“What do you wish?” I whisper to him, and of course there’s no way for him to hear.
The new boy looks nice, I tell myself. Will I be brave enough to tell him that? Does he go to school? Of course he does.
He bounces the ball, once, twice. He kicks it against the garden wall, once, twice. He glares at the street as if he hates it. Then he does follow his family and the furniture inside.
I keep on watching. Then Mum’s below me, smiling up at me.
“I see the newcomers have arrived,” she says.
We look along towards Mr. Myers’s house, which is no longer Mr. Myers’s house.
“And the baby,” I say.
“The baby? Already?”
“Yes.”
“Oh dear. I suppose they hoped to be more prepared. But they come when they come.”
“And the eggs have hatched as well,” I say.
“So it’s the right time. It’s a day of chicks and babies!”
