Darcy Burdock, Book 2 Page 12

  Will laughs. ‘Ha! Not after I got injured in the football game. Apparently I was an embarrassment. She formally uninvited me to her birthday but I didn’t care, I didn’t want to go anyway. I think she only wanted to hang out with me so she could get to know all the older boys that played football. She’s a selfish glory hunter. And yes, before you say it, wretched.’

  I am deeply happy. Sometimes you need to let people find out that others are maggots themselves rather than showing them the way.

  Lunch time is better than great because zillions of people keep coming over to me to tell me how much they enjoyed my story in the magazine and I feel proud and try to pretend I’m not interested or affected but inside I am mostly a fireworks display. Maggie, Gus and Arti pour over me and pat my back and squeal and say they had such great responses and that even the art teacher, who never even acknowledges them, took the time to say how much she enjoyed the ‘hand-written organic feel’ that my story had and that it felt very brave and artistic to publish it and that she can really feel the magazine taking an ‘edgier’ route.

  Then Koala bowls over to me, all frumpy and thumpy with a grin as round as a basketball, and she kept calling me ‘a mad genius’ and offered me more space in the magazine to write creatively and even think about judging a creative writing competition! Me, being a judge? Wow. But then she got more serious and asks to speak to me alone. I nod, parting from Will, and follow her to a corner. I can see Olly on the other side of the canteen, throwing Wotsits into his mouth.

  ‘Oh, great,’ I sigh. ‘There’s Olly.’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to speak to you about . . .’ she sprays at me. ‘I heard you thought I didn’t like your original story! That I thought it was weird . . . well, I do a bit, but I loved it, and when I spoke to you in the corridor that day, you seemed upset and I panicked, I wanted to say it was good – really good. It’s been hard for me to say what I want because . . . I think Olly is a bit jealous of your writing and wanted me to put you down a bit about your hard work but I couldn’t because you’ve worked so hard. The thing is . . .’

  I bite my lip. Where was this going? I watch Olly, who is now watching us. He eats his Wotsits and then overly laughs at something that probably isn’t funny, like he knows we’re talking about him.

  Koala continues, ‘Ol and I have been friends for a long time.’ Ol? Never imagined anybody to be on Ol terms with Olly. ‘And, well, he asked me to be his girlfriend and I said YES!’ Koala beams blissfully.

  GROSS! YUCK! HORRIBLE! OUCH, PAIN AND THUNDER IN MY EYES! NOOOOO-OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! But I have to quickly win the control back over the muscles in my face and I smile and say, ‘Oh, great,’ through gritted teeth, and then I think about stupid Olly and everything he was saying to me about boys and girls not being able to be friends and remember that everybody has a motive and everybody can only relate their own thoughts and opinions to their own life. Nobody else’s.

  I watch Olly. He now looks different, it’s like Koala had brought a certain shade of shine to his face. He waves and then looks away. Koala blows him a big ugly kiss and he ‘air’ catches it. GROSS. AARGH! PAIN AND ACID AND POISON IN MY EYES.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she whispers. ‘I know he can be a toad.’

  And I say, ‘No! Don’t be silly.’ But I’m thinking, Toadlette indeed.

  Olly waltzes over and, with hands on hips, drops his head and says to me, ‘Nice work on the story, Burdock, spot on, right in the kisser, yes.’ And tozzles off, popping more Wotsits in his mouth, looking for others to harass, with Koala following behind.

  ‘What was that about?’ Will sniggers.

  ‘I think that’s called “eating your words”,’ Maggie replies, and oh she is right.

  Will and I walk home together, catching up on so much. It turns out that it was Grandma who had called Will and the school to tell them to look for Lamb-Beth. I would normally be annoyed with her crafty ploy if it hadn’t made us be back to best friends again. That display he made for me was the nicest thing anybody has ever done for me.

  Mum is more than pleased to see me walk in with Will, but she doesn’t mention anything or make it seem or feel weird. Instead, she just gives Will a squeeze and leads us into the kitchen where Poppy and Timothy are already munching and slurping on quesadillas (cheesy Mexican delicious things) and apple juice. Timothy and Will size each other up and introduce themselves, Will with a little flick of the eyes and Timothy with four air-kisses, darling.

  ‘So . . .’ Mum smiles, sipping her coffee, ‘can I finally please FINALLY read your story about the sisters in the magazine?’

  ‘What story about the sisters?’ Will interrupts; a long string of cheese joins his chin to his quesadilla.

  ‘I changed it, I put a new story in,’ I say to Mum in between chews, ‘at the last minute.’

  ‘How spontaneous, but I thought you spent ages on that other one?’

  ‘Yeah, well . . .’

  ‘I hope you’ve got it written down somewhere. Go on then, let’s have a look at what you’ve done.’ Mum picks up the magazine, hugs her coffee close and opens the first page. ‘It’s in your handwriting!’ she blasts in roaring excitement and then her eyes start at the very top.

  The Invisible Link

  For my friend, William Hopper

  The earth cracked in two. One day. Just like that. Everybody naturally had to deal with the fallout. It splitted pretty much even. Like a halved orange or apple, the core on display like the heart of a living breathing person in cry-sis.

  It was sad because the earth had been a whole for so long. The roots of trees splitted and broked apart, the riva leaked and the fishes sprinkled out like confetti into the nothingness, the roads cracked and the pavements twisted, the houses felled apart brick by brick. The people were gripping onto the edge of the world, holding on, through the mania, to what was theirs. Some people’s jobs were now on the other side of the earth, their friends and family, even their schools and favourite shops and stuff. Their whole entire lives.

  And when it fell open and apart it sat, like the mouth of a Muppet, open and ajar, as though it was on a hinge and that was that. People had to start again. This was the way the world was now. This is what it had come to.

  The distance apart meant that the world now felt like two separate planets a bit. Completely. Naturally, people stuck to their own half now, their bit. And eventually over time, service resumed as normal, people got back to their worlds because they had to. Life goes on, as my grandma says.

  The split affected everybody, of course, but you see the universe of stories is like a giant cake, and a story is but a slice of that cake. And the slice I want to cut is this one here, the story of a spider.

  A young spider, who had just managed to strengthen her web to a soft strong cotton that sparkled under the glittery kiss of the sun and shone in the moody tones of the mighty milky moon. She had learned to travel, glide her web, to catch prey and to balance. To walk upside-down and point and pause and poise and position and prop and arch and angle. She was a fantastic, delightful and artistic spider.

  She would web all day every day, working fast to create her delicate embroidery of lace that was her silvery almost invisible adventure land that belonged to her – her architecture, her world. And at night she would sleep in her web, wrapped in a snug, silk warp of it all, bundled in close but with enough room to spring out if she needed. She was happy.

  One day, whilst working, a tremor happened that made her web wobble, causing the spider to nearly tip off her stiches. She rarely wobbled, she was more perfect than a tight-rope walker and so she was anxious and frowned. It was then she realized that the cracks in the world were getting bigger, very slowly and over time, but it was gently churning, breaking more and more.

  She looked at the hole in her web and tended to it immediately – holes in webs are like holes in tights and will only get bigger if not repaired. Just like holes in friendships too.

  Across the way, on the other h
alf of the world was another spider. A spider that saw his web-building as his livelihood, he was equally as talented: a solid spinner, a tipped delicate-footed, dangly, weave worker that could build just as rapidly. He built as gracefully and as elegantly as the spider on the other half of the world but had never spoken to her, had never even caught the reflection of one of her eyes in the light.

  Until now.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he called.

  ‘Who? Me?’ she answered.

  ‘Yes, you.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘The tremor, just then, I saw it knocked you off your web?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you!’ she called back.

  And so they carried on building and spinning and then just by magic, they had an idea. An idea so beautiful and strong, a life-changing, powerful idea. They both began to build a web towards each other. A bridge. Similar to the technique of sewing, they worked through and through, gossiping and nattering the entire time, getting to know each other; singing and humming, joking and debating, stitching and welding their glorious almost feathered yarn.

  It was exhausting as the gap was very big and the spiders were so small; they worked through the day and night, catching flies and bugs for food, sleeping in mid-air and then starting again. Their web too was very thin so they had to go over the same patches many times to make sure the lines were strong and wind-secure. For months they built their bridge and they knew they were close to finishing when they looked up and saw no web left to build other than the loose end of either side of the bridge, waiting to be connected, to be tied up at last.

  They lit up terrifically beautifully. They had done it and most importantly, what a wonderfully rich and remarkable way to weave the tapestry of friendship. They were friends, the very best of.

  The following morning, the people of either half could not believe their eyes when they saw such a work of art joining their two worlds. They couldn’t wait to visit either sides of these distant but now connected worlds; friends could reunite, celebrations happened and happiness was shared. Amazing how such a simple idea could change so much.

  Both spiders were knighted for their efforts, were invited to a proper ceremony and then to the official opening and naming of the bridge, which they called The Invisible Link. Both spiders cut the ribbon to announce the opening of the walkway.

  So much praise and celebration was happening for both spiders in their own halves of the world. They had interviews to go to, events to speak and spin at, workshops to lead, parades to host, dinners to attend that they almost seemed to be the only two to never actually even use the bridge that they had taken so long to build. They were so busy they just hadn’t the time and after a while the bridge began to fray.

  Everybody kept mentioning it, that the bridge had a few holes and repairs that needed tending to, and both spiders had meant to do it, but they just hadn’t the time. People tried fixing it themselves but they weren’t dainty enough to scuttle across, so they begged the spiders to go back and fix what they had started so the two halves of the worlds could continue as one. They began to all point the finger and blame each other and curse the other half for not protecting or maintaining their half of the world’s bridge and they accused and argued and fought and raged so much that the last looping thread holding the bridge together fell apart.

  The people cried for weeks. They were devastated.

  It was awkward for the spiders; it sounds so simple and easy to do but it was a lot for them both to swallow. They had to admit, they had let their webbed bridge die – it was their fault and no one else’s. They were too proud to begin building again, they were worried the other one wouldn’t meet them at the other side, worried that the other wouldn’t finish their side off or worse – wouldn’t want to rebuild their invisible link at all.

  So both spiders scuttled away and began to build, but this time not to make a bridge and make the world as one, but to separate. Stubbornly, they began building a roof over their half of the world that would contain each half underneath it, with walls too, to separate themselves even further, sheltering them from each other, the sun and the wonder of life. It was a dark and difficult time, building that was painful for both spiders as it used a lot of thread and took a lot of time and each stitch was also hurtful and upsetting for the spiders because neither really wanted to do this – they were just being silly and proud and stubborn. If only they could talk to each other and undo the mess they had caused.

  They built and built, webbing and making until they had nearly finished and sat proudly looking upon the two separate planets they had created. Then, out of nowhere, they heard a crack, a large cranking sound, a sucking sound, a churning sound and a pull . . . they had stitched so frantically hard on either side of the world and their waft was so strong they had stitched the world together again, without even realizing, making only a clean clear solid join.

  The people couldn’t believe it, those clever spiders with their tricks up their sleeves, nobody had seen this coming.

  The world was as one. The spiders had unintentionally done it, but they had managed it all the same and so they, of course, being humble and graceful, bowed down to the praise and let the applause wash over them. They had secretly missed each other after all and sometimes . . . some things are just meant to be. Even when you try to escape them, they will just come to find you.

  They celebrated for months on end and the spiders were awarded a tulip house to live inside, at the top of the world, together, exactly where they deserved, exactly how they felt.

  The end.

  Mum wipes the tears under her eyes away with her thumb and sighs all warbly, ‘Funny how the tiniest of things can conquer the hugest.’ Then she runs over to Will and me and hugs us really tight and says, ‘Well done for getting through this Big School business, you two.’

  And Will and I pretend to not want hugs loads but really I feel the skin of his hand against my hand and neither of us moves our hands but like not in a love way, obviously, we haven’t lost our minds. I’m never ever going to call him William. Ever.

  Poppy and Timothy snarl and snigger and pretend to be in deep conversation but really I know they are thinking . . . Oh my God, is this what’s to come?

  And I nod back at them as if to say . . . Just you wait.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Once I promised that I wouldn’t make all the writing in my writing book about school and it feels like this is all I talk about now. That boring school and the boring people inside of it. Funny how we always make big grand statements in life and then scribble them out again with our actions. The rest of the next few months at school were fine. Nothing makes you realize how lucky you are more than losing the things around you that make you lucky in the first place. Like Lamb-Beth and Will. I feel like I’ve had a year that I’m never going to be able to forget. Every day I’m growing but I don’t feel any older, that’s the ‘importance of a young heart’, as my grandma always says.

  On this point, nobody brings out the big kid in everybody like how Christmas does and it comes round faster than I could have even imagined. My mum and dad have been running around like lunatics all week, humming Christmas songs and eating and tickling us and hugging the Christmas tree like complete weird ones. It’s the day before Christmas and I peel open the door with the ‘24’ written on it – the last on the Advent calendar – and pop the silky milky chocolate in my mouth. D-E-L-I-C-I-O-U-S.

  Next to it sits the ‘home-made’ Christmas card that the Pinchers sent to us. We’ve had it up there for weeks. It’s a ‘scene’ by their fireplace (which we don’t have, you have to be a posho if you have an actual real-life fire in your house, obvs). It’s of John Pincher, sitting down on a fake log with a big cheery face holding a big sign saying ‘HO, HO, HO!’ and then there’s Marnie Pincher dressed as an (inappropriate, trying-to-be-sexy-ish) elf holding a bit of mistletoe and trying to kiss Santa (John Pincher) on the cheek and then the best bit of all is Donald looking so grump
y with reindeer ears on and a big fat red nose with reins tied to his back and he is looking like he absolutely hates doing it so much and this absolutely makes my day. There is a bundle of presents all around them like a puddle of goodies, but I KNOW these will just be fake polystyrene or empty cardboard boxes wrapped in shiny paper because I went to the pantomime to watch Aladdin and shout ‘HE’S BEHIND YOU!’ loads and there was a massive big giant Christmas tree in the foyer and underneath were loads of presents and at first I couldn’t believe my eyeballs so I made Hector go and tear the edge off one of the presents and he said it wasn’t a present so I’m not a fool, you know.

  Tomorrow is Christmas Day. Grandma is here and has snowman earrings on and is painting mine and Poppy’s nails red, gold and green with a top layer of sparkly glitter. We have new pyjamas to wear for tonight, which are all ironed and on our beds, and matching stockings waiting at our headboards.

  We sent our letters off to Santa AGES ago so he better not try and lie and say he didn’t get them or else I will be furious Angrosaurus rex absolutely instantly immediately. The shopping has been done so the fridge won’t shut, even when Dad slams his whole entire body against it. But I peep in and all I see is floor to roof of fridge space jammed with delicious things that I want to eat every second except for all them sheets of ghastly wretched smoked salmon taking up all that space so it means the turkey has to lie floating in the bath, like a turkey on holiday, in Turkey.

  I see some scrummy apple and mango juice at the back and badly want a sip (we never usually have juice other than squash so I’m obviously a new degree of overexcited about this) and I reach for it and a million things pour out from the shelves in the fridge and tip onto the floor and a tub of cream drops and straight away splodges onto the floor and I try to clean it, but Lamb-Beth immediately takes this as a cue to start licking up every drop like the animals do in Disney films that lick the plates all clean like in Snow White and stuff. It’s so unhygienic and horrid and Dad comes in before she’s managed to lick it all up and says, ‘No, she will get sick,’ and picks her up and pulls her away. ‘Cream’s too rich for her,’ he says to me and I’m thinking, Lamb-Beth’s not a spoiled SNOB if that’s what you’re meaning by too rich. He’s cross now because the fridge has started to make that whinging noise it does when it’s been open for too long and it’s proving to be really very tough to puzzle all the food back in and he is getting crosser and crosserer and more red and more annoyed, plus he’s got all specks of glitter in his beard from all the cards and sparkly baubles and it’s making him all itchy and miserable because everything is everywhere.