The Bone Dragon (25 page)

It’s Sonny Rawlins’s first day back after his suspension. I expect him to glare at me every chance he gets, but he doesn’t: instead, he ducks his head down and looks studiously away, though his mouth thins into a sulky line. I’m both nonplussed and elated by this, especially when the new gossip focuses entirely on him: there’s not a word about me and how it’s all really my fault for being a spoilt attention-seeker.

I find out why during lunch break, when Jenny comes up to us as we quick-march around the pear tree (‘Because walking is good exercise for keeping our muscles trim that doesn’t require any of that nasty sweating business,’ according to Lynne). Apparently she’s been reading about how important it is to exercise as well as eat healthily in order to stay thin and since Lynne can’t stand actual exercise I foresee that Phee and I will be bullied into spending our break-times being circle-trained (or whatever Lynne called it) into vomiting.

‘Evie! Evie, you won’t believe what Fred told me.’

I’m surprised Fred managed to tell Jenny anything since they didn’t seem to be coming up for air when we passed them in the cloakrooms earlier, snogging the life out of each other.

‘Fred says that Sonny’s been grounded for a month!
And
no pocket money!’ Jenny whispers. She doesn’t try to link arms with me, but skip-stumbles along, walking backwards in front of us. ‘You know that big, fancy mountain bike . . .’ Jenny trails off gasping and stumbles to a stop, making us halt too. ‘God, what are you
doing
?’ she asks.

‘Evie needs a break,’ Phee insists, towing Lynne towards the bench that’s wrapped around the pear tree. We huddle together, shivering. ‘What about Sonny’s bike?’

‘Well,’ Jenny says, leaning forward eagerly, ‘you know it must have cost an absolute fortune and everything. Top of the range . . .’

‘
And
?’ Lynne presses. She’s red-faced and breathing hard.

‘And it’s wrecked. Completely trashed.’

‘He doesn’t look like he had an accident,’ Phee says. ‘More’s the pity.’

‘No. It was foxes. He was riding around, stuffing his face with a kebab or a burger or something, like always, and he got it all over his hands and then all over the bike, and the foxes just attacked it, like they tried to eat it or something as if they thought the whole thing was food. His dad’s furious ’cos then the foxes got into the rubbish bin and made this huge mess all over their garden. Sonny had to clean it up. Fred says it took him four hours to get all the little bits of bin-bag out of his mum’s plants. And his dad says he’ll have to keep clearing up if the foxes come back expecting more food. He’s so angry he’s said that Sonny’ll have to get a paper round or something to pay for the bike repairs himself to teach him to be less of a pig or at least a cleaner one.’

Phee, Lynne and I look at each other. Phee breaks into a grin, then we’re all laughing except Jenny, though even she gives a little giggle.

‘I shouldn’t laugh really. He
is
Fred’s best friend.’ She grins all the same. ‘But it is kind of funny.’

‘It’s brilliant!’ says Phee. ‘It’s perfect. Just like something out of a book where the bad guy gets his comeuppance. I mean, he probably deserves something worse for nearly drowning Evie,’ she says, giving me an apologetic nudge, ‘but still . . . How often do things like that happen in real life?’

‘And the best bit is that Fred says Sonny’s dad is so cross he’s told him that if he causes any more trouble, especially at school, then he’ll make Sonny stay with his grandparents when the rest of the family goes off for their summer holiday, and you know they always go somewhere brilliant . . .’

‘Wow. I
like
Sonny’s dad. Who’d’ve thunk?’ Phee says.

‘You know, even Fred said that he couldn’t really feel sorry for Sonny. He felt really bad about what happened to you, Evie,’ Jenny says earnestly. ‘He didn’t think he’d better come and say anything to you about it, but he really did feel awful.’

‘Well maybe he shouldn’t hang around with someone so nasty then,’ Phee says.

Jenny sighs. ‘I know.’

‘I mean, Fred’s never been as bad as Sonny . . . but he’s always there, sort of silently egging Sonny on,’ Lynne adds. ‘It’s not like he ever tells Sonny not to be so horrible to people. I watched him one time when Sonny was picking on little Davey Perkins. Sonny punched him right in the face and Fred just stood there staring at his feet.’

Jenny looks down at her own. ‘I know. But Fred’s not really like that when he’s not with Sonny. He’s just . . . He’s got this thing about being loyal to your mates, even when you don’t think they’re being very nice. He keeps going on about not judging people . . .’

‘Bollocks,’ Phee says. Jenny stares at her. ‘Everyone judges everyone all the time. And we should too. How else do we pick who to be friends with? If you think someone’s a nasty little git, shouldn’t you judge them on that?’

Jenny pouts out her bottom lip in the sulky way that means she’s actually thinking it over. ‘I guess,’ she says then shrugs. ‘Fred’s not really sure about the whole thing. He just thinks it would be a bit rotten to start ignoring Sonny right when everything’s going wrong for him. I think that’s kind of . . . sweet. Fred really can be, you know.’

Thankfully the bell rings before Phee, Lynne or I have to find something to say about Fred’s sweetness.

It’s art next: the final lesson in the pencil-case series. And hopefully the end of Mrs Poole’s dreaded textiles projects now that it’s time to start on our GCSE coursework.

We all lay our creations dutifully out on the tables and then walk around them in a big circle, admiring each other’s work. Several people snigger and point at my black rubber disaster. But that’s fine with me: I’m with them.

Mrs Poole has a clipboard. We all try not to laugh (well, those of us who don’t really care about Mrs Poole’s pet obsession with sewing – Lynne is straining forwards, looking anxious) as Mrs Poole bends over each pencil case in turn and inspects it closely. Her glasses slip closer and closer to the end of her nose each time she bends down to peer at a new person’s work. There’s a collective sigh when she pushes them back up. Phee and I had been making Smartie-packet bets about whose pencil case they’d fall off on.

Then Mrs Poole tries to get the class discussing the merits of the different pencil cases awarded the highest marks. Phee folds her arms on the table and drops her head on to them. That would be too uncomfortable with my ribs (I still can’t bend forwards very far), so I just slouch down in my chair and let my thoughts drift.

Then, to my great delight, we have a fire drill. Phee and Lynne spend it debating which of the sixth-form boys they’d be willing to snog and which they’d consider doing even more with: they have this whole system worked out for what stuff they’d be willing to do with boys once they’re fifteen, sixteen, seventeen . . . When they asked me, I just said that I’d worry about figuring it out when I met someone worth doing things with.

The sixth-formers troop past on their way back to class, to much giggling from Phee and Lynne.

‘Do you honestly not like
any
of them, Evie?’ Lynne whispers when I fail to offer even a single comment on which of them has the nicest butt.

I shrug. ‘Not really.’ Then, because we’ve been so close lately and the last thing I want to do is emphasise what we
don’t
have in common, I add, ‘I mean, what’s the point of thinking about it when none of them have the slightest bit of interest in me? It’s kind of depressing.’

Lynne sighs. ‘I can’t
believe
I’m going to turn fifteen next month without ever having had a proper boyfriend.’

‘I can’t believe Jenny’s got a boyfriend and we don’t,’ Phee replies. ‘Then again, Jenny’s got Fred, so I can’t really be jealous. Now if only Marcus Gilman were in our year . . .’

By the time we get back to the classroom, the lesson is about to end. Lynne is feeling hard done by and hungry. She doesn’t think much of our lack of appreciation for the importance of sewing. (‘It’s a really important life skill, you know, and don’t think you can just come to me for the rest of your lives when you need help with loose buttons or taking up hems!’) She stalks out ahead of us when the lesson ends. Phee rolls her eyes.

‘I’ll see if Mrs Poole has something I can cadge as a snack for her,’ I say. ‘You go and tell Ms Winters I’m in the loo. She won’t mind.’

Mrs Poole smiles a little nervously as I hover at the end of her desk while she finishes congratulating Jenny on her pencil case. ‘Lynne’s not feeling very well,’ I say as soon as Jenny leaves, because Mrs Poole is going all apologetic and I really don’t want her to feel bad for giving me a low mark on my horrible pencil case. ‘Is there something I can take her to eat?’

‘Well, you’re not really meant to eat in class, dear, but I did think Lynne was looking rather pale. How about a little piece of cheese? Very good for when someone’s blood sugar is low.’

While Mrs Poole cuts and wraps up the little block of cheese, I fish in my coat pocket. Usually we’re not allowed to wear coats to class but because of the ribs I’m meant to stay wrapped up when it’s cold.

‘There you go, dear. And well done for looking after your friends so nicely.’

‘Here,’ I say in turn, holding out the big, blunt needle. ‘I hope you don’t mind that I borrowed it. I don’t need it any more.’

‘Oh that’s absolutely fine, Evie. It’s wonderful that you’re . . . you’re so . . .
determined
to finish what you start. Very commendable. And very commendable that you’d bring this back safely.’

‘All you need now is determination,’ I say, smiling.

‘Oh,’ says Mrs Poole, blinking. ‘Well . . . Well, yes, dear. I suppose you could say that. After all your trials lately, I suppose
you
really could say that.’

‘I got it as a motto in a fortune cookie a few weeks ago,’ I explain.

‘Well, that’s wonderfully appropriate! Now, that gives me an idea,’ Mrs Poole says, staring off at the wall. ‘Yes, what a lovely idea. We could all make fortune cookies and write some mottos . . .’

‘Bye,’ I say.

‘Oh, yes, yes goodbye for now, dear.’

Ms Winters gives me a little nod as I sidle into the room and slip into the seat Lynne and Phee have saved between them. Across the classroom, Sonny Rawlins is glaring at the blackboard. He doesn’t even look in my direction. Fred is giggling softly with Jenny, so no one comments on whether I was late on purpose to show how special I think I am. In fact, no one says anything.

I take the cheese out of my pocket and press it into Lynne’s hand under the desk. ‘Eat it,’ I whisper out of the corner of my mouth. ‘You’re being a grump and you know you’ve walked off the calories already.’

Lynne shoves the cheese into her mouth. ‘Maybe that article was just a load of rubbish. There was one on that site the other day about computers giving you cancer. Maybe it’s another one like that.’

Phee and I exchange a grin and high-five under the table.

Amy and I are in the kitchen making shortbread, while we sip from mugs of hot chocolate piled high with whipped cream, when the doorbell rings.

Phee is standing on the step, white-faced, tear-streaked and shaking.

We stare at each other for a moment.

‘My mum’s got cancer,’ she says.

I don’t usually hug people, though I don’t mind so much any more if they hug me. But today I step forward and put my arms around her. She puts her head on my shoulder and leans into me, sobbing hot, wet air through the weave of my jumper.

‘Evie sweetheart, who’s . . .’

I look over my shoulder to see Amy come into the hall, drying her hands on a tea-towel. ‘I’ll make some more hot chocolate,’ she says, and leaves us alone.

Eventually Phee raises her head from my shoulder. Her face is red now and sweaty. She brushes damp hair off her forehead and wipes her nose on the back of her hand. I leave her standing by the foot of the stairs long enough to grab my hot chocolate and the fresh one for her, then tug her up to my room. I push the clothes off the chair by the window and manoeuvre her into it, then settle on the edge of the bed.

Phee looks down into her mug. ‘I . . . I wanted to ask you about your mum, Evie. I know you don’t talk about her, but I really need to ask you some stuff.’

‘OK,’ I say.

Phee starts and looks up at me, staring into my eyes. ‘My dad didn’t come and pick me up from school yesterday,’ she tells me. ‘He just forgot. And I sort of get it. They’ve obviously known about it for a week or so. They said they just wanted to get a bit more information before they told me so that they could explain it properly. And Mum says that the doctor thinks she’ll be fine. She told me all about what’s going to happen and how long it’s all going to take.’ Phee takes a sip of her hot chocolate, then blinks, looking down at the mug as if she hadn’t even realised what she was doing.

‘And I don’t want to sound like a brat, because I know Dad has a lot on his mind, but I just keep thinking . . .’ She sighs and her face twists. ‘Well, about your ribs. I mean, I know it happened on the way back from going to the hospital with your mother . . . and I know that she was very ill so everyone was really distracted, and then when you all walked away from the crash everyone just assumed you were fine too, but . . . but didn’t your grandparents realise how badly hurt you were? I mean, I could sort of understand it if it was just for an hour or two or even a day, but how could they not notice
at all
? And so . . .’