Since You've Been Gone (2 page)

I
spot her straight away. Dark braids, dark eyes. Glaring at me as I stand in the doorway like a fool. Great. Precious is in my homeroom class.

“Ms. Bryans?” Mr. Middleton, the headteacher, says.

I feel sick. Why doesn't he just let me walk into the class? I don't want an introduction. Especially not when the entire room is staring at me like I'm some kind of a drooling science experiment.

Ms. Bryans turns around. A cluster of thick, black curls sit tightly on top of her head like a wig that's two sizes too small. Dark slashes pulled low on her forehead serve as eyebrows and the shadow of a moustache dances above her upper lip.

“Class, say good morning to Mr. Middleton,” she says.

“Good morning, Mr. Middleton,” a few students mumble unenthusiastically.

He smiles. “Good morning everyone. We have a new student from Canada joining us today.”

The class continues to stare blankly at me. So much for just blending in. I look down at a black smear of chewing gum on the floor near the toe of my shoe. Warmth radiates from my face.

“This is Edith.”

“Edie,” I whisper. “Just Edie. It's not short for anything.”

“Sorry … um. Edie. This is Edie.”

Muffled laughter from the back of the class; Precious is sitting back there.

“She's moved here all the way from Ontario. That means I'm expecting all of you,” he pauses, gazing sternly at the students seated in the back rows of the room, “to make her feel welcome.”

Ms. Bryans gives me an impatient half-smile. Clearly she isn't pleased to have an addition to the class.

“Welcome, Edie. Please take a seat. We're just reviewing school policies.” She looks at Mr. Middleton. “Academic?” she says, raising an eyebrow.

“Her mother only provided us with one report,” he answers. “We're waiting on the rest of her academic files to be sent. But from what we have, yes.”

I look around for an empty seat as far away from Precious Samuel as possible. A girl sitting close to the front of the classroom waves at me.

“You can sit beside me,” she offers.

“Thank you, Savitri,” Ms. Bryans says, walking over to her desk and picking up a pile of papers. She hands them to an acne-riddled boy in the front row. “Please take a term schedule and then pass them along.”

I dash to the empty seat, grateful to no longer be the centre of attention.

“Hi,” Savitri whispers as I sit down. Her teeth are Chiclet white, her eyes heavy with black eyeliner.

“Thanks so much for saving me.”

“Not a worry,” she says with a wink. Her eyelashes are so long they almost touch her eyebrows. “I would've died if Middleton did that to me.”

The rest of the morning passes uneventfully. As lunch break gets closer, a familiar nervous feeling begins to develop in the pit of my stomach. Lunch in a new school is always awkward. All the cliques and groups are already established and a packed cafeteria is the last place anyone wants to be seen alone.

A few minutes before the bell sounds, Savitri turns to me.

“Are you eating lunch here?” she asks.

“I guess so. I brought money, but don't really know any places around here to grab lunch. You?”

“I'm meeting my friends in the cafeteria. Come eat with us.”

I breathe a sigh of relief and begin to gather my books together. Maybe things aren't going to be that bad; maybe Mom is right — I just need to be more optimistic. More a glass-half-full kind of girl.

The bell sounds. The room immediately fills with the clatter of chairs being shoved away from desks.

“Thanks, that would be great,” I say, gathering my books together.

“My friends are brilliant, but I know they'll have a million questions to ask you about Canada. Just tell them to shut it if they get on your nerves.”

The cafeteria is heaving with bodies. Students rush back and forth between tables, waving and yelling at friends as they enter the room.

“Keisha, this is Edie,” Savitri says as we sit down with our trays at a table near the middle of the room. “She's from Canada.”

Keisha looks up from the mountain of French fries she's devouring and gives me a wide smile. “Oh yeah? I've got cousins in Canada. In Toronto, I think.”

That sudden twist of homesickness in my stomach is back.

“Really? I'm from Toronto,” I say with forced brightness.

Keisha stabs several ketchup-coated fries with her fork. “I've never been to see my cousins though. I only met them once at a wedding in Jamaica. I'd love to go to Toronto someday.”

“Hi, Edie,” a familiar voice interrupts. “How's everything so far?'

I look up. Imogen is hovering nervously beside our table. She's holding her plastic lunch tray so tightly her knuckles have turned bone white. Her plate is heaped with fries and some sort of breaded, egg-shaped thing that smells like a combination of dirty gym socks and pickles. I wrinkle my nose at the stench.

I don't want to be mean, but I also don't want any more trouble from Precious and her cronies and Imogen seems to attract bullies like rotten food attracts flies.

“Um, it was okay,” I answer. Both Keisha and Savitri are completely ignoring Imogen. Savitri is staring so hard at her salad you'd think a secret message was hidden amongst the wilted lettuce and bits of unripe tomato.

“Oh. That's good to hear,” Imogen replies, nodding her head at me. “Hi, Savitri. Hi, Keisha. All right?”

Savitri glances up from her salad. “Fine,” she says, her voice curt.

Imogen shifts her weight from foot to foot. It's obvious to me that she knows she's not wanted, but has no idea how to get out of here gracefully. I feel badly because she's never done anything to me. In fact, she's gone out of her way to talk to me and make me feel welcome at the school. If I were a better person, I'd invite her to sit down and have lunch with us.

But I'm not.

“Okay. So I guess we'll see you later,” I say.

Imogen's face crumples. For a moment I'm afraid she might cry.

“Um, sure. Okay.” Her tray shakes ever so slightly. “Have a nice lunch, then.” She turns and disappears into the chaos of the cafeteria.

“Bloody time she left!” Keisha says. “What a loser Maggots is! I can't believe she's in my homeroom this year.”

“Well, we've got Precious Samuels and Jermaine Lewis in ours, so count yourself lucky,” Savitri replies. “At least your class isn't full of psychos.”

Keisha laughs through a forkful of fries. “That is pretty awful.”

“Who's Jermaine Lewis?” I ask.

“He wasn't here this morning,” Savitri says. “Misses loads of school. Doesn't really matter though 'cos he's always in trouble when he is here. I don't even know why he's in academic with all of us. He's as thick as a brick wall.”

“And when he was eight,” Keisha whispers, lowering her head so that her chin nearly knocks against the table as she speaks, “He killed a bunch of kids, including his own brother.”

Jermaine Lewis arrives after lunch. It seems he's in my math class as well as homeroom. He strolls in fifteen minutes into the lesson without a word, his gaze traveling slowly around the room, searching for an empty place. No one raises a hand to offer him a seat.

I try not to stare but can't help myself. Some kids I knew back in Regent Park were involved in gangs and dealing; things that sometimes led to their own deaths or jail, but not many were involved in anything as serious as murder.

Jermaine glances at me. Mild curiosity flashes across his face. I look away as he sits down near Savitri and me. Although he doesn't seem to care about being late for class, our math teacher, Mr. O'Connor, clearly does.

“How kind of you to join us, Mr. Lewis,” he says, stopping the lesson in mid-sentence. “Forget to set your alarm clock?”

Jermaine doesn't answer; he just sits, silently gazing back.

The class is suddenly focused in a way we haven't been for any of part of the algebra lesson. We're all waiting for Mr. O'Connor's next move.

“I asked you a question, Jermaine.”

Nothing.

Splotchy crimson patches appear on the teacher's chest and neck. His chin wiggles a bit.

“I'm waiting,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. This only serves to emphasize his man breasts and the wet pit stains on his shirt.

Silence. Someone at the front of the room coughs loudly to disguise a giggle.

“I'm waiting for you to drop this useless attitude and tell me why you're so late for class. And on the first day of school.” Spittle flies from his lips. “Not the best way to start Year Ten, is it?”

There should be a handbook for all teachers. One that tells them very clearly to never, ever confront a student in front of other students.

“I had to do something for my mum,” Jermaine suddenly replies. His voice is level, but there is an edge to his words, a warning to Mr. O'Connor to back off.

“Well, clearly I need to ring your mother and remind her of the importance of getting an education.” Mr. O'Connor says, rolling his eyes before turning back to the white board to continue scribbling down algebraic equations.

Savitri leans over. “He's such a rude twat.”

I nod in agreement. It's difficult to concentrate on the math lesson after that. I have trouble with math at the best of times as it never really makes sense to me, but now my attention keeps wandering back to Jermaine. He keeps his head down, focusing on whatever is in his desk, rather than on Mr. O'Connor. How could you blame him? I still don't understand why he'd made Jermaine's lateness into such a big deal. Lots of other students were being disruptive during class, but they were hardly spoken to.

At the end of the day, Savitri and I meet up with Keisha in the girls' toilets on the first floor.

“What are you two doing now?” Savitri asks from inside one of the stalls.

“I've got to go home,” I reply. Mom will be super worried if I'm late.

Keisha shakes her head. “Not me. I'm going to the leisure centre until they kick me out. That way my mum can't stick me looking after my little brothers and sisters for once.” She kisses her teeth, fumbles around in her purse, and takes out a silver tube of lipstick.

“You got any brothers or sisters, Edie?” she asks, coating her full lips bright crimson.

“No. It's just my mom and me.”

I check out my reflection in the mirror. I left most of my makeup behind in Toronto. Mom and I are sharing hers until we have money to replace it. My eyeliner is faded and I look tired. So much for good first impressions.

“Lucky you,” Savitri says as she emerges from the bathroom stall.

I gasp. Savitri's long, ebony hair is hidden under a black hijab and her face is devoid of any trace of makeup.

“I know, I know,” she says, rolling her eyes. “My brother Amir and Dad would kill me if they knew what I look like at school.”

As I walk home after saying goodbye to Savitri and Keisha, I remind myself not to become too attached. After all, things are sure to change. And I need to keep a low profile so that Mom and I will be as safe as possible. I cross my fingers. Please let this be the last move.

“S
o,
how was it?” Mom asks, her voice floating out from the tiny living room at the front of the flat.

I slide my knapsack from my shoulders. It hits the floor with a thud. Though the front hall is carpeted, it's so thin and worn the wooden planks underneath show through in patches.

“It was okay, I guess.” I walk to the doorway of the living room and lean against the doorjamb.

My mother's sitting on the edge of the sofa, an assortment of papers strewn all around her.

“Just okay?” She looks up at me and pats a spot on the sofa beside her. “Come and tell me all about it.”

The flat came fully furnished, but the furniture is ancient and worn. I wonder if the owner is waiting for it to disintegrate before buying anything new. And everything made out of fabric smells musty, like beach towels that haven't dried properly.

Mom shuffles some of the papers into makeshift piles, clearing off a larger space for me to sit.

“So, how was it, really?”

I notice the dark smudges under her eyes and the way the skin at the outer corners crinkles like autumn leaves when she smiles at me. She looks older with every passing day.

“It was good.”

I don't want to add to her worries. I sit and tug at the navy tie that is part of our school uniform, trying to loosen its grip on my neck.

Mom cocks her head sideways and looks at me hard. “Be honest, Edie.”

“It's just kind of different, you know? Like, why do I have to wear this tie? The entire day I felt like I was being hung.”

“I think the word is hanged,” Mom says with a laugh. She reaches over, playfully ruffling my hair. I gently swat her hand away.

“Hey! Are you too old to be hugged?” she asks.

I shrug. “No. I'm just so tired of being the new kid. And I wish I understood how stuff works here.”

“These things take time, sweetheart. You always make friends wherever we go.”

“Yeah, just in time to leave again.”

Hurt briefly flashes in my mother's eyes.

“I didn't really mean it,” I mumble, staring down at my hands. God, why do I always have to be so hurtful? “What are you doing?” I ask, hoping to change the conversation.

Mom pauses for a moment before answering.

“Just sorting though some bills to be sure I paid everything off in Toronto. In case we ever have to go back.”

I nod. We can't have our mail forwarded from Canada. It's too dangerous to put a change of address file in with the post office; that would make it too easy to trace our steps here.

“I know this is a big challenge, Edie. But I still think it was the right decision to move here. Once we've been here without any incidents for a year, I'll put things into motion and get a real job with a decent salary.”

“We've hardly lasted a year anywhere.”

Her eyes darken. She presses her lips together so that they look like two bloodless worms.

“Then we'll be able to rent a flat on our own,” she continues, though her voice is now strained. “And move out of here. I have a really good feeling this time.”

I try to smile, but my face feels frozen, like the last time I went to see the dentist and he stuck a needle into my gums. I want to believe Mom, but there have just been too many times when things seemed good, even better than good. And then everything would all fall apart again. He'd find us. We'd run.

“I should start my homework,” I say. I really don't want to discuss the future. After all, the future doesn't include my friends in Toronto or Peaches or anything that really matters to me.

“We're survivors,” she says, placing her arm around my shoulder and giving me a squeeze.

This time I don't resist. I can't stand to see that look of hurt in her eyes again.

“In fact, I'll have you know that your old mom has already landed herself a job. What do you think of that?”

I glance up. “It's good … I suppose. What's the job?”

“Well,” Mom begins, settling back against the couch. She pulls me back with her. “Sit and relax for a minute, silly!”

A spring from the couch pokes at my back like an anorexic finger.

“I'm going to be cleaning swank office buildings in the heart of London.”

I listen as my mother tries to make the new job sound decent. But I'm not buying it. She has two university degrees. Cleaning offices is a far cry from what she's qualified to do.

“There's only one little drawback to the job. Since I need to get paid under the table, I have to work the night shift for the first while.”

I open my mouth to protest, but shut it again.

“It means you'll be on your own a bit more. Are you okay with that?”

Like I have a choice.

“I guess you have to find some way to get us food and stuff,” I mumble.

“Remember, it's only going to be for a short while. And speaking of food,” she says, standing up and putting her hands on her hips. “I bought us a lovely roast chicken for dinner to celebrate.”

My stomach does a hungry somersault. I haven't eaten since lunch.

“I think that homework can wait, don't you?” Mom asks, giving me a hug.

I want so badly to believe that she's right; that everything is going to be okay. But I just can't.