Apple and Rain by Sarah Crossan Read Free Book Online Page B

thrown a bucket of sadness all over me, and I am dripping from it. I sit peering at my ragged fingernails.
    ‘What’s wrong, Apple?’
    Every time I say goodbye to Mum I worry it will be the last time I see her. ‘I just . . . I wish . . .’ I begin. But I don’t know how to tell Mum what I’m feeling in case she thinks it means I don’t trust her – that I’m like Nana and believe she’ll run away again.
    She pats my knee. ‘You know you can call me any time you like. And if you come and live with me, we can have lots of fun days like today. And next time I’ll take you to the apartment. I planned on it today, but we seem to have been sidetracked.’ She points at the bags by my feet. ‘Actually, you might want to keep some of that stuff hidden from you-know-who.’
    I nod. Nana would be furious if she found out Mum had bought me make-up. And I’m not sure why, but I have a feeling she’d object to the sunglasses and shoes too.
    I look up at the house. Everything about it is Nana: the neat window boxes; the clean, white net curtains; the tidy lawn. But which part of it is me?
    Nana appears at the front door. She is scowling and wringing her hands in a tea towel.
    ‘You’d better go inside,’ Mum says.
     
    The clock tick-tocks on the mantelpiece. Nana and I sit opposite each other eating. Nana chews loudly. I push the cabbage, potatoes and lamb around my plate.
    Nana takes a gulp of water. ‘If there’s something on your mind, you might as well spit it out.’ She taps her fingers impatiently against the tablecloth. She doesn’t really want to talk. And I don’t know what to say. My mind is all tangled up with wanting Mum and loving her and not understanding why Nana won’t give her a chance.
    I shrug.
    ‘I don’t like you doing that, Apple, it’s rude. Use words please,’ Nana says.
    ‘I’m fine ,’ I say.
    ‘Well, I won’t have you sulking. Either speak up or cheer up.’
    I throw my fork down. Nana flinches. ‘I want you to be nicer to Mum,’ I snap. ‘She’s your daughter. She’s my mum. And I want her around. Can’t you be nicer?’
    Nana crosses her arms over her chest. ‘Your mother ran off to be an actress. I don’t respect that,’ she says.
    ‘She was in plays. She was living her dream .’
    ‘She was prancing around on stage wanting to be adored by people who didn’t know her while her own family spent years waiting for her to come home. Some dream.’
    Nana has a point. Why wasn’t our love enough for Mum? It’s a question I don’t want to think about. ‘But you’re religious. You’re meant to forgive. The priest says so,’ I tell her.
    Nana looks ashamed, but for no more than a second. ‘Will you dry, if I wash? I don’t want to run the dishwasher for a handful of plates,’ she says. She marches to the sink.
    I follow her and tip my uneaten dinner into the bin. ‘Are you OK, Nana?’ I ask.
    ‘When have I not been OK?’ She throws the plastic washing-up bowl into the basin and turns on both taps. Whether I like it or not, the gushing water drowns out all other questions.

14
    Mr Gaydon doesn’t make me read out my homework, but he does make Pilar read hers. She’s written about flying, how when you get to a certain altitude the aeroplane’s engines go quiet, like they’ve been switched off, and it makes you think you’re going to end up splattered across a field in France: one leg in a tree, one in a cowpat.
    ‘Flying is a common fear,’ Mr Gaydon says, ‘so thank you, Pilar, for sharing it with us.’ Mr Gaydon writes the word ‘Fear’ on the board and underlines it twice, like Ms Savage did with words she wanted us to learn to spell.
    He rubs his chin. ‘Where do fears come from?’ he asks. Mackenzie Bainbridge has been sitting at the front since Mr Gaydon started teaching us. Her hand shoots up. Mr Gaydon reaches forward and puts it down. He continues. ‘Pilar is scared of flying, but is it really the flying part that frightens her, or