There was a girl at our schoola quiet orphan.
She lived with her grandmother, a little frail lady, deeply religious and older than most grandmothers I knew. Every Sunday, Id see them walking past our house, slender and delicate in matching white headscarves, step for step, on their way to church. Rumour had it, her grandmother forbade her from watching television, eating sweets, or even laughing openlyfor fear, apparently, of mischief slipping inand insisted she wash her face with icy water.
We teased the girl mercilessly. Shed look at us with these solemn, grown-up grey eyes and say, God forgive themthey dont know what theyre doing. Nobody befriended her; they whispered she was a bit odd. Her name was AbigailAbby, to the teachers.
When I was young, schools werent famed for tasty lunches. But come Friday, wed get scones with tea, or perhaps a sausage roll with hot cocoa and a tiny piece of chocolate. One Friday, as everyone was baiting Abby again, someone shoved her and she tumbled into me. I crashed into the table, and the glasses filled with cocoa went flying, spilling a chocolate tsunami across two sixth formers.
Right, said the older boys, voice heavy.
Run! I yelled, grabbing Abbys hand, and we dashed into our classroom.
It felt like being chased by a tribe of angry cowboysand a stampede of wild horses thrown in for good measure. The last two lessons were maths. Through the glass door, two tall figures lingered. The door creaked open from time to time; two faces peered in, then whispered among themselves. I knew what was comingthe investigation, the judgment, and our sentence, just like in the stories.
We just need to slip out unnoticed; from there, I know the way up onto the loft. Well hide until its dark, then dash home. I whispered, planning.
Abby shook her head, calm and clear: Nowe walk out as proper girls do. Before dusk, and quietly.
But, Abby, those boyswhat if they…
What? she cut in, Pour their milk over our heads? Shout? Hit two Year Five girls?
Well…
Even if they do, theyll only do it once. If we duck and hide, well be scared every day.
We left the classroom with the rest, heads bowed, as expected. The two sixth formers stood against the wall, waiting.
Oi, which of you lost this? The taller boy was holding my Mickey Mouse pursewith a tenner inside (for swimming and art club fees).
Here you go, he said, placing the purse firmly in my hand, Dont run off next time.
I walked home, swinging my satchel, marvelling at how well things worked out. How lucky I felt to have found a new friend like Abby.
Shall I ring Mum and have her call your Gran? Maybe you could come over and we could watch cartoons? Or are you not allowed?
Abby rolled her eyes.
Lets just get some of Grannys homemade wafer biscuits with condensed milkshe baked them today.
We stayed friends for yearsuntil life sent us to different corners of the globe.
But I always remember that day in particular.
The first time you leap off the diving board into the bright blue pool is terrifyingbut only once.
Trying something new is frightening; whats the worst that can happen? Someone might call you sillyjust once. Otherwise, youll be telling yourself that every day.
Its scary one timeor every day.
You face your fear once, or let it live your life for you day after day.
The choice is yours.
