At our school, there was a girla quiet orphan with a delicate frame, living with her grandmother, who was fiercely religious and old as the hills. Every Sunday morning, theyd walk together past our house, both thin and fragile, their faces shaded by spotless white scarves. The local gossip said her grandmother forbade television, sugar, and even proper laughterso that the devil wouldnt slip in if she opened her mouth too wide. The poor girl had to wash her face in icy water every morning, and there was something almost fable-like about her life.
We teased her terribly. Shed look back at us with cool, grey eyeswise beyond her yearsand say, Lord, forgive them. They know not what they do. Nobody befriended her. Everyone called her odd, even mad. Her name was Charlotte. Proper English through and through.
Back in the days of my childhood, school lunches tasted like a compromise. But on Fridays, there was a hint of joy: a jam tart with tea or perhaps a sausage roll with hot chocolate and a miniature Dairy Milk bar. One Friday, we were winding her up again, and someone shoved Charlotte. She stumbled into me, sending my tray crashing into the table, tipping glasses of hot chocolate and showering two sixth-formers with a sweet, brown river.
Perfect, said the seniors, voices thick with annoyance.
Run! I whispered, grabbing Charlottes hand, as we darted to our classroom, nerves on edge. It felt like pursuit from a wild tribethe drama of childhood at full tilt. Maths lessons stretched on. Behind the glass door, two tall figures loomed; sometimes poking their heads through, plotting quietly. I knew what awaiteda full investigation, maybe even trial and punishment.
If we slip out unnoticed, I know a way to the attic, I whispered. Well stay there till dark, then make a break for it.
Charlotte shook her head. No. Well leave as girls are meant tobefore sunset and modestly.
But Charlotte, those boys will
So what? Will they pour milk over our heads? Shout? Hit a pair of Year Five girls? Really?
Well maybe.
Even if we are knocked about, its just once. But if you hide, youll dread it every single day.
We left the classroom with the others, quietly, just as girls do. The two seniors waited, pressed up against the wall.
Oi, kids! Whos missing this? One boy held up my Mickey Mouse purse, with a ten-pound note Id saved for swimming lessons and art club.
Here you go, he said, handing it back. Next time, dont run.
I walked home, swinging my backpack, feeling relief flooding through me. It had worked out all right. And Charlotte was suddenly a frienda new sort of friend.
Lets ring my mum. She can call your gran, give you a pardon, and you can come over for cartoonsunless youre not allowed?
Charlotte rolled her eyes. Come on, lets grab some of Grans wafer biscuits with condensed milk; she made them today.
We stayed friends for years, until life scattered us across continents. But I always remember that day.
Its terrifying to leap off the top board into the blue depths of the swimming pool. But youre scared just once.
Trying something new is scary. But whats the worst that can happen? Someone calls you a fool? Theyll say it once. If you dont leap, it happens every day.
Fear lasts one momentor it lives your life with you every day.
You get to choose.
