AFTER
Two weeks and six days.
And I'm surrounded by idiots.
I desperately wish Adam was here.
We're on the tenth day of April but spring doesn't seem to want to join us this year. It's dark and ugly when I go to school and by second lesson rain is hammering down on us. I sit beside the windows in science - I'm a lucky guy - so I get to stare out into the distance, though I'm really not marvelling at the beauty of anything. Yieldfarm's always looked ugly to me anyway. I'm just staring. At nothing.
I must look so woefully poetic to everyone else in class. My teacher's walked past me about five times and hasn't said a word about the empty pages in front of me, devoid of notes, and I'm wondering how long the Grief Card usually works for before the teachers decide Adam's been dead long enough for it to be okay to shout out me again.
"Matt?" someone says behind me, when I'm walking out of class.
Now that's a voice I didn't expect.
My head swivels around and I'm met with a pair of deep brown eyes- the precise shade of an autumn leaf I'd seen years ago and, for some reason, can still remember.
Pippa Harlington has just approached me and I don't know what to say because we haven't spoken since she and Adam broke up in Year 9. I mean, I've seen her around and we've had classes together since then. She just stopped talking, so I did too.
"I-" I shift my weight from one leg to the other and clear my throat. "You - uh - why -?"
Her wild, curly hair bobs up and down as she begins to shake her head. Her eyes are filling up with tears and I'm alarmed now because people are beginning to stare as they file past us and I've had enough of staring to last me a fucking lifetime.
"Hey, uhm." Panicking, I quickly grab her hand and give it an awkward squeeze. Pippa is shaking and giant droplets are spilling down her cheeks. "I - uh-"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" she squeaks quickly and Pippa digs into her coat pocket and fishes out a clean handkerchief, quickly dabbing at her red-rimmed eyes. I almost smile at this because I'm inexplicably reminded of Adam and how he teased Pippa for being so bloody organised all the time. She always seems to have everything with her. Extra pens, pencils, rubbers, rulers. And handkerchiefs for painfully awkward situations like this.
"The Avid Crier," I say out loud before I can stop myself. I wish I didn't because then her eyes begin to fill up again.
"My nickname," she hiccups, smiling a little bit.
"He, uh, Adam-" The name sticks in my throat. I haven't said it out loud in some time now. "He took credit for that even though-"
"You came up with it." Pippa nods. "I remember."
It's funny how you could spend years not talking to someone - not even a simple hello, or a bye. And then when you do talk, once you get past the awkward first minute, it feels like coming home to something familiar and safe. Like finding that old toy under your bed that you thought you'd lost, and being hit by this nostalgia, this longing, to just go back to that time.Because even though you feel like you've come home, something's always changed. Something is missing. I suppose, in this case, it's Adam.
Pippa and I get lunch together - it stops raining by then, the sun is out, and we go sit on a bench under the old apple tree where I can remember spending countless twelve-year-old school days talking to Pippa about things I can't recall. I'm sure she's thinking about that too when we sit down together.
