Truly, Wildly, Deeply

  For Ross, Agnieszka, Danny and Sophie

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Acknowledgements

  ONE

  I am sitting on a train waiting for my adult life to begin.

  If my mum wasn’t standing on the platform watching me this would be a really kick-ass moment.

  ‘Go away,’ I mouth through the glass, but she just smiles, sips at her frappuccino and stays exactly where she is. So I stick my tongue out at her and she sticks her middle finger back at me. For an infant-school teacher, she can be very rude.

  ‘Annie!’

  I look up to see Jackson Wood, a boy from my old school, walking towards me. He’s got a skateboard tucked under his arm and everything about him is relaxed and floppy: his walk, his hair and definitely his jeans.

  He drops into the seat opposite me, spreads his arms wide and grins, as though his presence is the greatest gift I could ever receive.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I say, laughing.

  ‘Same as you. Starting Cliffe College.’

  ‘But I thought you were staying on at school?’

  He shrugs. ‘I was, until yesterday, when I finally looked through that stuff they sent us and found out we had to wear business dress.’ He says these last two words with a tone of utter disgust. ‘So I rang Cliffe and they said I could enrol today.’

  ‘Jackson, let me get this straight: you’ve decided to go to a college that’s twenty miles away from where you live just so you can wear denim?’

  He nods earnestly. ‘And trainers.’

  ‘Wow …’ I say.

  He smiles and relaxes back in his seat. ‘Guess what I did this summer, Annie.’

  ‘Read all of Dickens’s novels?’

  ‘Not quite. I learnt to put my fist in my mouth. Do you want to see?’

  I glance around the carriage. It’s packed full of commuters and teenagers – teenagers who might also be starting at Cliffe College and so could become my future friends.

  ‘Yes,’ I tell Jackson. ‘I do want to see that.’ If any of these teenagers are going to Cliffe, they might as well know what I’m like right from the start.

  I watch in fascinated horror as Jackson pulls at his lips and slowly, slowly crams his fist into his mouth. Jackson has this beautiful, sophisticated girlfriend called Amelia and it’s at moments like this that the whole Amelia–Jackson thing baffles me. Amelia plays the electric harp and got into the semi-finals of the Junior Fencing Championships; Jackson puts his fist in his mouth … What do they talk about? Perhaps their souls meet on some amazing cosmic level that I’m too cynical to understand … Looking at Jackson, the majority of his fingers now squished into his mouth, I find that hard to believe.

  ‘Ta-da!’ Jackson mumbles, and I give him a round of applause for effort. He wipes his slimy fist on his jeans then leans towards me and lowers his voice. ‘Annie, don’t freak out, but there’s a woman standing on the platform staring right at you.’

  ‘I know. It’s my mum. Ignore her.’

  ‘It’s hard. She’s standing so close to the window.’ Jackson turns and gives Mum a wave and she waves back. Mum was supposed to just drop me outside the station, but then she insisted on coming right on to the platform. Amazingly, even though I’m sixteen this is the first time I’ve ever been on a train on my own.

  I’m lucky my dad lives in Greece, or he’d be standing on the platform next to her. Dad can be a little overprotective and he doesn’t really want me to go to Cliffe College. This morning, he put all his anxiety into one text: Annie, I hope today brings you many riches! I also hope you have a coat as there is a 50% chance of precipitation. DO NOT leave your drinks unattended, even for a moment. Boys are wicked. And wear appropriate clothes. Daddy xxx

  I replied: Clothes?! I didn’t realise I had to wear clothes …

  Jackson sits back in his seat, leans forward again, then wriggles around, like he can’t get comfy.

  ‘Stop it,’ I say. ‘You look like you need a wee.’

  He runs his hands through his hair, messing it up. ‘Well, I don’t. I’m just nervous. New college, new friends. I’ve only had a day to get used to the idea and it’s making me feel sick.’

  I know what he means. I’ve had all summer to get used to the idea of going to Cliffe, but I still couldn’t eat any breakfast this morning. ‘Listen, Jackson,’ I say. ‘All the best, coolest things in life begin with nausea: bungee jumping, freediving, kayaking down rapids –’

  His eyes light up. ‘You’re right! Wrestling crocodiles, going over waterfalls in a barrel –’

  ‘No, Jackson, those things aren’t cool. They’re ways of dying.’

  But he’s not listening. Instead, he’s running through some bucket list of death he’s got. ‘Riding an angry bull, jumping off a cliff in a wingsuit, zorbing a wave, cuddling a tiger …’ He breaks off. ‘This isn’t helping, Annie. It’s making me feel worse.’

  ‘What you need, Jackson, is a Tic Tac.’ I find the little box in my bag and shake a couple of mints into his hand.

  ‘Why do I need these?’

  ‘Because these are magic Tic Tacs.’ I pop one in my mouth. ‘They make you invincible so you don’t need to worry about anything.’ That’s almost word for word what Mum told me this morning when she dropped them in my rucksack. She’s been telling me that foodstuffs are magical for years – super-strength Snickers, mega maths Maltesers. She should have stopped doing it a long time ago, but it makes her happy so I don’t complain.

  Jackson sits back and sucks. ‘We’re definitely doing the right thing,’ he says, mainly to reassure himself. ‘I mean, look at us: we’re going on an adventure.’

  An adventure … A ripple of excitement runs through me. ‘You’re right.’ I say. ‘The journey’s only half an hour, but this definitely feels good. It feels …’ I pause as I try to find the right words, ‘like the start of something.’

  ‘Put it here, partner,’ he says, raising one hand in the air for a
high five.

  ‘No way,’ I say. ‘Not doing that.’

  Suddenly, the train lurches forward and my eyes shoot to the window. Mum starts trotting alongside the train, blowing kisses with both hands. Jackson pretends to catch the kisses then stuffs them in his mouth.

  ‘Stop eating my mum’s kisses!’ I say, thumping his arm.

  Then the train picks up speed and when I turn to look out of the window again, Mum has gone. I didn’t even get to wave goodbye.

  My stomach lurches. I’m all on my own. Jackson doesn’t count.

  The train snakes out of town, past rows of houses with net curtains and rectangular gardens. I stare through the window and see washing drooping on lines, a broken goalpost, a man smoking in his T-shirt and pants. The man raises a mug to his lips, but before he’s taken a sip, we’ve left him behind and the train is crossing the marsh. Then we’re sliding past green fields, rolling hills and munching cows. One of the cows lifts up her heavy head and looks right at me.

  Just then, the sun breaks through a cloud and shines on my face, and the train sways from side to side. That’s right, cow. Check me out. I’m on a train, on my own, going on an adventure!

  Then happiness washes over me, pushing away any worries I have and filling me up from the top of my curly hair to the tips of my Nikes.

  I see this little kid peering between the seats at us. He’s not staring at my wheelchair – although it is an eye-catching lime green – he’s staring at Jackson, who is now trying to fit a whole apple in his mouth.

  ‘Go on then,’ I say, lifting up my hand. ‘Put it here.’ Jackson gives up on the apple and we slap hands. ‘But we’re not doing this on a daily basis.’

  TWO

  For me, it was an obvious choice, leaving my old school and going to Cliffe.

  My teachers and the students were nice enough – some were amazing – but I wanted a fresh start. At school you get assigned a role on day one – the brainy one, the pretty one, the one who turned up with his leg in a plaster cast because he fell down a badger hole (Jackson) – and that’s it, you’re stuck with it.

  For fair enough reasons, I was assigned the role of Mouthy Girl With Cerebral Palsy and I enthusiastically fulfilled this role for five years. But when my Learning Support Assistant, Jan, told me that she was going to carry on being my LSA in the Sixth Form, I realised I needed a change. Jan’s lovely – she used to give me a home-made flapjack every Friday – but I knew it was time for me to go out into the world alone. No Mum, no Jan. No support. No assistance. Just Annie.

  Jan got it. In fact, she suggested Cliffe. Mum put up a bit of a fight, pointing out how much she’d have to pay on train fares, but I reminded her that Dad would contribute. He only sees me a few times a year so experiences a lot of guilt. Guilt that can be eased by sending cash my way. I try not to exploit this vulnerability of Dad’s … but I do own thirteen pairs of trainers.

  And that’s why, right now, I’m flying through the countryside, wearing cut-off dungarees instead of sitting in assembly wearing business dress.

  ‘There it is,’ says Jackson, pointing out of the window.

  Cliffe College is spread out on the edge of the town, all modern buildings with lots of glass. As the train slows, people start to get their stuff together, and then, with a final hiss of the brakes, the train comes to a stop.

  Jackson jumps to his feet and follows me as I swing my wheelchair round. The doors slide open and as arranged there’s the porter, slamming the ramp into place and checking it’s secure. Behind me, I feel the prickly impatience of the other passengers waiting to get off. I don’t care. They can shuffle and check their phones all they like: this is a rare occasion where I get to go first.

  ‘The funny thing is,’ Jackson says in a loud voice, ‘she can walk. I’ve seen her!’

  I make a grab for him, but he dodges round me and jumps off the train.

  Outside the station, Jackson darts towards Tesco Express. ‘Back in a minute,’ he says. ‘Do you want anything?’

  ‘Yeah, a Twix would be good.’ Now I’ve survived the train journey, I’m regretting skipping breakfast.

  ‘I’ll catch you up,’ he says, leaving me to go up the hill towards Cliffe.

  This hill is one of the reasons I’m using my wheelchair today. Jackson’s right – I can walk – and I was fine on the train, but the five-minute walk from the station to college would have been hard work. I don’t want to turn up exhausted on my first day.

  Soon I’m in the middle of a stream of people all moving in the same direction. I could go faster, but I hang back so I can take everything in, or, more precisely, so I can indulge in one of my favourite hobbies: people watching.

  I notice how much thought everyone’s put into their appearance, especially the people who want to make it look like they’ve put in no thought at all. Take the girl walking in front of me. Her hair is plaited, but just the right amount of strands have been pulled loose and I can see that the price label is still stuck to the bottom of her undone trainers. A random collection of charity bracelets, leather thongs and beads rise up her left wrist, but they’ve been arranged by colour. There’s nothing random about them, or her, at all.

  I’ve put a lot of thought into what I’m wearing today because: a) I love fashion; and b) if people are going to stare at me, then I might as well give them something awesome to stare at. I’ve made my hair big and curly – kind of a Greek Afro – and I’m wearing a varsity cardigan, buttoned shirt, cut-off dungarees and my gold letter ‘I’ necklace. I’d describe my look as Sporty Vintage High School Greek Geek … With A Touch Of Bling. Mum described it as ‘a bit odd’, but what does she know?

  Jackson catches up with me just as I’m going into college.

  ‘Here you are,’ he says, handing me my Twix.

  I tear it open, then Jackson and I watch as people swirl round us – the older students shouting out to each other; the new students eyeing each other cautiously. Suddenly, a salty smell hits me and I notice that Jackson’s holding a greasy bag.

  ‘Jackson, what is that?’

  ‘A roast chicken.’

  I shake my head and put down my Twix. The meaty smell is hard for a vegetarian to take first thing in the morning. ‘You are so very surprising, Jackson.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he says, with a nod and a smile. ‘Right, I’m going to find my form room. Wish me luck.’

  ‘You don’t need it. You’ve had two magic Tic Tacs.’

  ‘Oh yeah!’ he says, then he disappears up a flight of stairs, giving me a final wave.

  I turn and head towards my own form room. I know the way because I had an orientation day during the holidays. I stop outside S12, pouf up my hair, check the corners of my mouth for caramel, then pop another Tic Tac – I need a lot of invincibility to see me through the next few minutes.

  I take a deep breath and push open the door.

  A group of teenagers turn to look at me and I look back at them. I know it’s wrong to judge people on first impressions, but I’m fairly certain it’s what they’re doing with me so I allow myself to indulge, just for a moment.

  I see three big sporty boys looking uncomfortable in their plastic chairs; one boy sitting on his own with his hands clutching a briefcase; four girls with perfect everything – hair, make-up and clothes; a girl with cornrows and massive yellow specs; two clever-looking boys; and a couple of smiley girls, the kind that get asked to babysit.

  An awkward silence fills the room. I’m fairly certain it was like this before I came in, but I still feel a certain responsibility to break it.

  ‘Hi. I’m Annie,’ I say.

  I get thirteen smiles and nods back, but the specs girl gives me a big grin.

  With all their eyes on me, I move my wheelchair over to the wall and put on the brakes. Then I tighten the straps on my rucksack, put my feet on the floor and grip the push rings. You know when you go swimming, and you can either jump straight in or inch slowly deeper and deeper into the water? Well, I’m a ju
mp-right-in kind of person. I push myself up and out of the wheelchair, then I walk across the room.

  Well, I say I walk …

  My knees and toes point inwards, towards each other, and with each step I take my hips jerk from side to side. So I don’t lose my balance, my arms swing about too … oh, and my butt sticks out. It’s my walk, but it’s not most people’s walk, which is why thirteen pairs of eyes are watching every step I take. I look up and meet their gaze. Thirteen pairs of eyes flick away.

  ‘I’ve got mild cerebral palsy,’ I say, ‘spastic diplegia.’

  Cautiously, the thirteen pairs of eyes rise again as I take a seat next to the specs girl.

  I take a sip of water and another Tic Tac – projecting immense confidence is tiring – then, when I’m ready, I look up.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, smiling.

  She grins back at me. She has big eyes and beautifully round cheeks that for some reason remind me of apples.

  ‘I like your dungarees,’ she says in a rush. She’s got this throaty voice that doesn’t match how sweet she looks. ‘I’ve got a pair like them, but in blue.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I love them, but they’re annoying when you go to the toilet.’

  ‘Totally! I keep dropping the straps in wee.’

  I like this girl. She says whatever pops into her head.

  She pushes up her specs. ‘My name’s Hilary.’

  ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘I like your glasses.’

  ‘I know, yellow frames – how cool? I got them in a charity shop in Devon.’

  While Hilary and I discuss the pros and cons of dungarees, yellow and charity shops, everyone around us starts chatting too. I love moments like this. The start of things. The smiley girls swap numbers, the clever boys have an earnest chat and the perfect-looking girls talk to the sporty boys. I glance across the room and notice that the only person not joining in on this high-speed bonding exercise is briefcase boy. My heart goes out to him, but I don’t go over because Hilary has just claimed that I once tied her to a chair and this I need to follow up.

  ‘I did what?’

  She does her gravelly chuckle. ‘It was at playgroup. You tied me to a chair in the Wendy house and I missed the apple and toast.’