If this is what most primary schools are like, Gerard thinks, he’s astonishingly grateful to his mother for teaching him at home. For a given degree of “teaching”, anyway.
Martin insists it isn’t, and he’s told Gerard about the school he went to in Devon before he and his mother moved to London—he actually seems to miss it—but Gerard isn’t convinced. The whole building seems tired and sagging, but it’s also extremely clinical and impersonal. Everything is cinderblock and grey tile and plain doors with mesh in the glass. Bells bristle on the walls like boils, and all in all it seems more like a prison than a place of learning. Of course, Gerard isn’t entirely certain they’re all that different anyway.
The actual meeting takes place in the gymnasium, which has a wooden floor but is otherwise made of the same depressing cinderblocks as the rest of the building, and there is an almost coyly twee sign reading Support for Parents Alone Raising Kids, the capitalized letters obvious and adorned in glitter to make the SPARK stand out. The parents in question, mostly mothers, sit on metal folding chairs in only slightly better shape than the gymnasium. The kids in question, however, are currently being shooed outside.
Gerard does not want to go outside. He caught a glimpse of the playground on the way in, thank you very much, and it looks like a tetanus shot waiting to happen. Rust and concrete and sand and nothing particularly exciting. He’d much rather stay inside and listen to the meeting, or go hole up in the library—surely this place has a library. But Martin is tugging him outside, and, okay, he’ll play along.
Gerard’s a bit surprised, but he really likes this kid. Part of it is that he’s not immune to a bit of hero-worship and Martin tends to look at him like he’s some kind of minor god, but mostly it’s just that…well, Martin is a genuinely nice person. He’s amazingly brilliant for a seven-year-old, a fast and voracious reader—he’s read even more books than Gerard has—and he’s got, so Gerard thinks, the voice of an angel. His fondness for poetry is a bit of an irritation, but again, he’s seven, he’ll probably grow out of sentimental nonsense like that. Anyway, if Martin thinks they should go outside with the other children, Gerard will let him take the lead. After all, this is his first time being here; Mrs. Blackwood has been attending, and bringing Martin, for several weeks now.
Gerard isn’t sure why his mother agreed to come, actually, since his dad’s been gone at least five years now and she definitely doesn’t need any support in raising him, but she did and he already knows better than to question her actions.
There are about a dozen kids that spill out onto the playground and scatter to the corners. Several of the girls run over to pick up skipping ropes; most of the boys begin kicking a ball around. Others race for the climbing structure or the rickety slide. None of it appeals to Gerard.
“What do you usually do?” Gerard asks Martin, who hasn’t run to join any of the groups. He assumes Martin is waiting for him to choose what they’ll do, but surely Martin has a favorite activity.
Martin scuffs his shoe against the concrete, a bit shyly, and doesn’t look up at Gerard when he answers. “I, um, I like the swings.”
“Okay, sounds good,” Gerard lies. Like everything else on the playground, the swing set seems to be comprised of metal and rust, and he isn’t entirely sure what the point of them is either. Just to sit on them? It doesn’t sound like his idea of fun, but if Martin likes them…
There was a bit of a drizzle this morning, but it’s cleared up now; still, the pavement is damp in places and there are a few undeniable puddles where the yard sags and dips. Gerard is thankful for the new—well, new to him anyway—boots he bought at the secondhand shop last week; though worn, they still have deep treads that keep him from slipping as they head across the playground. He’s still wearing a three-piece suit, which he hates, but…baby steps. Sooner or later he’ll be able to save up enough of his pocket money to buy the clothes he wants to wear, and maybe eventually his mother will get the hint and stop dressing him like a small professor. They’re not upper class, whatever she says about her ancestors, and Gerard is pretty sure that the rich assholes who come to buy rare books from his mother can see through his outfits clearly enough. They know he’s trash. He might as well dress like it.
Martin rounds a teeter-totter that looks even more unsafe than the rest of the playground equipment and stutters to a halt, nearly making Gerard trip over him. He’s about to ask what’s wrong when he sees it, too. Someone else got to the swings first.
Someone else is a girl who’s either very young or very small for her age. Gerard finds himself envious of her outfit, not because he wants to wear that exactly—he can’t imagine anyone wanting to wear that many colors at the same time—but because she very obviously picked it out herself, because no way would her mother (he assumes it’s her mother) select something like this for her. She’s wearing a shirt with orange and white horizontal stripes, bright purple dungarees with tiny pale lilac flower buds printed all over them, and hot pink high-top sneakers with glittery laces, and her hair is pulled into two bunches on either side of her head and secured with something with bright, slightly translucent blue balls on the ends. She has a puffy gold star sticker under each eye like some kind of war paint, and she’s staring at the swing with narrowed eyes and her hands on her hips like she’s challenging it to something.
Gerard assumes they’ll be moving on to find something else to do, but to his surprise, Martin clears his throat. “Um, hi.”
The girl starts and whirls on them. Her scowl somehow deepens, and her fists come up in front of her. It would be intimidating if she wasn’t so tiny, but as it is, Gerard isn’t impressed.
“What?” she demands.
Martin gives her a smile that seems a bit shaky and indicates the swings. “Um, can—can we join you? O-on the swings?”
The girl considers this for a minute, then eyes the swings before looking back at Martin. “There are only two.”
“That’s okay, you two can have them,” Gerard says quickly before Martin can offer. “I’ll just watch or something.”
He’ll watch, all right. He’ll watch long enough for Martin to make friends with this new girl and forget he’s there, and then he can slip off inside. He’ll probably feel bad about that later, but at least he’s not abandoning Martin with no one to play with if he and Miss Thing here get on.
“Well…okay.” The girl lifts her chin almost defiantly and sticks out a hand towards them. “I’m Melanie.”
“I’m Martin, and this is Gerard,” Martin says, taking her hand and shaking it. “It’s nice to meet you, Melanie.”
“Uh…yeah…hi,” Gerard says. He, too, shakes her hand when she offers it.
Martin smiles, a bit more confidently this time. Melanie doesn’t exactly smile back, but at least she’s not scowling. “You can have that swing. I’m going to get on this one.”
“Okay.”
Martin goes over to the swing indicated and circles it for a moment, then leans forward to snag the chain. Gerard isn’t sure why until he notices the twin puddles directly under both swings. He realizes that generations of feet scuffing at the ground have worn a bit of a dip that allows water to collect, and Martin is worried—most likely rightly—that his mother will have kittens if he gets his shoes muddy. Once Martin has the swing in hand, he maneuvers himself so he’s facing away from it, takes a deep breath, and gives a little hop. Somehow he settles into the seat correctly without falling; it immediately swings backwards, and Martin holds on desperately and tries to kick his feet to straighten himself out and keep from swinging over onto Melanie’s side of the swings.
Melanie tries to do the same, but Gerard realizes very quickly that it won’t work. Apart from the fact that she’s shorter than Martin, the seat is somehow higher than the other side. If she leans forward without stepping into the puddle, she’s going to fall face-first into it. Gerard tries to figure out how to tell her that without making it look like he’s being a bully. Then, as Martin finally gets his trajectory more or less under control, Gerard notices that the swing has been wrapped over the top bar of the swing set.
“Well, duh,” Melanie says when he points this out. “Otherwise your feet get wet.”
“Yeah, but you can’t reach it. Hang on.” Gerard manages to plant his feet on either side of the puddle and tosses the swing a few times until he manages to get it over the top, with a rattle and a clank. Once it settles, he pulls it back and hands it to Melanie. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” Melanie eyes him suspiciously for a minute, but takes the chains in either hand. She tries several times to haul herself up into the seat, but doesn’t quite manage it, and on her final try nearly gets dragged into the puddle. She manages to brake herself and backs up, then looks over at Gerard. “Can you hold it steady for me while I get on? Please?”
The please is clearly an afterthought, but Gerard doesn’t care all that much about politeness, and he’s a bit surprised to be asked anyway. He takes the chain and holds the swing as requested.
It still takes Melanie two or three tries, but she finally manages to get herself settled. Gerard holds on for just a second, until Martin swings out of the way, then lets go and steps to one side. As an afterthought, watching Martin’s still-wobbly swing, he catches his chain and manages to stop him, then straightens him out before pulling him back and letting him go as well.
“Thanks, Gerard,” Martin says happily, kicking his feet in their battered trainers forward.
“Thanks, Gerard,” Melanie echoes.
Gerard blinks. “Uh, yeah, sure, no problem.”
He watches for a few moments. They seem happy enough, and he’s about ready to try to slink off when Melanie asks, “Is this your first time coming here?”
“Not mine. Mum’s been coming for a few weeks,” Martin answers, his sentence punctuated with the tiniest of pauses every time he reaches the acme of his swing and pumps himself backwards or forwards. “It’s Gerard’s first time, though.”
“Oh.” Melanie twists her head to study Gerard with a frown. The action makes her swing start twisting slightly, and she hurriedly turns to face forward again. “But aren’t you brothers?”
“No.” Gerard tries not to sound appalled at the idea. It’s not that he doesn’t like Martin, he does, but he wouldn’t want Mrs. Blackwood as a mum any more than he would wish his mother on another child. He comes around and catches Melanie’s swing to stop it twisting before it slams into Martin and straightens it out, then gives her a little push when he lets go. “My mother is friends with his.”
“Oh,” Melanie says again. She doesn’t tuck her feet as far under herself this time when she reaches the top of her arc, and Gerard instinctively takes a step back and gives her another little push when she comes close enough. “So you don’t have a dad? Either of you?”
Martin shakes his head, but doesn’t elaborate. Gerard’s not surprised. He’s only known Martin about six weeks, and in that whole time, he’s never heard him mention his dad once. He gives Martin a push as well—it’s only fair—and tells Melanie, “Haven’t for a while. Mine died when I was about your age. I don’t remember him too well, really.”
“How old are you?” Melanie asks suspiciously.
“Ten.”
“I’m seven,” Martin interjects. “But I’ll be eight in August.”
“I’m seven, too,” Melanie says. “My birthday’s not until November, though.”
Martin kicks his feet out to push himself backwards. “‘Not yesterday I learned to know / The love of bare November days…’”
“Robert Browning?” Gerard hazards, catching Martin lightly and pushing him forward, then shifting to do the same for Melanie.
“Frost.”
“Who’s that?” Melanie asks. She tips her head back to look at Gerard, then squeaks as the chain momentarily goes slack and nearly topples her backwards. Gerard instinctively starts forward to catch her, but she manages to correct herself.
“Robert Frost? He was a poet,” Martin explains. “He wrote lots of really great poems about nature, especially winter and autumn and all that. He was American, but he lived in a pretty part. Mrs. Dooley taught me about him.”
“Oh—you go to school here too?”
“Yup. I just started this term. I was in Mrs. Tisdale’s class.”
“I was in Mrs. Brown’s. Maybe we’ll both be in the same class next year.” Melanie glances at Gerard as she reaches the end of her swing. “Whose class were you in?”
“My mother teaches me at home.” Gerard tries not to sound superior.
Melanie grunts. “Figures.”
Gerard decides to turn the tables a bit. “What about your dad? How long has he been gone?”
“He isn’t. He’s inside.” Melanie stops kicking her feet, and Gerard notices her hands tighten around the chains, even as her chin drops to her chest. “Mama just died.”
Okay, now Gerard feels like a little bit of a jerk. Martin stops kicking his feet, too, and his face, when he looks at Melanie, is creased in sympathy. “I’m sorry, Melanie.”
Melanie looks up as she begins to slow, and there’s an almost angry look in her eyes. “I’m not going to forget her. Not when I’m ten and not when I’m ten hundred.”
Gerard almost corrects her that “ten hundred” is a thousand, but one look at the reproachful expression on Martin’s face and he swallows that. “I, um, I thought you were younger than seven, actually. It’s been five years almost. And he worked a lot before that, so I never really got to know him all that well. I’m sure you’ll remember your mother better.”
Melanie sniffs. She clearly means it to be defiant, but it sounds more like she’s about to cry. “She’s worth remembering.”
Martin gives her an encouraging smile. “Why don’t you tell us about her?”
Gerard grabs Melanie’s swing again and pulls her clear of the puddle. “Why don’t we go inside first?”
“We’re supposed to be outside,” Martin protests.
“I’m big enough to be responsible,” Gerard boasts. “We can go sit in the library.”
Melanie slips out of the swing and hops to one side. “If Mrs. Dooley is there, she’ll let us.”
“Well…” Martin wavers.
Gerard tugs Martin away from the puddle under his swing. “C’mon, Martin, don’t you trust me?”
It’s maybe a little bit unfair, but it works. Martin’s eyes widen briefly, and he slips out of the swing instantly. “Of course I trust you!”
“Come on then.” Gerard takes Martin’s hand and reaches for Melanie’s, too; she eyes him suspiciously, but accepts it.
The teenager who’s supposed to be watching them doesn’t notice them slipping inside, which is just fine with Gerard. They tiptoe down the hallway—the doors to the gymnasium are open and they don’t want to get caught—and to the only other set of double doors, with a brass plaque on the left one reading LIBRARY. There’s a light on inside, and when they pull it open, they’re met with a plump, matronly woman who greets them with a smile and open arms. She seems pleased to meet Gerard, and she readily directs them to a tiny cluster of chairs.
“There’s no one else here,” she says, her Scottish accent thick and heavy, “so you can be as loud as you like. I’ll let your parents know they can find you here after the meeting, but meantime, you three just settle down and enjoy yourselves, you hear?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Dooley,” Martin and Melanie say in unison with matching smiles. Mrs. Dooley laughs and bustles away.
Gerard looks at the two kids he’s inexplicably saddled himself with and wonders, for a fleeting moment, how he let things get this far. He wanted to be alone.
By the time his mother comes to collect all three of them, with the explanation that Mrs. Blackwood and Mr. King are in deep conversation and will meet them out front, he wonders why he ever thought that would be the better option.