Things the Eye Can't See. Penny Joelson
I say, as we reach the doors.
‘Great.’ She touches my shoulder gently. And then she’s gone.
Someone shoves past me and I call out, ‘Hey, watch it!’
I hate the crowded corridors first thing in the morning. I direct Samson towards our form room and he leads me there, carefully weaving in and out of the crowds. I’m relieved when we reach the room and I’m in my chair, with Samson snuggled under the desk by my legs. I didn’t get to tell Madz about Charlie, and now I’m thinking about it, I’m glad I didn’t. I don’t need her help with this. I want to do it myself.
Five minutes later, Madz sneaks in beside me just as Miss Terri starts the register.
‘Well?’ I whisper.
‘He’s cool. I’m so relieved!’ she whispers back. ‘He’s asked me to watch him play cricket at lunch. Would you mind? Can you manage without me?’
‘You’re not my carer,’ I remind her. ‘I’ll be fine.’
I’m irritated that she thinks I can’t cope without her, but also that she didn’t ask me to join her. Not that I want to sit around at a cricket match.
Samson shuffles against my feet, as the implications of what she said start to filter through. I start to worry. Lunch in the dining hall is much easier with Madz. I don’t have to think too much because she always finds us a table, and makes sure I don’t put my lunch down too close to the edge, and that there’s an empty chair so I’m not sitting on someone’s bag where they’ve saved a seat.
I have other friends, but not close like Madz, and everyone has their lunch groups and routines. I’d feel awkward saying, ‘Can I sit with you at lunch?’ to Kaeya or Lilly. And then I’d have to ask them for that little bit of help too, but without them fussing over me. Madz does everything with no fuss. I forget she’s even doing it.
‘Are you OK? I feel really bad,’ Madz says.
‘It’s fine,’ I assure her. ‘You’ve got to have a life. I’m happy for you. I have to get used to doing stuff without you.’
I’m used to spending a lot of time with Madz – before school, lunchtimes, at least one night after school each week and one day at the weekend. I’ve never wanted her to feel that I’m relying on her. Our friendship hasn’t felt like that. Being with her is effortless and I don’t have to explain anything. Yet now she’s got a boyfriend and isn’t going to be around so much, I feel vulnerable and needy, and I don’t like it.
As well as the cinema, we go shopping together, take Samson to the park – all sorts of things. Apart from that, if I am out it’s with Mum or Dad and sometimes Joe too. All I actually do on my own, with Samson, is simple, familiar, routine journeys – the walk to and from school, sometimes the walk to the station to meet someone, the walk to Madz’s house and the walk to the shop at the end of our road.
We’d been talking about extending my reach – learning new routes to new places. It’s something I’d mentioned to Dad before, but he got all nervous and said we’d have to get Gina, my guide dog mobility instructor, to teach me and Samson the routes. Madz was going to help me, but now she won’t have time. I feel like my world is suddenly a little smaller.
‘I’ll still be around,’ says Madz, putting her hand on mine and squeezing. ‘We can still do things.’
I squeeze her hand back. ‘I’ll be fine. You’ll have to tell me every detail of how it’s going!’
‘Maybe not every detail!’ she giggles, as the bell rings for first lesson.
*
Today feels weird. I’m used to the regular routine of my life. In the last few weeks I’ve had to adjust to Madz spending time with Ollie, and now I have a note to give to a boy I barely know.
Kyle isn’t in my form, but I have three lessons with him today – maths, geography and art. I still haven’t worked out a way to approach him in class without anyone noticing. I’ll have to wait until after; maybe on the way out of a lesson. The corner of the envelope keeps digging into my thigh, reminding me it’s there.
I don’t manage to catch Kyle after Maths or Geography. I must do it today. I got the sense from Charlie that it was urgent, important, and I can’t bear the thought of still having the note at home tonight, worrying about it.
I decide I’ll go to the resource room to eat my lunch. That’s where the students who need extra support go – and I used to go there before I got friendly with Madz. There’s people from all year groups. Sometimes I feel like I’m part of two worlds. In the resource room, you never have to explain or justify. People can just be whoever they are. It’s a more caring, protected world.
I used to love the break from the challenges of all my lessons, so many students and different rooms to get used to. The dining hall terrified me back in Year 7. Even when I made friends with Madz, it took a lot of coaxing to get me in there. The real world is far more hostile and challenging, but also more interesting, with way more opportunities. I’m used to it now – and having Samson has made it easier too. But today I don’t feel up to the challenge.
‘Libby! It’s Libby!’
I am greeted like a long-lost friend, although unsurprisingly someone is sitting in the seat that I used to consider mine. Also unsurprisingly, the main fuss is over Samson, rather than me. I hear him sniffing as the smells of tuna and cheese and onion crisps waft through the air.
‘Can I stroke your dog?’
‘Can I?’
‘Just keep your lunches out of his reach,’ I tell them. ‘Or he might think you’re offering him a treat.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Samson.’
‘Hi Libby, it’s Jenny,’ says the learning support teacher. ‘How are you getting on? We haven’t seen you in here for ages. And how’s Samson?’
‘He’s made a huge difference,’ I tell her. ‘I feel much more confident now I have him. I just thought I’d pop in and visit you guys.’
I don’t want to admit that I’m here because I feel nervous without Madz. And I’m not exactly sure how I’m getting on, now I have a mission to deliver a note for a boy no one’s seen for six months.
‘It’s nice to have you here,’ says Jenny. ‘I’m making arrangements for support for your English class theatre trip. I’ll let you know when I’ve got more information.’
‘Thanks,’ I tell her.
‘We’ve missed you!’ says a voice. I have to think for a bit to work out who it is.
‘Is that Dylan?’ I ask.
‘Yes. Had you forgotten me?’
Dylan has Muscular Dystrophy. ‘No – but you sound a bit different.’
‘His voice has broken,’ says Rafique.
‘Yeah – I’m a man now, eh?’ says Dylan.
‘You don’t exactly talk like a man,’ Rafique teases. ‘It’s not just the deep voice. It’s what you actually say. No offence, mate.’
‘None taken,’ says Dylan, laughing.
‘Libby, come and sit over here and meet Josie,’ says Jenny. ‘She’s in Year 7 and she’s losing her sight. I know that’s very different, but it might inspire her to see how well you manage.’
‘OK,’ I say, though I feel awkward. ‘Hi Josie.’
‘Hi. Your dog is lovely!’ Josie’s voice sounds young,