STAY WILD

Chapter One 

The Beginning of Strange

Dear Curse (because that’s what you feel like),

I want you to go away.

You tell me I am barren and superfluous to requirements, but I want to hold onto my Star, run into the night with the wild love of the sky. 

I tried not to aggravate Dad, and I tried to be a great walker over eggshells so not to make Mum feel guilty, yet it never worked. He still drank and flung his fists and she still rallied around terrified, and my importance dropped further down a bruised list. 

Dad is no more. The bottle finally moved him to earth in a graveyard, and Mum reinvented herself with her own law firm and red lipstick. Why is it then, that I still feel like the teddy bear left on the platform whilst everyone boarded the train not noticing?

It’s exhausting to have a mind telling me I’m not wanted because I’m wonky. To always look for and stay ahead of problems, in whatever way I can, in order to survive life. It shatters me to think I can’t be a proper artist or have a dope boyfriend or a normal family with a normal upbringing. For these things are only for chosen people, which you say is not me, yet somewhere deep within my Star disagrees.

What will become of me? Who will win the tug of war between you and my Star? This scares me the most as I fear it will be you, and I don’t know what to do or how to find a solution.

So, dear Star, please send help.

Love, Seven Madison (aged 16).

I tear out the letter I wrote in my notebook weeks and weeks ago. I don’t know if I’m mad, upset, scared, or all three that nothing has changed, and no sign has appeared indicating my life ever will. So, I burn it down the alley and watch with intensity as the paper turns to ash. When it’s finally in ruins, I walk away and head down the silent alley to meet Yasmina – Yas, as we all call her – to catch the bus to school. Near the end where the alley opens out into the main street, a gust of wind whooshes pieces of grey confetti past me, and I try to ignore the irony of my burnt unanswered hopes having the last word. As the dismal remnants of grey confetti disappear into the atmosphere, the sound of Yas’ voice zips me back towards the bus stop awaiting me. 

“Hey, over here,” she says, waving excessively, followed by her casting a disapproving glare to the boy stood next to her who mimicked her actions because her elbow nearly hit him in the face.

The early morning bus crawls the main road to school, the whooshing air brakes almost rhythmic with the bus stopping every few minutes to let more students and workers pile in. The bus begins to fill with clutter and a muggy vibe, yet outside the world is spring bright as I scroll through old texts and photographs on my phone; photos of Nate and me, places Nate and I visited, Nate being funny…

“It should be me with him at the game on Friday, not Lizzie,” I say to Yas as she unties her hair with a long swish.

“It’s his loss. There will be someone else, someone way better than Nate, but first, you need to delete those,” she says, waggling her finger over the pictures on my phone. I snap my head up and stare at her in shock.

“What?”

“You need to make space for Mr Magical to swoop in,” Yas replies, moving her arms outwards as though she was sweeping back an ocean full of junk. Except it’s the only time I felt like I fitted together properly. 

“I can’t delete those. And…” I say, widening my eyes at Yas, “…look what happened the last time I followed your, and I quote, ‘most fantastic idea’.”

“So, my best friend advice was a little off back then… but do you want Mr Magical or not?”

I think for a beat.

“More than being an artist. Well, maybe not more than, because that’s kind of a biggy, but it’s right up there near it.”

“Babe. Start deleting,” she instructs, remaining unnervingly steadfast.

I click on a photo and my thumb hovers over the bin icon. Even though Nate and I are no longer together, and he’s all buzzed up about dating – ugh – Lizzie, I can’t delete our happy memories and the hope of their return. My phone takes flight out of my hands; Yas holds it up in the air, her thumb dangerously close to deleting as she swipes through the photos.

“Hey, give it back.” I grapple, annoying the girls sat behind us. “Give it back.”

We scuffle a little longer until Yas abruptly halts, absorbed in a photo.

“When did you take this picture? I don’t remember being there?” she asks.

I had forgotten about the picture Yas is questioning – a snap I took of Felix and Leo at Wavies, the Smoothie Bar in Silversedge where everyone hangs out. Felix was kissing a random girl on the cheek and Leo’s beach hair and suntan looked catchy compared to the backdrop of Londoners in winter, especially because he was wearing his silly Santa hat from Miami, but that’s not why I took it. 

I’d called into Wavies on my way home from central London, and Felix and Leo happened to be there already. It wasn’t too long after twins Leo and Lizzie Joseph had moved over from Miami, and the bromance between Felix and Leo was apparent from the start.

“Leo had something weird above his head, like tiny lights dancing in mid-air. I was trying to show them both on a picture, but I missed them, or they vanished.”

“Dancing lights?” Yas replies. “Had you been drinking?”

“Funny – not. Actually, Felix and Leo said the same, that was before Felix turned into a ten-year-old because he wanted dancing lights above his head too.”

I spend the next five minutes explaining to Yas we hadn’t arranged to meet up without her and she didn’t miss out. There wasn’t time to message her and, if I recall, she was out with her parents anyway.

“Probably,” Yas says. “No doubt forced to go to a family event or equally hoorah bore.”

“Your family is great! You have brothers to talk to and you can call cool places like Dubai home,” I say, taking my phone back. 

“Dubai is not cool. It’s like living in an oven,” Yas replies. She stares vacantly out of the window until the bus pulls up at the South Street stop, our stop, and I’m relieved my photos survived the ordeal.

We meet Leo and Lizzie at the zebra crossing by the bus stop. I can understand why Nate started dating Lizzie, she’s on point: happy, sporty – a surfer for pity’s sake – and bolder than most British girls with legs taller than the entirety of me. Whilst mine and Nate’s break up was my fault, I didn’t expect a hot American surfer to wander in from across the pond to take my place. I try to be pleasant to Lizzie but I’m sure she feels the block I placed around her. Felix says it’s ‘bitchy’ of me, and I don’t like that thought either because it’s far away from the truth: it’s the dislike of myself that prevents me from liking her and letting the situation go.

We make our way across the road as traffic impatiently waits for us to reach the other side of the crossing. As is the case most mornings these days, it’s only the four of us from our group, the MGs, arriving together at school. We’ve given up waiting for Felix in the mornings, Nate is already at basketball practice and RV is still MIA. 

We turn the corner; the familiar red brick building and its rows of tall arched windows and the ‘Welcome to Silversedge High School’ sign above the main doors are all as spotless as the streets of Silversedge. Drawing closer, I note how pretty the yellow flowers look blossoming amongst the bushes. I was about to mention this but thought better of it as we merged in with the crowd of black uniforms and black shoes migrating into the grounds.

We are all but robots.

Me, Yas, Leo and Lizzie drift through the iron gates that loom, open wide like the arms of a devil welcoming everyone in, until – slam – they lock tight, imprisoning innocent beings for another day.

***

I hear Mrs Price in the distance. The desks and the back of classmates’ heads in front of me coming back into clear focus. Mrs Prices’ voice grows like a volume dial being turned up in one swift movement, booming words from behind me as I emerge from a mini sleep or a daydream or— come to think of it, where the hell was I? 

“GCSE exams are in less than three months. You all should know this by now. Seven! What answer do you have?” 

She’s done this deliberately; she spotted my mind leaving the heat battered classroom. God, I hate teachers sometimes. 

I glance down at my French book praying to find the answer to a question I didn’t hear. Except the only thing I’ve written – well, drawn – is a strange symbol. I can feel Mrs Price boring down at my book from over my shoulder as I wrestle with this odd creation and the answer to give her.

“Erm, erm,” I reply to Mrs Price, looking to my classmate next to me for assistance, but she shrugs her shoulder and looks as blank as me. “Err,” I repeat again. Mrs Price blows out her dismay.

“Seven thinks the translation is a triangle with a bird in it,” she says, scrutinising the biro drawing more, “a raven, maybe. With a blue eye.” The class begins sniggering and I close my book with embarrassment, silently wondering if her commentary falls under soft bullying. Mrs Price adds the translation to my pressure cooker of homework and directs her question to someone else. 

“Michael, can you help Seven and her raven out?”

Unless obsessed footballer Michael can explain why I drew the symbol and what it means, then no, Mrs Price, Michael cannot help me and my raven out. 

Soon enough the class are packing up and ready to leave. I sit impatiently, checking the clock and waiting for the bell to ring rather than listening to Mrs Prices’ end of class spiel. When it strikes, chairs scrape in unison and a herd of people rattle out of the classroom into the corridor. Unfortunately, no one else in the MGs takes French. Whimsical thoughts of drawing in Paris and eating crepes down romantic cobbled streets were the reasons I opted for it, but I question my choice now. I could just go to Paris and learn with real French people. 

Stuck in the lunchtime river of students in the corridor, I make a left at the end into the wide alcove leading to the girl’s toilets – a key spot within the sprawling school, free from eyes of lurking teachers – and open The MG group chat. We decided the MGs sounded more original than ‘The Main Group’, so we kept it and the group grew over time until the MGs became us.

Seven is typing

Will be late to lunch. Going to art.

Yas is typing

Ok babe. We’ll be in the canteen.

Leo is typing

That’s rad, have fun.

Felix is typing

How the fuck is that rad?

Seven is typing

Shut up Felix, you melon

Felix is typing

I’m hurt

Nate is typing

Grab us a grilled chicken sandwich someone before they all go

Lizzie is typing

I’m starving, see you all in there

Leo is typing

When are you not?

RV

Message status - Seen.

No reply, as usual.

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Spreading the sorcery love,

Annaliese

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