Orange Juice

Orange Peel

I watch her as she peels the orange, delicately and gracefully. There's something odd about the way she peels it, almost as if she wants to get it off all in one piece. But I'm too far away to see. The people around me are talking, perhaps to me, and I speak a few words to them, not really listening.

She's biting into the orange now. Doesn't she know how sour they are? But her face shows no emotion, no expressions of distaste. I only know one kind of face that does that; a face which has something to hide. Sadness, perhaps?

She wipes the orange juice off her face and picks up the orange peel, and I see that is in the shape of a flower, beautiful, like an orange sunflower. But instead of keeping it, she begins to pluck the petals off, staring around the room. For a second, she meets my eyes, or perhaps I imagine it.

The people around her stand up, ready to leave. Someone nudges her, and she looks up, dropping the peel onto the table. She leaves as she entered, quietly and moving like a dancer. Someone like that could never do any harm, I found myself thinking.

As soon as I can, I stand up and walk casually over to where she was sitting. As I pass, I snatch the orange peel without looking at the shape, and walk swiftly away. I run up to my room, which is empty at this time of the day, and put on some music. Then, taking a deep breath, I draw the peel out of my pocket.

It is in the shape of a heart.

Orange Pips

I look around the room, trying not to look at the girl at the other side of the room. I fail miserably.

The pumpkin juice is too sweet today, so I put it down and reach for an orange. I know they're sour; they're always sour, but I don't care. I peel it carefully, making sure it all comes off in one piece. Why? I don't know, it's what I always do. Somehow it turns out looking like a flower.

As I place the first segment into my mouth, the sourness seems to rush through my whole body, cleansing me, healing me. I suck the juice out, hen swallow the empty skin, sitting motionless as it slips down my throat. Too late, I remember the pips.

I shrug and place another segment in my mouth. This time, though, I know the pips are there. I still swallow, but the sour taste doesn't affect me anymore. It's not like torture.

When I was younger, I assumed that to not have any friends was pure torture. Not that I ever had to worry, my parents' money saw to that, but there was a girl in my school... there was nothing wrong with her; she just didn't like talking about who was hot, who was not, what was in, what was out. I think, now, that I should have talked to her, been her friend, no matter what everyone else said.

It got out of hand, because there is always someone, in any school, who is the butt of every joke and the annoying thorn in the headteacher's side.

By year six, she was being bullied so badly that she went home with bruises... and came back the next day with more. I'd heard the rumours- her father was a drunk, her mother a wimp... but I hadn't believed them.

But even when we surrounded her, laughing, teasing and taunting as only a child can, she held her head high and refused to cry. She had a straight face, even as I watched my best friends kick her in the knee. Even as she was tripped in the classroom walking to her desk, she refused to crumble inside.

Few teachers tried to talk to her; even fewer tried to help her. Now that I think about, three or four of the teachers even singled her out for bad treatment.

I used to catch a glimpse of her sometimes on the rare days when she was left alone, sitting on a bench by the classroom, reading. There seemed to be a sort of bubble around her, a large space, a no-mans-land.

Once and only once did I talk to her. It was a Friday, and we were the only people left in the playground; our mothers were late. She was standing by the gate, alert and ready to run. She stepped back as I walked towards her, expecting... well, my usual attitude.

"Tessa," I said, using her name for the first time. She looked up, startled, and looked straight into my eyes. For the first time, I saw that Tessa's eyes were green.

"What do you want?" she whispered, staring at me. And that's when I realised; I didn't know. Why had I walked up to her?

"What do you want?" she said again.

"I know I haven't been exactly nice..." I started. Tessa stopped me by laughing bitterly.

"Not exactly, no."

"But I know how you feel- I used to be the odd-one-out," I persisted.

"Before I came and saved you, you mean," Tessa said bitterly. "I had friends when I came to this school, you know. Jamie and Clara." I nodded, remembering when those three had gone everywhere together.

"Why are you still here?" I asked sincerely. Tessa looked at me for a moment, then looked back towards the road.

"My parents won't move me," she said, clenching her fists.

I tried for a moment to say more, but my mouth seemed too heavy to use.

Then, down the road, I caught sight of my friends. I stepped out of the gates, ready to greet them as they ran up to me.

"What was she doing?" Donna, my best friend, called. "Was she trying to hit you?" I blinked in surprise, then turned to look at Tessa, who was backing away.

"Push her, like we planned!" Josh yelled. I saw Tessa's eyes widen, and I tried to protest, but in another moment she was gone.

"Tessa!" I called, only the second time I had used her name.

But it was too late to call her back. Too late to say what I had been trying to tell her- that I was sorry, and that I would be her friend.

As Tessa ran out into the road, a silver car sped around the corner. The world seemed to slow for a second, and then my heart seemed to stop beating as it smashed into Tessa.

Afterwards, they said it was accident- how horrific for her friends. At her funeral, Donna and Clara cried more than anyone. The whole school mourned her, although I doubt if there was anyone apart from Jamie, Clara and me who had ever talked to her.

I skipped school the day after the funeral to visit her grave. It wasn't how I'd imagined it; no gravestone, only a wooden cross with toys and flowers around. I laid my offering, three yellow roses picked from my mother's garden, then stood back.

Ever since then, I've tried to be as brave as Tessa, as wonderful. I haven't cried, although I know I will when I really need to. I've held my head high and held Tessa in my heart.

I visited her grave again in the winter holidays; the gravestone was small, but at least it was there.

Tessa, October 1980- May 1990.

That's all it says. I noticed someone had been changing the flowers; I laid three yellow roses at the bottom of the white gravestone and walked away, knowing I'll only be back once more, if I live through the war that is inevitably going to happen.

And maybe then I'll be able to say sorry.