Friends

Westminster chimes ting out. The battery must be as tired as the paintwork surrounding the supposedly stained glass of the front door. My coat catches on slightly webby brickwork as I lean against the wall, waiting for my friend to answer the door. Did I hear footsteps? Or maybe not. Perhaps she has left already. Maybe, she has forgotten that we'd arranged to meet this morning. I can see a shadow moving, only it's retreating, getting further away from me. Why won't she answer the door? There's a slam round the back and quick steps then wheels and pedals and chains whirr and all I can see is her bag as it swings round the corner and she makes good her escape.

Oh my god that hurts. I can feel my shoulders sagging, and I start to cry. A creak reveals her father at the door. He looks confused, but I can suddenly see things very clearly indeed. I'm not wanted anymore.

I pick up my bicycle. There's no point trying to catch her. Apart from the fact that my bike used to belong to my mother, has no gears and sports a big fat wide plastic paddle for a seat and a shopping basket on the front, while hers is a racer with fancy handles and five gears; a boys' bike with a bar that you need to negotiate with a kind of swaggering kick before you can sit on the tiny little leather perch; and ignoring the fact that I'm thin and weedy and not built for powerful bursts of stamina such as it would take to gain some ground, what would I say? "Why don't you like me? Who will be my friend now? Please like me!" No. Instead I drag my two wheels out from under the neatly trimmed hedge, and cycle slowly to school, a warm summer wind getting into my eyes so that I blame that for the tears making their melancholy way down my nose and cheeks. I'm not crying over her. I'm not. I'm not.