Free Apple and Rain by Sarah Crossan

‘What are you doing ?’ I ask.
    ‘Jenny’s hungry at night.’ She waves a baby bottle of milk in my face.
    Rain kneels on the floor with the doll lying in front of her and changes her nappy. Then she paces the room for ages humming Twinkle Twinkle Little Star into Jenny’s plastic ear. The doll’s eyes are fixed open.
    ‘Can’t you bring the baby to bed now?’ I ask as kindly as possible even though I don’t want to take this ridiculous game seriously.
    Rain’s eyes are white marbles in the dark. ‘Go home if you don’t like it. This was our room before you came along.’
    Even in my half-asleep haze I feel hurt. Not because Rain doesn’t want me around – that I get – but because it dawns on me that even though I see Rain as someone who’s come along and spoiled things between me and Mum, really it’s me who’s new and out of place.
    I burrow back beneath the covers and pull them up to my chin thinking about my bed at Nana’s house, and how it was mine alone and no one else’s. It would be nice to crawl into it. Just for a couple of hours.

20
    Mum leaves me at home with Rain and goes to the supermarket where she buys baguettes, crackers, cheese, grapes, sweets, biscuits, and bottles of wine and beer and Coke for the party, plus other groceries for the week. As I’m unpacking, I open a box of Jaffa Cakes for breakfast.
    Rain rifles through the shopping I’ve piled along the counter. ‘You forgot Jenny’s milk,’ she complains.
    Mum pats Rain gently. ‘Look, here’s the milk, honey.’
    ‘Two litres? That won’t be enough for everyone,’ she says.
    Mum sighs and Rain goes storming off to the bedroom. She slams the door behind her so hard the walls judder.
    Mum shakes her head. ‘She throws away the old diapers and gets me to buy fresh ones. Now she’s insisting on more and more milk. What next, a changing table?’
    ‘I’ll tell her the doll’s not alive, if you like. I mean, I don’t care if she gets mad at me,’ I say.
    ‘I tried that six months ago when it all started. Don’t think I didn’t try. She pretends she can’t hear you, or she’ll act like you’re making a joke. It hurts her to know the truth, and the doctor . . .’ She trails off because she’s already told me what the doctor said – it’s a normal phase – but when will it end? Will she still be carrying it around when she begins secondary school – my secondary school? How long is everyone meant to wait for her to figure it out? How long are we all meant to pretend?
    ‘Maybe you need a second opinion,’ I say quietly because all of a sudden Mum is rubbing her temples and breathing fast.
    ‘I need to get her a therapist. She had a good one in Brooklyn but  . . .’ She looks at the shopping. ‘Maybe we should have stayed in America,’ Mum whispers.
    ‘What?’ If she’d stayed in America then where would that have left me?
    ‘Oh, I don’t mean it,’ she says. She blows me a kiss.
    ‘I’ll put away the food,’ I say.
    ‘I’m not sure about the party any more. Don’t think I’m in the mood,’ Mum says. Her forehead is furrowed with lines.
    ‘But you bought all the stuff.’ I hold up a bunch of bananas, which makes her smile.
    ‘Banana cocktails?’ she asks.
    ‘Sure! We’ll mash them and mix them with this.’ I hold up what looks like a bottle of champagne.
    ‘If people don’t like the taste, we’ll force-feed it to Jenny,’ Mum says. She laughs finally, but not before she sees Rain in the hallway, watching and clutching Jenny to her chest.
     
    When I show Mum my neon green T-shirt, she sucks in her cheeks. ‘For a party? Really?’
    ‘I wore it to the school disco last term,’ I say. I feel my face flush because it’s so obvious that Mum doesn’t approve.
    ‘How about something a little more . . . feminine,’ she says.
    I’m not sure what she means. I don’t wear skirts, except to school. I don’t like showing off my legs.
    ‘I’ve something that might fit