Bloom. Nicola Skinner
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to her feet.
‘Race you there,’ I muttered to her as we followed Mr Grittysnit.
Neena knew I never ran anywhere in the school grounds, so this was quite a good joke. And did she appreciate it?
She did not.
*
Mr Grittysnit took us to the school library, a ramshackle collection of old bookcases in the corridor outside the kitchen.
‘I want all these books covered in these grey book covers,’ he said, gesturing towards a box nearby. ‘They’re far too non-reg as they are. And clean the grubby fingerprints off them too, while you’re at it.’
‘Shall we take opposite bookcases and then work towards each other?’ I suggested to Neena, once Mr Grittysnit had gone. A bit of peace and quiet might sort out her funny mood, and after all the excitement of Assembly, I wanted a bit of tranquillity myself.
‘Fine by me,’ she said, stomping to the furthest bookcase.
Within a few moments, I’d got into the rhythm of pulling out a book, wiping it down and covering it up. It was oddly calming. I’d reached the bottom shelf of the first bookcase, Local History, when I spotted a book wedged at the back. I teased it out of its nook. It was dirty and dusty, but felt well made. With a damp cloth, I wiped the cover and a picture emerged through the grime.
It was a painting of a small white cottage in a field of colourful flowers, and the title said:
The Terrible Sad History of Little Cherrybliss.
As I stared at the cover, I had the strongest feeling I’d seen the painting of the little cottage before, but I couldn’t work out where. Did Mum have it at home, mixed up with all those cookery books of hers? And where on earth was Little Cherrybliss? It didn’t sound like any of the towns near us. And why was its history terrible and sad? Perhaps it was one of those forgotten villages. Perhaps it had disappeared into a sinkhole and vanished for ever.
After a moment’s hesitation, I slipped the book into a grey jacket, feeling a strange pang of loss as the white cottage disappeared from view. I wrote the title on the cover, then slipped the book back on to the bookshelf.
I moved on to Hobbies. The first book I grabbed had a photograph of a boy on the cover, under the title The Children’s Gardening Book. He seemed to be dropping something into a little pot. I peered closer. The thing flying out of his hand was small.
And black.
And small.
And …
Gulp.
I stared at the picture and shivered. I hadn’t just forgotten to do my ironing the night before. I’d also totally not thrown the Surprising Seeds safely in the bin.
Which meant …
… they were still in my rucksack, back in the classroom, getting up to who-knew-what while my back was turned.
What if they were glowing?
What if they were causing the desks to topple and the ground to break?
‘What’s wrong?’ Neena had poked her head round the bookshelf and was staring at me. ‘You’ve got that funny shell-shocked face you get when you’re panicking about something.’
I was lost in a whirl of fear. For a second, I wasn’t in the library at all, but standing on a broken patio slab, watching as the world broke apart under my feet, hearing that strange voice all over again.
I’ve been waiting for you.
Gulping, I put my hand on the bookshelf to steady myself.
‘Sorrel,’ said Neena in her don’t-mess-with-me voice, ‘what’s going on?’
She sat me down on a beanbag and looked at me sternly.
I leaned back and sighed. ‘Something weird happened yesterday.’
Her face instantly brightened. ‘Go on.’
I told her everything, half expecting my lips to seal together again. But they worked fine, and I didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Being able to talk about the Surprising Seeds made them more real somehow, and that didn’t feel like a good thing.
Neena, on the other hand, looked delirious with elation.
‘Shivering silicates!’ she exclaimed. ‘Where’s the packet?’
‘In our classroom.’ I shook my head with frustration. ‘In my rucksack. I meant to throw it away, but I forgot.’
Her eyebrows rose so high they disappeared behind her fringe. ‘You’ve brought contraband into school? You’ve actually broken a school rule?’ A delighted smile played on her face.
I tried a smile and it came out twisted. ‘Look, can we just forget it? Let’s get back to these books.’
‘Okay,’ said Neena firmly. ‘Once you’ve shown me these Surprising Seeds.’
‘N-no,’ I stammered. ‘I can’t. I don’t want to.’
‘Then why do you look so enthusiastic?’
‘Do I?’ I asked, surprised.
‘Er, yeah?’ she said, staring at my face so intently I felt like I was something growing in one of her Petri dishes. ‘You look as excited as you do on the day of the Head of Year nominations.’
A FEW MINUTES later, we squished between two of the most cluttered bookshelves we could find, taking turns to peep out through the shelves to make sure no one was around.
In the light of the midday sun streaming through the window, the envelope looked even older than it had the day before. I held it carefully, noticing how thin and soft the paper felt. Just how long had it been underground anyway?
‘“The Surprising Seeds”,’ Neena read aloud in a spooky voice. ‘“Self-seeding be these seeds.” What does that even mean?’ She looked earnestly at me.
I shrugged, mystified at the sudden thrill of pride I felt. ‘Who knows?’
The hot sunshine pouring in from the window bathed the packet in light and warmth. Within a few seconds it was as hot as the hottest setting on my iron.
‘Ow!’ I dropped it on the floor, wincing.
The packet glowed golden white round the edges, as if a thin flame was dancing inside. Then this sentence appeared: IF YOU FOUND THIS PACKET, SOW THESE SEEDS – AND THEN YOU’LL REAP WHAT YOU TRULY NEED.
Loads of people have since asked why I didn’t throw the packet away right there and then, to which I always reply: ‘Are you mad?’
I mean, what would you have done? Honestly? If something mysterious and beyond human understanding conveniently materialised in front of you one day and promised to MAKE ALL YOUR DREAMS COME TRUE?
I’ll tell you what you wouldn’t have done. You wouldn’t have said: ‘Hold on a minute while I run a little background check on you.’ You wouldn’t have said: ‘Have you got an up-to-date licence to practise the dark art of wish fulfilment?’
You’d have rubbed your hands together and asked: ‘When?’
You know it, and I know it. So don’t talk to me about throwing things away.
My mind spun. Could these strange old seeds be the answer to my prayers? If they would give me what I truly needed, perhaps I needed to pay them a bit more respect. I saw myself striding into the hall, Mr Grittysnit beaming at me