17
In Thursday’s detention, the two Year 9 girls have gone, so it’s just Harry, Leo and me. Harry is already there when I arrive, sprawled in his chair at the back of the room, his rubbish music playing again. The swelling has gone down a bit, but the nose itself has turned a pleasingly disgusting shade of yellow. I can’t help but smirk a little as I sit down. I’m taking out my history homework when Leo comes in. I mouth ‘Hi’. He hesitates a moment before mouthing ‘Hi’ back, a frown on his face the whole time.
Mr Wilton sets his stopwatch and promptly falls asleep again, his snores loud and immediate.
Unable to concentrate on my homework, I rip a piece of paper out of the back of my book and begin to sketch Mr Wilton, snoozing away in his chair. I exaggerate his bushy eyebrows and rounded belly. I draw a thought bubble above his head and in it, a busty girl in a bikini, pouting, with her hands on her hips. I fold the page up into quarters and aim it at Leo’s desk. It lands a few centimetres away from his right hand. He picks it up and smoothes it out on the desk. For a second I’m certain I detect a change in his face; not quite a smile, but something in that direction. But just as quick, his expression is blank again and he’s refolding the piece of paper and pushing it to the very edge of his desk.
Finally the stopwatch goes off. Mr Wilton groggily dismisses us, although Harry is already out the door before he’s finished speaking, his footsteps thundering down the corridor. Leo goes to hand me back the picture.
‘Keep it,’ I say.
‘You don’t want it?’
‘I drew it for you.’
Leo frowns.
‘What I mean,’ I say quickly, ‘is that it’s just a sketch, nothing special. Keep it. Or throw it in the bin. Whatever.’
Leo gives me a weird look but tucks the picture inside his copy of Twelfth Night anyway.
‘It’s good, you know,’ Leo says, as we walk down the corridor.
‘Sorry?’
‘The picture you drew. It’s pretty good.’
I smile shyly. ‘Thank you.’
‘You taking art for GCSE?’ he asks.
‘No. Textiles.’
‘What? Sewing and that?’
‘Yes, although I can barely thread a needle, much to Miss Fratton’s dismay. I’m more into the design side of things, fashion and stuff. What about you? Are you into art?’
‘Nah. I’m shit at all that stuff. Can’t draw to save my life.’
‘What are you good at?’ I ask.
‘Maths,’ Leo says without hesitation. ‘Numbers.’
‘I’m awful at maths,’ I say. ‘It’s my worst subject by far. Anything with right or wrong answers I’m generally rubbish at. Funny how everyone’s brain is wired so differently, isn’t it?’
‘Hmmm,’ Leo mutters, looking at the ground.
We’re halfway down the driveway when I spot Mum’s car parked just outside the school gates.
I swear under my breath. I’d told her I’d get the bus home.
‘What?’ Leo asks.
‘Nothing.’
I consider pretending I’ve forgotten something and turning round but Mum has already noticed me.
‘Yoo hoo! David!’ she calls, getting out of the car and waving.
‘That your mum?’ Leo asks, nodding towards her.
‘Unfortunately,’ I reply.
From the back seat of the car, Phil clocks me and starts going mad, bouncing up and down on the seats.
‘You’ve got a dog,’ Leo says, his eyes lighting up in a way I’ve never seen before.
‘Oh yeah. That’s Phil.’
‘Phil? What, as in short for Philip?’
‘I know, lame right? Blame my dad. He has a thing about giving all our pets human names. Our goldfish are called Julie and Dawn, and our last dog was called Graham.’
‘But that’s cool,’ Leo says, ‘way better than calling a dog something dumb like Fluffy or Lucky.’
‘I suppose so. It’s a bit embarrassing though, when you take him off his lead in the park and you yell “Phil” and about half the men there turn round.’
‘What breed is he?’ Leo asks.
‘We don’t know. We got him from a rescue centre about four years ago. We think there might be some Jack Russell in him, maybe some spaniel. We’re not really sure though. He’s a total mongrel.’
‘Nah, he’s cool-looking.’
We reach the car.
‘Hi, darling,’ Mum says, pushing her sunglasses up on her head, ‘thought you might appreciate a lift home after all your hard work.’
I can sense Leo looking at me quizzically.
‘Hi there,’ she says, leaning over me and extending her hand out to Leo, ‘I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Jo, David’s mum.’
‘Leo,’ Leo replies, shaking her hand.
‘Nice to meet you, Leo. Are you working on the musical too?’ Mum asks.
‘Musical?’ Leo says with a frown.
‘Yeah, er, Leo’s working backstage, building scenery,’ I say quickly, widening my eyes at him. ‘Aren’t you, Leo?’
‘Yeah, backstage,’ Leo echoes, thankfully taking my cue.
‘What show is it they’re doing this year?’ Mum asks, directing her question at Leo. He shoots a panicked look at me over her shoulder. I try to mouth the words Oh! What a Lovely War at him but it’s too late; Leo is already telling Mum we’re doing Grease.
‘Oh brilliant!’ Mum says, ‘I love Grease! God, I had such a crush on John Travolta when I was younger, I thought he was a right fox. David, you must remind me when it’s on, so I can get some tickets.’
‘OK,’ I say, hoping Mum will have forgotten by the time December rolls round.
Phil is going crazy now, running round in circles on the back seat. I open the door. He bounds out onto the pavement, jumping up first at me, then at Leo.
‘Phil!’ Mum says sharply. ‘Get down!’
‘No, it’s OK,’ Leo says, ‘I love dogs.’
‘Hello, boy!’ he says, kneeling down so his face is level with Phil’s, rubbing his ears, which Phil loves. Knowing he’s on to a good thing, Phil rolls onto his back so Leo can scratch his belly.
‘You’ve got a friend for life there now, Leo,’ Mum says.
Leo just grins, not taking his eyes off Phil for a second. He looks totally different with a smile on his face – softer and less intense.
‘Can we give you a lift home?’ Mum asks after a moment.
Leo gives Phil a final belly rub and straightens up.
‘Thanks, but I live kind of far away.’
‘Whereabouts?’ Mum asks.
‘Er, Cloverdale,’ Leo says, looking at his feet.
‘That’s not so far,’ Mum says. ‘Come on, jump in.’
‘Nah, honestly, it’s fine,’ he says, backing away, ‘my bus is due any time.’
‘It’s really no bother, Leo. I’ve got to nip and get some bits from the supermarket anyway so it’s only a little detour. Go on, save yourself the bus fare.’
‘Yeah, go on,’ I add.
Phil licks Leo’s hand.
‘Er, all right,’ Leo says. ‘Thanks.’
Leo insists on sitting in the back with Phil.
‘Are you sure?’ Mum asks as she starts the car. ‘It’s awfully dog-hairy back there.’
‘No. I like it,’ Leo says, as he massages a blissed-out Phil’s ears.
‘Do you have dogs of your own?’ Mum asks.
Leo shakes his head.
‘Do you want one?’ I ask, ‘Phil doesn’t eat that much.’
‘David!’ Mum scolds.
‘Only joking.’
‘Do you have any other pets, Leo?’ Mum asks.
‘Some hamsters once.’
‘What were their names? Can’t be as bad as our pets,’ I say.
‘Cheryl. My sister named that one,’ Leo says, ‘after Cheryl Cole, and, er, Jimmy.’
‘Who did you name Jimmy after?’ I ask.
‘My dad,’ Leo says quietly
.
‘Wasn’t that really confusing though? Bet your dad and Jimmy the hamster didn’t know whether they were coming or going.’
‘My dad doesn’t live with us.’
‘Oh. Sorry.’
Leo just looks out the window.
‘What happened? To the hamsters, I mean,’ I add quickly.
‘Cheryl died. Jimmy escaped.’
‘Oh. That sucks.’
‘Shall I put on some music?’ Mum says with artificial brightness, fiddling with the knobs on the radio. It blares out really loudly for a moment and makes Phil jump, sending him cowering under Leo’s arm.
‘Actually, David,’ Mum says, ‘I might have the Grease soundtrack knocking about somewhere. Have a look in the glove box. I’m quite in the mood for it now.’
A few seconds later the car is filled with John Travolta and Olivia Newton John belting out ‘Summer Nights’, Mum singing along tunelessly. I look through the rearview mirror. Leo is staring out of the window, his forehead knotted into a frown, his left hand resting gently on Phil’s head.
Twenty minutes later we pass a dilapidated ‘Welcome to the Cloverdale Estate’ sign. I sit up a little straighter. Mum flicks the interior door locks on. I wince and hope Leo didn’t notice.
‘You’ll have to guide me from here, Leo,’ Mum says, turning down the music.
Leo leans forward between the front seats and gives her directions.
I watch as Cloverdale creeps by. It’s nothing like I imagined. From the way people talk about it, I expected drug dealers on every corner, mass shootouts, a dead body or two at least, but there’s virtually no one in sight. Everyone must be indoors, hiding behind identical sets of net curtains.
The estate is like a never-ending maze, the same formation of skinny little brown brick houses, over and over again. Finally, we turn into Leo’s street – Sycamore Gardens according to the graffitied sign.
‘This is me,’ Leo says.
‘Which house?’ Mum asks.
‘Er, that one, number seven. But here is fine,’ Leo says.
‘Okey dokey.’
Number seven is the scruffiest looking house on the street, with peeling paintwork and a jungle-like front garden, the grass almost waist-high.
‘Thanks for the lift,’ Leo says as Mum turns off the engine.
‘You’re very welcome,’ Mum replies.
Leo gives Phil a final belly rub before thanking Mum again and climbing out of the car. He slams the car door shut behind him and walks away, his back immediately hunching over. Mum goes to turn the key in the ignition.
‘Wait a sec,’ I tell her, opening the door and jumping out of the car.
‘Leo!’ I call. ‘I just wanted to say thanks,’ I say, catching up with him. ‘You know, for not letting on to my mum about me being in detention. And for covering for me about the school musical.’
‘Oh, that. That’s OK.’
‘It’s just that if she knew I had detention she’d want to know why and stuff so …’ I let my voice trail off.
‘Yeah, I get it,’ Leo says, folding his arms. But of course he doesn’t get it, not properly.
Behind him, the curtains at number seven open for a moment, a misty face appearing at the glass, before falling shut again.
‘Your mum’s waiting,’ Leo says, nodding towards the car. I glance behind me. Mum taps her watch.
‘Well, have a good evening,’ I say.
‘Yeah. You too.’
He turns and makes his way across the trampled strip of grass that substitutes for a garden path.
‘Let’s just make sure he gets in all right,’ Mum says as I get back in the car.
We sit and watch as the scratched front door of number seven bangs shut behind him.
18
When I enter the living room, Tia is lying on the sofa watching Frozen for at least the hundredth time, a dreamy expression on her face. Through the doorway, I can see Amber in the kitchen kneeling down next to the washing machine.
‘All right?’ I say, wandering in.
‘Not really. Mam’s left a flipping tissue in her pocket again. Everything’s covered in white fluff.’
‘Where is she?’ I ask.
‘Down the pub with Spike.’
‘Right,’ I mutter. ‘What’s in the oven?’
‘Pizza.’
‘What kind?’
‘Pepperoni. Not sure there’s enough for all three of us though. We might have to do some toast as well.’
‘Thought you were off the carbs?’
‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ Amber says, sighing and shoving everything back in the washing machine again.
‘You’re home early,’ she says, adding soap powder to the drawer.
‘Got a lift.’
‘Yeah, I saw.’
‘Then why are you asking?’
‘Who is he?’
‘Who?’
‘Who do you think? The boy you were talking to outside.’
She slams the soap drawer shut and turns on the machine.
‘Just a mate.’
‘Thought you didn’t do mates,’ she says with a smirk.
‘I don’t. He’s no one. Just a kid from detention. His mum dropped me off.’
‘Nice car they’ve got,’ Amber says. ‘They rich?’
‘I dunno, I suppose.’
I should have said no to the lift, followed my instincts and got the bus. I saw David’s mum lock the car doors when we drove into Cloverdale. And the way David looked at the estate, gawping like he was a kid on a theme-park ride. Not that I blame them. I bet they live in really nice house, with three bathrooms and a huge kitchen with one of those big shiny fridges you see in American sitcoms, and a massive garden with a proper lawn and flowerbeds and matching patio furniture.
I pour myself a glass of water and flop down on the sofa next to Tia. She’s murmuring along with the lines from the film. She could recite the script in her sleep, easy. I take a sip of water. It tastes funny. Metallic. I should have run the tap for longer.
I try to relax and think of something nice. Alicia pops into my brain. I try to shove her away, replace her with something else, but nothing works. I give in, closing my eyes and picturing her face. Alicia in her bedroom, her hair falling around her face, guitar on her knee, smiling and singing a song just for me.
Yeah, that’s better already.
First thing the following morning I have an appointment with Jenny at the Sunrise Centre. The Sunrise Centre is kind of a misleading name. The building itself is made from grey concrete and the walls inside are painted this really cold mint-green colour that makes you feel chilly even on a boiling hot day. They put posters and paintings up on the walls and stuff, but there’s still no getting away from the fact that it’s a depressing place for kids with ‘problems’. Mam used to come to my appointments with me but stopped as soon as I was old enough to get the bus here on my own. When she does come she talks in her silly posh voice and sucks up to Jenny, acting like I’m not even in the room. She only comes now if Jenny asks her to, which suits me just fine.
I’ve been coming to appointments here ever since I was seven years old so Jenny knows me pretty well by now, or at least thinks she does. It’s weird though because I hardly know anything about Jenny, apart from the fact she probably has a cat cos there’s always cat hair all over her tights. Sometimes I try to ask her personal questions, but she always manages to avoid answering them and then turns them round and asks me why I’m asking and before I know it, I’m answering yet another question. It’s pretty annoying. On the whole though, Jenny is all right. When I was younger I used to get mad a lot and storm out of the room or shout at her. Once I threw her pot plant out of the window. It smashed on the bonnet of someone’s car and set the alarm off. Jenny was all cool and business-like about it, which somehow was way worse than if she’d just screamed at me.
I wait in the Adolescent Department reception. Jenny’s running late. I bet Mr Toolan has called her by now. Ther
e are two other kids also waiting, a boy and a girl. The boy plays on his phone. The girl reads a magazine. None of us speaks. It’s an unofficial rule. I glance at the clock.
Jenny pops her head round the door.
‘Leo?’
She’s wearing her blank friendly face, but she’s not fooling me. There’s no hiding the tightness in her lips and disappointment in her eyes. I fling the magazine I was half-reading back onto the pile and follow Jenny into her room.
Jenny’s room is small and narrow with the same mint-green walls. In the centre there are four chairs arranged around a small square coffee table with a box of tissues set upon it. You always know you’re in for a good time when there’s a box of tissues on permanent standby – and this is no ordinary box, it’s a jumbo box. Jenny closes the door and we sit down.
‘So, how’s it going, Leo?’ Jenny asks, taking a gulp of tea.
‘Is that a new jumper?’ I ask.
Jenny looks down. ‘No, not particularly.’
‘It suits you.’
‘Thanks. So, what’s been happening? How’s school?’
‘Where’d you get it from?’
She puts down her pen and looks at me.
‘Leo, we’re here to talk about you, not my wardrobe choices.’
I shut up after that and go into a bit of a sulk. I’m suddenly not feeling in a very chatty mood.
‘I had a call from Mr Toolan on Tuesday,’ she says, setting down her mug.
Here we go. ‘Oh, yeah?’
‘Afraid so, Leo. He said you hit a fellow pupil. Do you want to tell me about it?’
‘He deserved it.’
‘Oh, Leo,’ Jenny sighs. ‘We’ve worked on this. You can’t go lashing out at people like that, whether they “deserve it”, or not.’
‘But he was bullying another kid.’
‘I know,’ Jenny says gently. ‘And I appreciate you were trying to help, but surely you can see you went about this the wrong way.’
‘Maybe,’ I mutter, pulling at my tie and curling it round my index finger.
‘I’m just disappointed, Leo. Eden Park is such a great school. I’d hate to see you waste this opportunity.’
There’s a long pause.
‘How about those techniques we practised?’ she asks. ‘Are they helping?’
The Art of Being Normal Page 8
