by T. S. Easton
Family Member 3 – Molly
Relationship – OK
Molly is my little sister. She’s six. She’s totally mad. She’s not unlike Lola of Charlie and Lola, except she’s not extremely funny, she’s extremely weird. For example, she painted her teeth in the colours of a rainbow once. She sat for ages with her mouth open ‘to dry them out’, then painted them in acrylics in the mirror. She was furious when she realised she’d done them back to front. She had to go to hospital with blood poisoning. Also, once she ate a toad. Well, she ate a tadpole that had started to grow back legs. She said she wanted to see how it felt as it slipped down. She’s a mentalist.
Molly thinks of herself as some kind of animal rescue service, but as I tried to point out to her the other day, you’re supposed to rescue animals that have already been orphaned, not to go around taking baby animals while their mothers are collecting food. It’s the animal equivalent of snatching a toddler from outside Tesco. Our house is always full of baby hedgehogs or stray cats (which usually eat the baby hedgehogs), and once she came back with an owl.
Molly is EXTREMELY untidy, and Mum and Dad just don’t care. I’m the one who tidies her room. Me.
Friend 1 – Gex
Relationship – OK to Poor
Gex thinks he’s black, but in fact he’s more Kid Rock than Chris Rock. Gex only came to our school last year after he was excluded from Hollingdale and he didn’t have any friends and he sort of attached himself to me – as I didn’t have any friends either – so we could get bullied together rather than separately. You know, to make things easier for the bullies. But the thing was that eventually people got used to Gex pretending to be black and he stopped being bullied and he kind of became popular and by association, so did I. So however much trouble he gets me into, I owe him. And he does get into a lot of trouble. He’s been suspended three times since he started at our school. He’s been known to avoid double-English on a Monday morning by telling his parents he’s suspended.
Gex is tall (though everyone is, compared to me) and blond, with sort of translucent skin and pale, watery eyes. He’s not much to look at but quite successful with girls for some reason. I think it’s because he gives off such an air of confidence they’re fooled into thinking he knows what he’s doing. Which he doesn’t at all if Kirsten Hatton is to be believed. Apparently, she spent an uncomfortable half-hour in an alley beside the O2 shop on the high street trying to explain the difference between snogging and chewing to the confused Gex. At least he got her to the O2 shop in the first place. I’ve never got a girl past Vodafone.
Friend 2 – Joz
Relationship – Good
Let’s start with the physical description. Hoodie, trousers round his ankles, can of spray paint in his pocket. Got a mental image? Now add big bags under his eyes because he never sleeps, like Edward off Twilight only with dark, lank hair and spots. He lives with his mum and sisters on the local estate and I’ve never seen him eat anything but prawn cocktail crisps.
Joz doesn’t say much. And what he does say is usually incredibly offensive. Let’s just say he has a disrespectful attitude towards women. And men. People in general. He says graffiti is his means of expression, but all he ever does is his own tag which you can’t read. He’s good at drawing; I’ve seen what he does on paper. But he never paints anything on walls. He was another one who never had any friends until Gex turned up. Joz just kind of joined the group one day and now follows us around everywhere. Despite his lack of social skills, I actually get on quite well with Joz, probably better than with Gex.
Friend 3 – Freddie
Relationship – OK (though now I feel bad that I’ve given Joz a higher Relationship Rating than either Freddie or Gex. Not so bad that I’m going to change them, but it does all seem a bit disloyal)
If Freddie was a Hollywood film actor, he’d forever be cast as a lovable slacker who triumphs against the odds and gets the girl. Except with Freddie he’s not that lovable, he finds it difficult to triumph over the challenge of tying his shoelaces and as far as I’m aware he’s never got any girl, let alone the girl.
Sometimes he can seem really slow on the uptake, but then he’ll come out with stuff that’s actually quite thought-provoking. He makes totally random statements that are almost clever, but at the same time really stupid. Like the other day in English Lit he asked if there was another word for homonym. And then he complained to Miss Swallow that phonetics should be spelled fonetics. ‘That’s if they’re serious about it,’ he said.
Maybe Fred’s a bit autistic, but with words instead of numbers. I think the perfect job for him would be as the guy who thinks up all those weird two-word phrases you get on social media to verify you’re not a spam-bot. Bevelled Sunday. Flannel Growler. Clough Tangent.
Now, to be fair, Freddie was sort of my friend before Gex arrived. His dad and mine are mates and we used to hang out together a lot, usually freezing our backsides off in the uncovered stand at Hampton FC. He’s one of those mates you just end up with rather than one you’d choose. Freddie happens to be the cousin of local football hero Joe Boyle, which gets him a small amount of respect at school; an even smaller amount of that respect rubs off on me, as his friend.
Just read all of this back to myself. To be honest, if I were Ms Gunter I might put a red flag on my case notes at this point. My family and friends all sound like sociopaths.
10th July
Dear Mr Fletcher
One of the Waypoints on your Probation Journey is involvement in some suitable extra-curricular activity, mid-week. Research shows that if young men are occupied after school they are far less likely to offend. You indicated to me at your interview that you’re not interested in sports or games and so it has been decided that you should attend a regular, suitable class on Thursday evenings. Though most courses are fully subscribed, Hampton Community College has been kind enough to make a space available for you on one of the following courses, beginning 26th July. Please email your choice to me and I will complete the enrolment process on your behalf.
7.00pm – 7.55pm Car maintenance – Nigel Fletcher
7.00pm – 7.55pm Knitting – Jessica Swallow
7.00pm – 7.55pm Pottery – Naomi Hooper
6.00pm – 6.55pm Microsoft Office (Beginners) – Frank Gavin
Yours
Claudia Gunter
West Meon Probation Service
What a dazzling array of tempting choices! Can’t I do all of them?
Let’s see: Car Maintenance with Nigel Fletcher? That would be fixing cars, with my dad! Something I hate and which he makes me do on the weekends anyway.
Knitting? Knitting?! A suitable class for me is knitting? What’s Ms Gunter trying to say about me? Should dangerous criminals be allowed near knitting needles? Would they give a crochet hook to the man who ate the ice-cream vendor’s kidneys? I think not. Having said that, the class is being taken by Miss Swallow, my English teacher. Miss Swallow is hot, as I think I may have mentioned before. I won’t repeat what Joz says about her, especially the bit about the whipped cream.
Microsoft Office? I already know how to use Microsoft Office. Everyone knows how to use Microsoft Office. Wayne Rooney can use Microsoft Office. That course is for grannies and people who’ve just arrived in civilisation after having been raised by wolves in the Appalachians. I’m not doing fifty-five minutes on how to plug a laptop in.
Then there’s Pottery. Seems like the best of a bad bunch at first glance. But I already spend three days a week cleaning engine oil out from under my fingernails. The idea of scraping a kilo of clay out every other night doesn’t exactly thrill me. Also, there’s a very good reason I can’t choose Pottery. The class is being taken by Naomi Hooper, Megan’s mum. Not that Mrs Hooters doesn’t have her own appeal, of course, but if I take her class then Megan’s certain to find out and I’m not having her smirking at my wobbly flower pots. It should be the other way around.
All in all, brilliant. Why couldn’t there be
something cool, like computer game design, or fencing, or home butchery? Come to think of it, what I could really do with is bicycle maintenance. There’s something not at all right with the front derailleur on my bike.
18th July
Jessica Swallow is not the first teacher I’ve had a crush on. I’ve had a bit of a crush on most of my teachers. Female ones, I mean. Dad claims that my teachers have become progressively more attractive as I’ve gone up through the years at school. Mum says they’re not becoming more attractive, just younger in comparison to him. There was Mrs Hunt in Year 4 who really wasn’t all that but she wore thin cotton dresses you could see through. Then there was Ms Young in Year 6 who was not young in real life but was pretty, apart from the goitre. But even then the goitre just made her more accessible.
I think women need at least one imperfection to make them really attractive. In Miss Swallow’s case it’s her canine teeth, which come out at an odd angle and are slightly discoloured. To me those teeth add to her beauty rather than detract from it. But I’d probably still find her attractive if her ‘flaw’ was having a narwhal’s horn sticking out of her forehead.
She’s so gorgeous. She’s small, with big, green eyes. She has ash-blonde hair and this smooth pale skin that just seems to glow.
Now I come to read that back I realise that description makes her sound like an alien. If she is an alien she can abduct me any time, which brings me to the dream I had last night. When I lie in bed before I go to sleep, I sometimes like to imagine myself being incredibly rich, or really good at sports, or being a famous writer or something. Often, though, my fantasy is that some really fit chick is my girlfriend. It might be Megan, or Holly Osman, or the dark-haired girl who goes past our house on her way up to the college every morning. But quite often it’s Jessica Swallow. The problem is that I like my fantasies to be consistent. They have to be plausible, if unlikely. They also have to be ethical. Dream Rohypnol is a big no-no for me.
Of course, Miss Swallow isn’t going to fall head over heels in love with me just like that. She’s twelve years older than me. She has a massively tall, semi-professional footballer boyfriend, who drives a flash car. And she’s gorgeous. I mean, she’s my teacher for heaven’s sake! Miss Swallow loves her job. She’s probably not going to throw all that in for me.
So, how do I become rich and successful and attractive to older women? Or younger women? Any female over the age of sixteen? Usually I imagine that Mum invents a new magic trick like Jonathan Creek except real and she becomes incredibly famous and goes on telly like David Blaine, except less of a twat. That provides the money for me to attend a top school where they teach me to be a young entrepreneur who launches my billionaire business at seventeen; one that gives loads of money to charity and Jessica Swallow is so bowled over by my dynamism and generosity that she falls head over heels for me and leaves her semi-professional footballer, who just can’t compete, frankly. He takes it on the chin, though, and eventually he and I become quite good friends as it happens and he teaches me to play football and also how to drive in his flash car. He becomes the older brother I never had.
My fantasies take ages to really get to the good bits and I usually fall asleep well before I get to first base with the girl. Last night, though, I had a dream which cut through all that crap. I was at a knitting class with Miss Swallow and fifteen old ladies. An alien spacecraft came down, beamed us all up and put us in a zoo on their home planet. Miss Swallow had little choice but to turn to me for comfort. We lay together on a bedspread knitted for us by the old ladies. The fantasy cut to black after that. I can’t seem to go beyond that point. It’s too much. And in any case it would be a bit itchy because of the wool.
Suffice to say, I’ve taken this as a big sign that I should choose the knitting class.
19th July
I’ve emailed Claudia Gunter at West Meon Probation Services and am now having a massive panic that my email was too sarcastic. I meant it to be funny, but reading it back it just looks like I’m taking the piss. Why do I do these things? Here’s what I sent.
Dear Ms Gunter,
Thank you for your email dated 18th July. Thank you so much for this opportunity for self-improvement. All the suggested courses were so tempting it was a really tough decision. However, after careful consideration I feel the most appropriate course for me to take is:
7.00pm – 7.55pm Knitting – Jessica Swallow
I should be grateful if you were to enrol me in said course heretoforthwith.
Yours regardingly
Ben Fletcher
I might have laid it on a bit thick. Oh well, I expect she gets worse emails from the waffle-cone killer.
I haven’t told Dad I’m doing the knitting. I lied. I’ve told him I’m doing pottery instead. That didn’t exactly fill him with joy.
‘Pottery,’ he said, staring at me over breakfast. ‘Pottery … ’
‘Well, there wasn’t much choice,’ I said.
‘What’s wrong with my course?’ he asked. ‘Could have been an opportunity to spend some time together.’
‘Conflict of interest,’ I said wildly.
‘What?’
‘It’s a conflict of interest. Because you’re my dad. My probation officer made it clear she’d be looking for attendance and behaviour reports from the course teacher. You wouldn’t be impartial.’
‘Yes, I bloody would,’ he said. ‘If you played up in my class I’d shop you no problem. I’d sing like a canary, I would.’
‘Thanks, Dad,’ I said. ‘I’m sure you would, but my probation officer wouldn’t accept it, I’m afraid.’
‘Shame,’ he said, sighing.
‘Yes, shame,’ I replied.
‘What about computers?’ Dad said.
‘Too basic.’
‘And what was the other choice?’
‘Knitting.’
He barked out a laugh. ‘No chance of you taking that at least.’
‘Why?’ I asked, bristling slightly.
He laughed again. ‘It’s just … well, knitting. It’s a bit … ’
I waited.
‘It’s a bit … ’
‘Gay?’
‘Hey, I didn’t say that,’ he said quickly. He gets in trouble with Mum if he’s homophobic around the house. ‘I meant it’s a bit … ’
‘Effeminate?’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘Girly.’
‘Yep. That. That’s the word. Girly.’
Eventually he bought the pottery thing though. It must have been the thought of his son getting labelled as teacher’s pet that did it. In Dad’s book that would have been the height of Big Girl’s Blouse.
Mum, on the other hand, had been delighted when I’d told her over the phone. She was in a Travelodge just outside Honiton. She’d had a bad day. One of the doves had died and the other was too depressed to perform. To fill the gap she’d had to re-instate the trick where she saws an audience member in half. The last time she’d tried it there’d been an accident which had nearly doubled her insurance premium.
‘Don’t use a real saw this time, Mum,’ I advised.
‘I know,’ she snapped.
‘Ask her what she wants for tea when she’s back on Friday,’ Dad called from the kitchen.
‘Dad wants to know what you want for tea on Friday,’ I said.
‘Ooh,’ she said. ‘Tell him I’d like a nice bit of pork.’
‘I’m not telling him that.’
‘But that’s what I want.’
‘Don’t do this to me, Mum,’ I whispered.
‘Tell him,’ she insisted.
‘Mum says she wants a bit of pork,’ I called to Dad, bracing myself.
‘OK, but what does she want for dinner?’ he replied, in stitches.
‘So … knitting,’ Mum said, after she’d calmed down and I’d told her what I was doing this evening. ‘It’s excellent for developing dexterity, for strengthening the fingers and for improving concentration. All useful
skills for magicians.’
‘Also excellent training for that call centre job I’m hoping for after school,’ I said.
‘Or for being a fighter pilot?’
‘Those are the three options I’m putting on my form on Careers Day,’ I said. ‘Magician, Call Centre Slave or Fighter Pilot. I’d be happy with any of those.’
‘Good for you,’ Mum said. ‘Look, gotta go, I need to sharpen my swords.’
21st July
I found Gex, Freddie and Joz in the park. They were sat on a low wall, in a row, staring into the car park at the back of Robert Dyas.
‘What’s up?’ I asked as I approached. They ignored me.
‘What you looking at?’ I asked
‘There,’ Joz said, impatiently, pointing.
I looked in the same direction as them but it wasn’t immediately obvious.
‘What am I looking at?’
‘Just wait,’ Freddie said.
‘Are you looking at that girl in the short skirt?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ Freddie said.
‘The one with the cast on her leg?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the crutches?’
‘Yes.’
‘The one who’s packing her shopping into her car boot?’
‘Yes!’
‘Why?’
‘Just wait, Bellend,’ Gex snapped.
I sighed, sat and watched. Then I saw what they were looking at. The poor girl was having difficulty with her crutches. She didn’t have a lot of room and her trolley was stuck behind a bollard, to the side of her car. She had to use her crutches to get to the trolley, then she’d pull a bag out, do a few awkward hops with one crutch back around to the boot, deposit the bag and go back for the next one. The problem was, she kept dropping her crutch. Each time she did, she had to lean forward to pick it up, doing a sort of balletic swoop and swinging her bad leg up as she did, which afforded the four of us an excellent view up her skirt. She was wearing black knickers.
