The Icarus Show

by Sally Christie

  The only thing the list had achieved was to make me different from the Do Nothing person Mum and Dad had talked about in the kitchen. No one could accuse me of doing nothing to try to solve the problem.

  I went back to Maisie, and this time they let me in. There was no sign of any more shaking. When I made an ever so casual reference to Parkinson’s disease, she said crossly, “So you think I’ve got Parkinson’s, do you? Well, you’re wrong. Now.”

  I didn’t argue. I was just pleased to hear her sounding so sure.

  I told her about November 2, but the date didn’t mean anything to her. It got her quite excited, though.

  “I’d like to be there!” she said. “To see the show!”

  “So would I,” I said. “But where? Where is ‘there’?”

  “Yes, I see. That’s a point. But he’s bound to say soon, this Icarus fellow. I must say, I like his style. Wonder who he is?”

  Before I left, I promised to tell Don to check if the apples (she called them the Bramleys) were ripe. If they were, he should pick them. “But tell him to mind how he goes up that ladder. If he falls and breaks his neck, it won’t matter how many apples he’s picked and it won’t matter how many pies I bake … ” She paused and seemed suddenly uncertain. “… there’ll be—no one—to eat them.”

  The next thing that happened was like in that fairy story called “Rumpelstiltskin.” You know, where the girl has to guess the little man’s name or he’ll get her baby? She has three days to think of the name, and for the first two, she goes round asking people for ideas and gets loads, but none of them are right. Then, on the third day, she kind of gives up. She goes for a walk in the woods, and comes to a clearing, and hears someone singing. It’s the little man, singing a song about his name! (Would you sing that song, in his position? You would not. But there, everyone’s different.) Of course, it’s Rumpelstiltskin. So the girl gets to keep her baby and Rumpelstiltskin gets into a rage and stamps his foot so hard that a hole opens up underneath him and he falls through it, right down to Hell. Which, it turns out, is where he came from.

  The point is, the thing that the girl had been trying and trying to work out just sort of plopped into her lap when she’d stopped trying because she thought it was hopeless.

  The thing I’d been trying to work out plopped into my lap in a similar way. It happened like this.

  Morning roll call was running late because Lydia and Candy had fallen out, and we all had to know about it. Candy asked Miss McGowan if she could be moved because Lydia smelled. Lydia asked if she could be moved because Candy’s smell was so bad it had spread out from Candy to fill that whole bit of the room. Miss McGowan knew better than to try to get to the bottom of things: It wouldn’t have been worth it. She’d learned from experience to take the shortcut.

  “Right,” she said now. “Candy, you will move.” She scanned the room for empty places. There was only one. “Quick! Go and sit next to David, if you can’t behave where you are.”

  Candy screeched, “Eurgh! Miss, he smells worse than her! I’m not moving next to him!”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Candy! Stay where you are, then, and grow up.” She was anxious to get the roll call done: It was nearly quarter to nine. And just then, there was a knock on the door. A loud, jaunty knock, which beat out the good old rhythm of “Shave and a haircut.”

  Bom b-b-bom bom!

  Miss McGowan’s face flushed, maybe from irritation, maybe something else. Her response was drowned out by ours—the traditional one. We all stamped or banged out the rhythm of “Two bits!”

  BOM BOM!

  The door opened. Only one person could make such an entrance.

  “Was that ‘Come in’?” said Mr. Smith.

  People said Mr. Smith and Miss McGowan fancied each other.

  “Hello, you horrible lot!” he said to us, and to her, “Can I have a quick word, please, outside?” He backed out into the corridor, without giving her time to reply.

  Everyone went, “WOOOO!”

  Miss McGowan looked flustered. “We must get the roll call finished,” she said desperately. “Someone must come up and finish it while I’m gone.” She looked at her laptop. It just so happened that mine was the last name she’d called—and I was sensible enough.

  “Alex!” she said. “Come and sit at my desk. You can do it. Hurry up, though—I won’t be long.”

  “That’s right, miss,” shouted Alan. “Just a quickie!”

  She fled. And I, all unknowing, was set on a course for the hidden clearing where Rumpelstiltskin would sing his song.

  Whether or not Alan was right, I had plenty of time. The job was easy. Miss McGowan had already gotten halfway through. Before I’d even sat down in her chair and pulled her laptop toward me, I knew there was only one absentee. I knew this without even checking, because of the one vacant seat we’d all seen when Candy was going to have to move. I put another “A” at the end of the line of “A”s after Chloë Prelutsky’s name. Some people said she’d got cancer, but some said her parents had taken her to Florida because it was cheaper to go in term time (though you did get a letter from the principal).

  I put slashes for everyone else, and then I was done.

  I wondered if I should go back to my place, but decided not to. It’s not every day you get to sit in a teacher’s chair, and I liked it. No one was taking any notice of me. Candy and Lydia were so excited at the thought of Miss McGowan and Mr. Smith that they’d made up.

  I looked at the laptop again. Chloë Prelutsky had been absent since September 21. You could tell straightaway, just by reading up to the line of dates at the top of the screen.

  There were dates running down the side, too, beside all our names. Random dates that dotted about through the year, not the neat progression—September 21, 22, and so on—across the top. One of these random ones caught my eye. March 30. My birthday. And sure enough, when I read across: “Alex Meadows,” followed by a row of slashes.

  So they were birthdays. That was more fun. I ran my eye down the list, from the top, to see if anyone had theirs coming up soon. November 21, July 8, December 25 (wow, imagine having a birthday on Christmas Day—that was Peter Horn—I never knew that), November 2 …

  November 2.

  The door of the classroom opened and Miss McGowan came back in. Everyone whistled and wooo-ed again, except me. Everyone would be looking to see if her lipstick was smudged or her hair messed up. But not me.

  She clapped her hands for quiet and said, “Thank you, Alex. You’ve done well. Now go back to your place … Come on, Alex, wake up!”

  I pushed myself out of her chair and caught my leg on the corner of her desk. I was dimly aware of her saying, “Careful, Alex. Are you all right?” but I couldn’t have replied. I blundered away and sat down.

  I’d read across to the name for that date.

  I didn’t dare raise my eyes, in case they met his and he guessed that I knew.

  The name for November 2 was David Marsh.

  Bogsy.

  So Bogsy was Icarus. Icarus was Bogsy. I couldn’t believe it. Bogsy was Bogsy. Useless. A loser. An outcast. Everything I myself would never be. Maybe the birthday was just a coincidence. But no, I knew it wasn’t that. Somebody had to be Icarus, and maybe an outsider wasn’t so surprising. Bogsy was an oddball, and sending those notes and feathers was—well, you couldn’t get much odder than that.

  After I’d calmed down, I studied Bogsy when he wasn’t looking. Everything about his appearance was normal. He was medium-sized—not fat, not thin—lank hair, a serious mouth. I couldn’t remember him smiling ever, but then I couldn’t remember him ever having much to smile about.

  Why should I find it hard to believe that a useless person like him should be doing something useless? That’s what useless people did.

  But the truth was, the Icarus stuff wasn’t useless, not really.

  Not at all. There was something—bold—about it. The idea of somebody flying was great. What had been far and
away the best story in Greek Myths for Today? Okay, it all ended badly, but up until then, till the beeswax melted, who wouldn’t have swapped places with Icarus and gone soaring into the sky?

  Maisie had said she liked his style. And she hadn’t been talking about the flying. She’d been talking about the feathers, the anonymous notes, the teaser campaign. There was something stylish about it, agreed. Imagine daring to do all that on your own, without telling Alan. Imagine doing it to Alan—knowing that your life wouldn’t be worth living if you got found out.

  But doing it anyway.

  What would that feel like? What must Bogsy be feeling now?

  Then you are found out. Just a few chapters in, along comes—not Sherlock Holmes, but little old me! Just some random person. Bumbling about in the woods (metaphorically speaking), I strike gold. I discover Bogsy’s secret. Everyone knows he’s not normal, but only I know how not normal he is. So now I know more than the others—more, even, than Bogsy, who doesn’t know I know. I have power. And the question is, what am I going to do with it?

  Don’t React. I tried out my favorite motto. What did it mean in this situation? Don’t let anything show, that was obvious, but what then? Act Normal.

  Once before, I’d had power—or thought I had. That time I’d seen Bogsy go after the feather at the bus stop and assumed he’d received it the same way as me. (Joke! His whole bag had most likely been stuffed full of feathers! The only surprise was that none had ever escaped before.)

  What did I do then? I acted normal. I told Alan.

  Act Normal now. Tell Alan again. He might be impressed—he might even be grateful. His gang would respect me and welcome me in. I’d never need worry again.

  And Alan would get Bogsy. Take care of him properly. Was I worried about that? Icarus would be stuffed. Well, it couldn’t be helped. That’s what I told myself, anyway. What did I care if he never got off the ground?

  Looking back now, it’s painfully clear: I was lying.

  At break, I followed Alan and the others to the science wall. That was where Alan operated from. When we got there, I dared to stand closer to him than usual. It was exciting. But I wouldn’t tell him now. I’d await my moment.

  The first thing that happened was Andy P came round the corner.

  Why did he do it, I wondered—keep trying? Why not accept things the way they were? He was one up from Bogsy.

  He held out his money. “One, please, Al.”

  “For you?” said Alan.

  Andy seemed to hesitate slightly. He’d had an idea. Then he said, “No, for Tom.”

  Alan noticed the hesitation but couldn’t work out what it meant. He nodded to Rob. Rob fished about in their special backpack and brought out a little white bag, which he handed to Alan, and which Alan tossed to Andy. You could tell from the way it arced through the air and the way that Andy caught it, it was full. He looked really pleased.

  “Thanks, Al.” He thought he was making progress.

  When he’d gone, “What’s the date?” said Alan, all casual, to no one in particular.

  “October fifth,” said Rob, and then added, “Four weeks to go.”

  “Why d’you say that?” snapped Alan. “Four weeks till what?” He knew, but he wanted someone to say.

  “Funday!” said someone else—it was Jack Tweedy—and somebody snickered.

  “What d’you mean, Funday?” said Alan. Of course, he knew.

  “You know, Funday,” said Jack. “November second. When we all look up into the sky and get to see who’s been laughing at us.”

  “FUNDAY?” Alan shouted suddenly. Then he got sweary and shouted other things as well. He stepped close to Jack and shouted them all, right in his face. It was like when Mr. Smith had shouted at him. You could see the spit. But Jack didn’t dare wipe it off, any more than Alan had that day in English. “November second?” he went on. More swearing. “It makes me sick! And if anyone mentions Bird Boy again, I’m gonna screw their head off!”

  There was silence.

  And that’s when Tom Flynn and Damien came round the wall.

  “Anything left, Al?” said Tom. He held out a coin.

  “Anything left?” said Alan, finding it hard to stop shouting (and not really trying). “Anything left, after what you’ve just had?”

  Tom looked confused.

  “You want to watch out, you do, Tom,” said Alan. “You’ve got a problem. An—eating disorder.”

  He took another white bag from Rob, but this time tipped it straight out on the ground. Shiny, foil-wrapped toffees fell round his feet. When he handed the bag to Tom, there could only have been one or two left inside.

  Tom seemed about to protest, but Alan said loudly, “We don’t want you getting fat, do we?” and Tom and Damien left, without a word. Tom was middle ranking—well above Bogsy and Andy P—but he wasn’t that bothered about the Battalion, not really. He and Damien had each other and could take it or leave it. He cut his losses, on this occasion, with barely a shrug.

  No one came forward to pick up the sweets, although they were good ones and would have been fine, being wrapped. Nobody moved. This was my moment. This was when I stepped forward and said, I know who he is, Alan—Bird Boy.

  It would have been perfect. I know who Icarus is.

  Electrifying.

  All I had to do was speak up and make my short announcement.

  There was only one problem.

  I didn’t want my head screwed off.

  My discovery seemed to change everything. For a start, it washed all my mottoes away. By not telling Alan at break that day, I wasn’t Acting Normal. All right, no one fancies their head being screwed off—but I hadn’t told him at lunchtime, either, when he’d calmed down, nor on the bus home. I could even have sent him an Icarus-style note: Icarus is Bogsy. Signed: A Friend. Then, when he wanted to know who to thank, I could have come forward. But I didn’t.

  You could say I Wasn’t Reacting. That’s what I said to myself, at first. It made me feel safer, to think I was just going on as I always had. But I knew that the old me would have told Alan by now. This wasn’t Not Reacting. It wasn’t doing nothing. Keeping quiet about Bogsy was something else.

  Even Trust No One didn’t work anymore. Like with Don’t React, I could kid myself that that was what I was doing. But if I was honest, I had to admit that by keeping quiet I was trusting someone. I was giving him what I think Mum would have called “the benefit of the doubt.” That meant you let a person go ahead with whatever it was, in the belief that it might—just might—turn out worthwhile.

  I didn’t know what Icarus was up to, but if I stopped him, I never would.

  “I’ve come to see Maisie,” I said to the woman behind the reception desk of The Laurels. “Shall I just go straight through?” I was being firm, starting forward as I spoke, because I could see she was hesitating and I really didn’t want to be turned away.

  But before she could open her mouth to say anything, a loud, wailing sob burst out somewhere behind her.

  “No,” she said hurriedly. “Maisie’s not well again. Sorry. Come back next week.”

  She didn’t say anything about the sob, which had given way to a series of choking moans, not as loud as the first one, but continuous and terrible. Someone was really upset in there. The sound made me think of the sound Timmy made when Shadow had gotten his hamster and he found it chewed up on the lawn.

  “Good-bye,” said the woman, and then again, “Sorry.” She was nervous.

  I didn’t believe Maisie was ill this time. They just wanted to get rid of me, in case I decided to tell someone that the old people in The Laurels were badly treated. I could tell the papers.

  “Bye,” I said meaningfully, swiveled round slowly, and walked out. As soon as I felt she couldn’t see me any longer, I dived into the bushes and came back under cover, as I’d done before.

  Maisie’s French windows were double-glazed. I couldn’t hear anything from inside. But I could see Maisie, in her chair as before,
and—yes—she was shaking. This time, though, I wasn’t going away. Even if Maisie was ill, she wasn’t that ill: She wasn’t in bed. And anyway, ill people especially need visitors. Maisie especially needed me right now because I could talk to her, tell her something interesting, at least take her mind off that horrible crying she’d have to sit listening to otherwise.

  I tapped on the glass. Nothing happened. Maisie’s head and shoulders, above the back of her chair, went on shaking. I hoped her illness wasn’t catching, and tried the handle of the window. It was locked.

  I banged on the glass, quite loud. This time, she suddenly stopped shaking. I watched her push herself out of her chair and turn round.

  She didn’t have spots or a rash. Nothing like that. But all round her eyes was swollen, so the eyes themselves looked unusually small, and her whole face was glistening, as if the skin was oozing moisture. I almost wished I hadn’t come, but it was too late for that now.

  She came across to the French windows and tried the fastening from the inside, but couldn’t make it open. She jabbed a finger toward the room next to hers and turned and went out through the door.

  I went where she’d pointed. I could see through the glass of the door that I came to, it wasn’t exactly a room, more of a cupboard, with shelves on either side and this narrow glass door at the end, where I waited. The door said in big red letters.

  Maisie arrived on the inside and pushed down a horizontal bar, which opened the door. “Come on,” she said, and I followed her back to her room.

  The sobbing had stopped. All I could hear was the sound of a TV in a room down the corridor—Maisie’s own was switched off—and a sudden, loud, bubbling parp, which was Maisie blowing her nose.

  “Someone was crying,” I said.

  She blew again. “Yes.” She mopped her face with her hankie. “It was me.”

  “You?”