Every evening when he gets home from work, Dad sits down in his favourite armchair and reads the newspaper while drinking a cup of milky tea. Today I position myself on the sofa opposite him and pretend to study my French vocabulary for Madame Fournier’s test tomorrow morning. I’m pretending because what I’m really doing is watching Dad’s face for clues – a telltale raise of the eyebrows, a furrow of the brow, perhaps a smile; some sort of hint of disapproval or otherwise. Because on page twenty-three of the newspaper there is an article about a teenage girl in America who has just been elected homecoming queen at her school. I’m not really sure what a homecoming queen does, apart from wear a crown and sash, ride in a parade and wave at people. But that’s not the bit of the story I’m interested in. Because the girl in the article, in her glittery evening gown and high heels, was born a boy.
As he reads, Dad’s face remains frustratingly unchanged.
I peek over the top of my vocab list as he takes yet another noisy slurp of tea, and leisurely turns the page.
‘Anything interesting?’ I ask casually.
‘Not really,’ Dad replies with a yawn.
After half an hour he’s finished. He sets the newspaper down on the arm of the chair, and trots off to the kitchen to rinse his mug. As soon as he is out of the room, I swipe the newspaper and run upstairs, two at a time, slamming my bedroom door behind me.
My bedroom is my sanctuary. Last year, for my thirteenth birthday, Mum and Dad let me paint it any colour I liked. The shade I really wanted was a gorgeous hot pink, but I was too afraid to ask for it. After much thought I ended up going for a deep red instead, which, according to Essie anyway, is very ‘womb-like’. Dad prefers to refer to my bedroom as ‘the cave’, in a deep gravelly voice he thinks is hilarious. My walls are decorated with framed prints, mostly black-and-white shots of New York City, or vintage film posters, and photo collages of Essie, Felix and me through the ages, the three of us changing remarkably little, except perhaps for Essie’s ever-evolving hair colour.
I turn on the fairy lights that loop their way around the entire room, and clamber on to my bed, spreading the newspaper out in front of me on the duvet. I turn to page twenty-three and let out a sigh. The page is dominated by a photograph of the beaming homecoming queen; black hair cascading down her tanned shoulders. She is officially beautiful. My finger traces the contours of her face and the curves of her body in its sparkling dress. According to the article she is sixteen. She looks older, twenty-one maybe. Could I look like that in two years? I try to imagine myself on the school stage, wearing a glittering ball dress and smiling serenely as I wave down at my cheering classmates, Zachary (crowned homecoming king, naturally) on my arm, gazing at me adoringly. But the image fails to form properly in my head. It feels silly and fake, like a half-hearted game of Let’s Pretend.
Taking a pair of scissors from my desk, I carefully cut out the article. Lying on my stomach, I reach under my bed and pull out my bulging scrapbook.
A tenth birthday gift from a distant great-aunt, my scrapbook represents four years of careful curation. At the front, the pages are populated with postcards, sweet wrappers and cinema tickets glued neatly on to its black pages. After a while I started gluing in anything I found interesting or beautiful – a peacock feather collected on a school trip to Newstead Abbey; a tissue imprinted with a pink lipstick pout, swiped from Mum’s dressing table; pictures of beautiful women snipped out of magazines. My favourites are the old film stars – Elizabeth Taylor dripping with diamonds, Marilyn Monroe on a beach in a gleaming white swimsuit, Audrey Hepburn wearing long black gloves and pearls. These days, my movie stars mingle with clippings from newspapers and medical journals, statistics and tables, facts and figures.
I open the scrapbook on the most recent page. It smells sweet from the perfume sample I glued in last week. I let my eyes fall shut and bury my nose in the pages for a moment, inhaling deeply. On the opposite page I carefully glue the article into place, smoothing it down so there are no bubbles or creases.
I glance at my phone. Twenty minutes until dinner. Just enough time for an inspection. I shove my desk chair under the handle of my door and turn on some music to make the process more bearable. I pick out Lady Gaga’s Born This Way album, cranking up the volume to maximum.
I’m finished and reaching for my underpants when the door handle begins to rattle.
‘David?’ Livvy calls over the music. ‘Let me in!’
‘Hang on!’ I yell, pulling on my bathrobe, tying the belt tightly round my stomach. I turn off the music and remove the chair from under the door handle. As the door begins to open I realise my inspection notebook is lying open on my pillow. In a panic I pick it up and chuck it into my school bag before leaping back into the centre of the room.
Livvy enters cautiously, wrinkling her nose as she spots me standing ramrod straight, wearing my bathrobe hours before bedtime.
‘Didn’t you hear us yelling you to come for dinner?’
‘Obviously not.’
‘Why did you have something up against the door?’ she asks, frowning at my desk chair.
‘I was changing.’
‘Like any of us are interested in watching you get changed.’
I make a face. She returns an uglier one.
‘David! Livvy!’ Mum calls from downstairs. ‘Dinner’s getting cold.’
I move to go but Livvy stays put, her eyes narrow with suspicion.
‘Go on then,’ I say, gently nudging her towards the door. ‘You heard what Mum said, dinner’s getting cold. I’ll be down in a sec.’
Reluctantly, she lets me usher her out of the room and onto the landing.
12
That night I fall asleep on my bed surrounded by my French notes. I have feverish dreams where I find myself in the body of Madame Fournier; only I can’t speak French, and have to hide in the stationery cupboard.
I oversleep the next morning, only waking up when Phil jumps on my bed, slobbering all over the duvet. In a stupor I stumble about the bedroom, pulling on my school uniform, trying to tame my sticky-up hair, throwing books and folders into my school bag, before clattering down the stairs and into the car, my eyes still sticky with sleep.
The morning doesn’t get much better. First period is PE, a subject at which I do not excel. It’s the only lesson I share with Zachary and hardly a chance to shine, although an excellent opportunity to look at his legs. This term we are doing rugby. Ordinarily my and Felix’s tactic (Felix too is terrible at sports, not to mention almost completely blind without his glasses) is to keep as far away from the ball and the other players as possible. But today an overly enthusiastic trainee teacher is covering the lesson and forces us into the scrum. The low point is Simon Allen sitting on my head.
In French the test goes spectacularly badly. When I hand in my paper at the end of the lesson, Madame Fournier is already frowning, as if she can predict my failure.
In maths we are studying standard form. Mr Steele may as well be speaking Elvish for all I understand. Unable to keep up, I end up spending most of the lesson doodling. It takes me by surprise when I realise the hunched-over figure I’ve drawn in the corner of my page looks more than a bit like Leo Denton.
By lunch time I am thoroughly exhausted. Harry, Tom and Lexi are behind me in the canteen queue, Harry and Tom taking turns to flick my ears, making Lexi squeal with laughter every time.
‘Very mature guys,’ I say, trying to sound as bored as possible.
‘Oh c’mon, lighten up, Freak Show,’ Harry says. ‘It’s just a bit of fun.’
He flicks me again on the right earlobe, hard. I flinch. The three of them crack up laughing.
I fix my eyes on the back of the head of the kid in front of me and concentrate on staying very still, trying to resist the urge to abandon the queue altogether. Occasionally, if I ignore him for long enough, Harry gets bored and moves on to a fresh victim.
‘Where are your friends? Beauty and the geek? No, wait, hang on, l
et me rephrase that, this is Essie Staines we’re talking about after all; where are the mutant and the geek?’ he crows.
‘What did you call my friends?’ I ask, annoyance propelling me round to face him.
‘The mutant and the geek,’ Harry replies innocently. ‘Got a problem with that, Freak Show?’
I bite down hard on my lip.
‘So where are they? Off mutating somewhere?’
‘They’re at band practice,’ I say.
‘Oooooh, band practice,’ Harry says in a lisping high voice.
I turn away from him. Up ahead the dinner ladies are ladling out food in what seems like slow motion.
‘God, this queue is killing me,’ Lexi says, sighing. ‘Entertain me, Harry?’
‘Isn’t being in my company entertainment enough?’ Harry asks. Lexi giggles.
‘Hey, how about a quick round of Snog, Marry, Throw Off a Cliff?’ Tom suggests.
‘Go on then,’ Lexi says. ‘Anything to break this tedium.’
‘Let me go first, I’ve got an amazing one for Lex.’
‘Go on then, Tommy-boy,’ Harry says. ‘Do your worst.’
‘OK,’ Tom says. ‘So here are your choices, Lexi. Mr Wilton …’
‘Gross!’ Lexi squeals. Mr Wilton teaches maths and is at least seventy.
‘Mr Stacey …’ Tom continues.
Lexi squeals again. Mr Stacey teaches English and is a complete perv. There’s a rumour he tried to get Caitlin Myers drunk on the Year 12 trip to Toulouse last term.
‘And finally, 10C’s very own …’ I hear Tom perform a drum roll on his thighs. ‘… David Piper.’
Lexi dissolves into a fresh wave of giggles.
‘Genius!’ Harry exclaims, high fiving Tom. ‘Pure genius, mate!’
I try to concentrate on the menu, debating sausage and mash versus vegetarian lasagne.
‘So c’mon then, Lex, the man has spoken, what’s the verdict?’ Harry says.
‘Easy,’ Lexi replies. ‘I’d snog Mr Stacey, cos at least you’d know he’d be into it, I’d marry Mr Wilton, cos he might die soon and I’d get all his money in the will, and I’d throw Freak Show off the cliff.’
‘Aw, poor Freak Show!’ Harry says.
‘Like I care,’ I say under my breath, reaching for a bottle of water.
‘What did you say?’ Harry asks.
I place the bottle on my tray, take a deep breath and turn all the way round to face him.
‘Do you honestly think I care whether Bubble Brain here wants to throw me off a cliff or not?’
Tom stifles a giggle.
‘What did you call me?’ Lexi asks, her face suddenly bright red.
‘Bubble Brain,’ I say, sounding about a thousand times more confident than I feel. There’s a line with Harry and I have a feeling I’m teetering dangerously on the edge of it.
‘Harry, are you going to let him speak to me like that?’ Lexi demands, pouting.
Harry walks round me in a slow circle. I can feel my heartbeat speed up. He stops behind me, his body pressed up against mine, his chin resting on my shoulder. I can feel his breath warm on my cheek. It smells of cigarettes masked with polo mints.
‘Apologise to my girlfriend,’ he growls in my ear.
I consider my options. I could, of course, do what Harry has asked, and apologise to Lexi. This would probably be the most sensible option in the long run. However, it would also haunt me for days. I’d wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat thinking of all the kick-ass things I could have said. Alternatively, I could channel my inner-Essie and reel off the long list of Lexi’s other ‘attributes’ in addition to being a bubble brain. This would be the most satisfying option but potentially very dangerous indeed. What I don’t consider is what I actually end up doing, possibly the most dangerous option of all.
‘I’m waiting, Freak Show,’ Harry whispers, his breath tickling my ear.
I jerk my shoulder upwards, the bone connecting with Harry’s jaw with a loud crack. I spin round. Harry has both hands clasped over his mouth, his eyes bulging with shock.
‘You made him bite his tongue, you total freak!’ Lexi cries, rushing forward and putting her arms round Harry. He shakes her off and charges at me. I stagger a few steps backwards, hesitating before pushing him back. I must catch him off guard because he loses his footing and goes stumbling into a screeching Lexi. He straightens up and pushes me again, harder this time, his eyes flashing angrily. The force of the push sends me flying into the kids behind me. My backpack drops from my shoulder and falls to the floor. I bend down to pick it up, but Tom gets there first, scooping his foot underneath it and kicking it to Harry who proceeds to dribble it round in a circle.
‘Beaumont, don’t be such a child,’ a Year 11 girl says.
For a second I think Harry is going to listen to her because he stops and picks up the bag. As he moves toward me, I hold out my hands to take it from him. But at the last second a huge grin spreads across his face and he chucks it over my head to Tom instead. As it’s sailing through the air as if in slow motion, I remember.
My inspection notebook is in there.
Panic floods my chest.
‘Give it back,’ I say to Tom.
‘Give it back,’ he imitates in a high-pitched squeak.
‘You could at least ask nicely,’ Harry says.
‘Give it back, please!’ I say, urgency creeping in to my voice.
‘Now that’s much better,’ Harry says. ‘But you know what, Freak Show? We’re not done yet.’
He chucks the backpack to Lexi this time, who shrieks with delight before throwing it to Tom.
‘Look, just give it back!’
I’m yelling now. But they keep throwing and I’m piggy in the middle, jumping helplessly. Tom throws the backpack to Harry. It arches high over my head. I reach for it, my fingers just grazing the shoulder straps, before it lands in Harry’s arms. Instead of throwing it back to Tom, he holds it to his chest, rocking it like a newborn baby, a fresh grin on his face.
‘You know what I think? That the lady doth protest too much,’ he says, slowly undoing the zip.
No, no, no.
‘Harry,’ I say in a low whisper. ‘I’m begging you, just give it back.’
‘You’re begging me, are you?’ he says. ‘How very, very interesting.’
Not taking his eyes off mine, he turns the backpack upside down. The contents clatter out. My pencil case springs open, pens and pencils scattering in all directions. Half a bottle of water comes tumbling out after it, a packet of chewing gum, my keys, books and folders, paper floating innocently to the ground like over-sized confetti. And finally, my purple notebook. I drop to my knees to pick it up but Harry is one step ahead of me, snatching it up in one swift movement.
‘Now what do we have here?’ he announces to the growing audience. ‘Does Freak Show keep a diary? Dear Diary, why am I such a weirdo loser?’ he recites in a high voice.
More and more kids are gathering to watch. I look around for a teacher or dinner lady, but I can’t see anything over the heads of the small crowd that circles us.
Including Zachary Olsen.
Suddenly I feel very dizzy.
‘Give it a rest, Harry,’ someone says, possibly the Year 11 girl again. But Harry’s on a roll. He’s having too much fun to even consider quitting now. He opens the notebook at random. His eyes dart down the page, widening with excitement, like he can’t quite believe his luck.
‘Harry, please,’ I say, glancing sideways at Zachary who is frowning slightly. But it’s useless; nothing’s going to stop Harry now.
‘Guys, guys, listen to this!’ he cries. ‘Eighth March. Height – one metre, sixty-five centimetres, Adam’s apple – small but visible,’ he looks up at me, shaking his head. ‘What the hell is this, Freak Show?’
I lunge towards him, trying to make a grab for the notebook, but Tom gets hold of my arms, pinning them behind my back.
‘Get off me!’ I yell, twisting agai
nst him and kicking my legs. One of my kicks connects with his left shin. He swears under his breath and wraps his arms all the way round my chest instead, tight, so I can barely breathe. He’s taller than me, and broadly built.
‘Pubic hair – coarser, more wiry!’ Harry continues to crow. ‘Bloody hell, listen to this! Penis length – six and a half centimetres!’
There’s an explosion of laughter. I’m screaming now, at the top of my lungs, thinking maybe if I make enough noise I can drown Harry out. At one point I think I can hear someone telling him to stop, but over the din I can’t be sure.
‘Shutupshutupshutup!’ I chant, my eyes squeezed shut. Perhaps if I don’t open them I can pretend this is all a horrible dream; that Zachary Olsen isn’t standing a metre away from me listening to Harry recite the fluctuating size of my penis. I can feel water building up under my eyelids, threatening to spill. But I can’t cry in front of them. I won’t.
The punch shuts us all up.
It sounds unreal, like a sound effect from an action film. I open my eyes. Harry is on the floor, blood gushing from his nose, his eyes wide with shock. At first I think maybe I’ve had some kind of out of body experience and I’m the one responsible. But then I realise Tom’s arms are still around me. I trace Harry’s eye line. Standing over him is Leo, the kid from Cloverdale School, staring at his fist like it doesn’t belong to him.
13
Mr Toolan’s office is different to how I remember it – smaller and darker. In the centre there is a large and messy desk covered with paperwork and coffee cups. Framed photographs of his wife and grown-up kids, tanned and good-looking, on skiing holidays and at graduation ceremonies sit to the left of his computer screen. A half-eaten sandwich sits to the right. Behind the desk, Mr Toolan is looking at my file and frowning.
The Art of Being Normal Page 5