Nell muttered a scornful, “Typical!” and turned so that she didn’t have to gaze any longer on the pneumatic cavegirl Joe had drawn on the back of…oh, Nell’s worksheet.
Ouch. The thing was, winding Nell up wasn’t a plan. He’d never started out the day thinking ‘Hmm, must needle Nell until she’s in a complete fury’, but if she provided him with an opportunity, he always took it. Because now, the only time she ever seemed to realize he existed was when he aggravated her. Three years ago, they had shared everything. Now they couldn’t share a desk without provoking each other.
Joe glanced at his watch. The bell was about to go. He packed up surreptitiously. Green was one of those teachers who had succumbed to the illusion that his lessons were interesting and took it as a mortal insult if anyone appeared to want to leave the classroom too early. The bell went. Joe waited until Green nodded absently. He was first out of the door and the first into his maths class. He took the desk right under McKechnie’s nose. She gave him a skeptical look, which soon dissipated as the rest of the class came in, and she prepared to grapple with today’s subject, factorization. Ibrahim Majeed came in. Zahid’s brother. He saw Joe and gave him a filthy look and headed to the back of the class. Ibrahim hated all the Knightleys. Zahid said that it was because Ib was devout and blamed the Knightleys, thought they had corrupted him into falling for Ben. Even though every other member of the Majeed family seemed to be totally cool with it.
McKechnie cleared her throat. She was the only teacher Joe had any time for at all. She had been at the school longer than most other teachers, but she didn’t look any specific age. She was in some limbo between thirty and sixty. Her basic uniform was a navy pleated skirt and a matching sleeveless sweater.
The days of the week depended on her shirt color. If it was lemon, it was Monday. Mint must mean Tuesday. Wednesday was always duck-egg blue, Thursday a sort of cream of mushroom and Fridays were pale pink. She had short, wiry hair, a nose like a ski jump, protuberant blue eyes and dark, heavy eyebrows that made her skin seem all the more colorless.
Other teachers might go off on a tangent, but the only tangent McKechnie knew was the trigonometric one, and she made damn sure that all her higher tier students understood all there was to know about that tangent too. Every day, she left the school in her navy coat, carrying her navy satchel and her navy handbag, climbed into her navy car and disappeared to some navy paradise. That was all anyone knew about her.
She only took top sets and no one ever messed about in her classes. She did occasionally have weak students who only achieved a B, but mostly, her students were drilled into A and A-plus grades. No time was ever wasted, no exercise was ever pointless and no idle interpersonal chitchat was permitted to interfere with the McKechnie Machine. Hers was the only lesson in which Joe had never been able to get away with a swift snooze.
Nell stood over Joe, who had taken her usual seat. He looked at her blankly, determined not to react to her Medusa glare. It was only McKechnie’s dry voice that ended their silent combat.
“Miss Brennan, if you’ll take a seat—any seat—we can get started.”
Nell’s mouth tightened and Joe knew that another negative piece of data had been entered into her processor, just to add to the already item-heavy folder that Nell was storing on him. She went to the only empty seat in the class by sweaty Sonia Riding and sat there, simmering because Joe had made her appear petty.
As McKechnie led the class through the intricacies of the topic, there was no time to dwell on slights, intended or otherwise, and the bell came as a shock to all twenty-eight kids entwined in their problems. Joe stuffed his books into his backpack and was out of the door the second McKechnie dismissed them. He walked briskly, itching to run but determined to give no teacher any cause to haul him up for hurtling too fast down the stairs and into the IT space. His timing was good and by the time the usual rush for monitors started, he was already exploring Lamborghini images on Google. Then there it was, a fob with the Lamborghini bull and two keys, one folded up on itself, the other fully extended, complete with plip buttons. He hit Print, checked to see that it was coming out, logged off and went to pay the technician monitoring the room fifteen pence for the copy. Once he’d collected the picture, he was at a loss. He needed somewhere quiet to draw and snooze. He had twelve minutes left before the end of break. All the classrooms would be locked. There was nowhere quiet to go apart from the library, but it was more than five minutes’ walk from the classroom block. By the time he’d reached it, he’d have to head back again.
The English classrooms were all on the top floor, though, and that was generally quiet at break. There were a couple of chairs outside the English office where parents could wait if they had been hauled in to see a teacher. It would seem a bit odd, but he could go there. He logged off, pushed his chair back from the desk and bumped into Ibrahim, who muttered “Kaffir,” under his breath. Joe did say sorry but didn’t hang around.
But before he reached the top floor, Joe had to navigate the main hall, which was where he encountered Charlie Meek with Dylan Spriggs and Damien Bewbush. They were leaning against a wall, juggling with their baseball caps and eating crisps. When they saw him, they maneuvered themselves into the middle of the corridor and blocked his way. Charlie looked at him, his eyes slitted and suspicious.
“What were you doing in Elphick’s room this morning?”
Joe considered the ‘none of your business’ line but couldn’t be bothered with the aggravation it would cause.
“I was late. I had to explain why. That’s all.”
“So why was you late?” Charlie was not yet ready to let it go.
“Family stuff.” Joe’s gaze and voice were steady. It was funny realizing that he was taller than Charlie now. Meeky had always been the biggest boy in the class, but this year, Joe had topped him. Dylan and Damien were shorter still, although Damien did have the physique of a side of beef. Both acolytes munched their crisps with menace. But their packets were nearly empty and the effect was less impressive with crumbs.
“Bumboy stuff with your bumboy brother.” Charlie turned away.
“Like you with your bumboy mates, you mean.” It escaped before Joe could master his unruly tongue. Charlie whipped around and brandished his fist under Joe’s chin.
“I’ll get you for that. Elphick’s on me case, otherwise I’d do it now, but I’ll get you, you little sod. You and your shirt-lifter brother. Poofs.” He hawked and spat. His timing was impeccable. It landed inches away from a pair of black patent leather stilettos in which Mrs. Elphick’s feet were firmly planted.
“Charles, how pleasant of you to demonstrate your charming manners to the rest of us. Fortunately, I have paper towels in my office, so you will come with me while I ring your mother to comment on this episode, and you will then clear up your phlegm. And did I hear you use homophobic language? I believe I did. I think our school code of conduct has something to say about that too. Shall we discuss the next few days of your schooling while you tidy up the mess?”
“What about Joe? He called my friends bumboys. That’s ho-mo-pho-bick.”
“Really, Charlie? And who threw the first insult in this edifying conversation? Damien, perhaps you can assist me in my inquiries. Who first used the term bumboy, Charlie or Joe?”
Damien stuttered and stammered. Dylan rolled his eyes and said, “Charlie, Mrs. Elphick. Charlie said it first.” He gave Charlie a weary look. “I’ve had enough of this, Charlie. My mum is going to go mental if I get in trouble again, and every time I hang out with you, I do.”
Charlie was so astonished by this defection that for once, he was silent.
“Thank you for corroborating my suspicions, Dylan. You may go to your next class, as should the two of you.” She nodded in dismissal and Joe, Dylan and Damien melted away.
The first bell for the end of break clanged through the building and Joe ran up the stairs. At least now he’d be able to get into the classroom, and provided he got o
ne of the side places toward the back of the room, Mr. Thomas was unlikely to notice if he dozed off during the class.
He’d counted on it without considering Smokey, though. It was the only other class they shared, and Smokey regarded it as an extension of his break. Mr. Thomas had neither the power nor the will to alter things, and where Smokey led, the rest of the class—particularly the girls—followed in unquestioning obedience. Mr. Thomas was always wringing his hands and pleading for coursework, but none of his students ever really heard him, perhaps because his laments were muffled by his unfortunate beard. It was meant to be an elegant Balbo-type beard—the cheeks bare, just a tidy, trimmed patch of moustache and chin coverage—but he couldn’t shave straight and had wiggles and cuts. He had discovered when he first experimented with facial hair that there was no consistent color. The beard and moustache came out in different tints of gray and ginger, giving his chin the air of a kitten with mange. So he took the unfortunate step of dying it to a uniform tint identified by the hair experts in the class as Autumn Leaves. Despite the fact that his beard now clashed with the rest of his hair, Mr. Thomas did not take the dye experiment further, although he did maintain the upkeep on his chin with a six-weekly top-up of Autumn Leaves.
It wasn’t that Smokey hated English or Mr. Thomas. He was easily bored, though, and the immediate reward of baiting Mr. Thomas far outweighed the ultimate goal of actually getting a GCSE in English. This particular morning was no exception.
Smokey sauntered into class just after the second bell had jangled through the classroom, his timing impeccable. Mr. Thomas hadn’t yet taken the register. However much he might wish to put Smokey down as late, he couldn’t, since unfortunately Silas Murphy was present as the register was being called. Flustered, not entirely sure what he wanted to teach, he asked Lindsay Morgan to recap on the reading homework. She was busy excavating her handbag in search of a certain shade of lip gloss for Keisha Taylor. She jumped as Thomas called her name a third time and asked whether she’d actually read chapter fourteen of To Kill a Mockingbird, as set for homework the day before yesterday.
“You soppy or something? I ain’t read it. What do I wanna read that for?”
“Because it’s your main examination text, Lindsay.” Thomas took the patient but weary path, wasted on Lindsay.
“Look, I’ll go and get them notes from Smiths before the exams. I don’t have to read your stupid book.”
“Shall we read it together? Lindsay, perhaps you’d start.”
“I don’t have no book.”
“Then you can share with your neighbor. Keisha, perhaps you’d be so kind as to let Lindsay glance over your shoulder at the book.”
Smokey put up his hand. Mr. Thomas tried to ignore it, going over to the desk where Lindsay was sitting to draw the book to her attention.
“Sir, why you making Lindsay read? She can’t read. She’s rubbish.”
“You what! Did you hear that, sir? He’s disrespecting me. He’s saying I can’t read. I can read, sir, can’t I? I just don’t want to. That’s all,” protested Lindsay.
Joe wanted to kick Smokey under the table to get him to stop, but he was intent on creating mayhem and warded off Joe’s probing foot.
“Don’t want to? You can’t. That’s all there is to it. You got your cousin to take your tests for you last year, otherwise you’d be in the special class where you belong.”
“Silas, that is a highly insulting comment. Apologize to Lindsay at once.”
“For what, sir?” Smokey’s smile, false as Britney Spears’ breasts, deepened. “Telling the truth? I’m not apologizing. She should apologize for wasting our time.”
“Silas, am I going to have to send you to see Mrs. Elphick?”
“Yeah, I think you are going to have to send me to see Mrs. Elphick. Then I can tell her how you want some illiterate bimbo to read to us.” Smokey rose and his smile broadened further. “Do you want to write out a note for me, sir?”
Mr. Thomas’ cat’s-bottom mouth tightened as he returned to his desk, pulled out the blue slip that had to accompany any student sent out of a class, then filled it in. Smokey hovered over him, waiting to be excluded from the lesson. Without looking Smokey in the eye, Mr. Thomas thrust the chit into his waiting hand then held the door open. Joe winced. Smokey had an uncanny gift of escalating every confrontation, and Elphick had already been onto him and his parents about it. But Thomas was so thin-skinned and such a jerk.
The door closed behind Smokey, and Joe sighed, hoping at last to be able to get his head down. But Mr. Thomas had given up on Lindsay and now glanced in Joe’s direction.
“Start us off, would you, Joe? From the beginning of chapter fourteen, if you wouldn’t mind.”
So Joe read at a steady drone, doing his best to kill off Scout’s characteristic individuality, desperate to be left to his own devices. Mr. Thomas soon tired of his monotone and took over the job, throwing himself into the reading, perhaps in the hope that Harper Lee’s prose would transport him elsewhere. At last, Joe was able to find a fresh page in the sketchbook he always carried with him. He placed the drawing he’d made from the photo of the Gallardo fob and keys beside it and started copying. It didn’t take long. Fortunately, Mr. Thomas was by now so immersed in his own performance that he did not notice as Joe’s head drooped and settled against the wall, his hand on the drawing he’d just completed.
The problem was that Mr. Thomas’ voice kept intruding into Joe’s dream, particularly when he put on a strange accent to play the part of Dill, who’d run away from home, reached the Finch house and hidden under Scout’s bed. Then there was a knock at the door and in slouched Smokey, followed by an implacable Mrs. Elphick, who was neither prepared to babysit on behalf of her colleague, nor willing to put up with Smokey’s continual taunting of his teacher. Joe shook his head to clear the sleep away.
“Silas, I believe you have something to say to Mr. Thomas and the rest of this class.”
Smokey turned slightly, caught her eye and wheeled back to the rest of the room.
“I apolo—” But as he began speaking, a small child in shorts held up by braces, a grubby white shirt and a pale-blue bow tie plowed past both Mrs. Elphick and Smokey. He paused, saw the vacant seat by Joe and sat himself down.
“Boy, am I glad I found you. You wanted this, didn’t you?” His voice was high, like someone on helium, but there was an unmistakable Southern drawl to it. Joe looked at him then closed his eyes and mouthed, “Holy shit.” Dill surreptitiously handed over the Lamborghini keys and sat back in his chair, his feet dangling.
“Young man,” demanded Mrs. Elphick, “just who do you think you are and what on earth are you doing in this classroom?”
“Why, I’m Charles Baker Harris, ma’am, but everyone calls me Dill.” The boy looked around him for the first time, perplexity furrowing his brow. “I don’t rightly know what I’m doing here, ma’am, ’cept I had to give something to Joe Knightley here.”
By this time, the whole class was alert, an extraordinary break with the tradition of Thomas’ groups. As one, they gazed at the boy, uncertain whether they could believe that this was truly Dill Harris or whether this was some bizarre stunt that Thomas had resorted to in yet another attempt to engage their evanescent interest.
“Where are you from?” Mrs. Elphick suddenly switched her attention to Mr. Thomas. “Do you have a budget to hire child actors, Mr. Thomas, or have you prevailed on someone to dress up for free? I know it’s been suggested that you liven up your approach, but this seems a little extreme.”
“I don’t know where he’s come from. He’s nothing to do with me.”
“Guv,” added Mrs. Elphick crushingly, “no doubt it’s more than your job’s worth.” She swiveled away from Thomas and turned her laser glance on Dill. “So you had to give something to Joe Knightley. Is that right, young man?”
“Yes, ma’am. I guess I can go back now. Back to Alabama. Ain’t I in Alabama anymore?”
“No,
young man, we are not in Alabama. And how we are to get you there is beyond me. I suppose I’d better get onto social services. How is it, Joe, that recently you have become the epicenter of any confusion in this building? It comes back to me now. We owe Mr. Tucker’s temporary absence to your apparently being sucked into a wall. And there’s the state of Mr. Crosbie’s room, which reeks of fish and seems to have been flooded.”
Joe looked at Mrs. Elphick and shook his head. “I don’t understand that, Mrs. Elphick, but Dill is staying with us. He’s meant to be shadowing Liesel, my little sister. If it’s okay, can I keep him with me until the end of this lesson? Then I’ll take him over to her on my lunch break?”
“Take him back now. I’ll sign you out. Come with me. You, Silas, will return to your seat and cause no further trouble. I will see you this afternoon at three-thirty-five for your detention.” She beckoned at Joe and Dill to follow her, turned as precisely as a drill sergeant and stalked down the corridor, expecting the boys to tag faithfully behind her. She was not disappointed. Meekly, Dill slipped his little paw into Joe’s hand and trotted beside him as Elphick’s kitten heels tapped along the corridor.
Chapter Five
Ditching Dill
At the secretary’s office, Mrs. Elphick signed the form allowing Joe to leave the school premises for no more than fifty-five minutes, which should be enough to walk the mile to Liesel’s school, deposit the child and return before the end of the lunch hour.
It was not warm, and Dill wore only a lightweight shirt. Joe took off his fleece and handed it to him. It swamped Dill, making him look as though he were wearing a fluffy red dress. Joe helped Dill roll up the sleeves then zipped himself in his jacket and put on his backpack before leading the kid out of the school gate.
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