I shove my books into my backpack and try to creep out with the crowd, but Mr Lancer catches my eye and beckons me over. I sigh, and let my classmates pass until we’re the last ones in the room. He leans back against his desk and folds his arms.
‘Just moved here?’ he asks.
I nod. ‘Yesterday.’
‘Tired?’
I almost laugh at how little the word covers my condition, but I nod again.
‘You’ll be okay,’ Mr Lancer says, smiling. ‘Get some sleep. Preferably not during school hours, though.’ And he motions me out the door with his head.
There are students everywhere out in the corridor, but I don’t recognise any of them. It looks like I’m going to have to find my next class on my own. I check out my schedule and find I’ve got history after break, in room C9. I look up at the sign over the door to maths – B2. Not around here then.
‘Excuse me,’ I say to a girl walking by in a school jumper and a long skirt. ‘Do you know where I’m supposed to be?’
She stares intently at me. ‘None of us knows,’ she says in a low voice. ‘You’re a mystery.’ And she walks away without another word, plucking imaginary things out of the air.
It looks like I’ve met the resident nutter. Maybe she and I can form a club.
I wander back down the corridor. Turning a corner I see the foyer from this morning, with my mother standing in the middle of it. She’s captured Garth and is holding grey school trousers up against him, right in front of everyone, the evil woman. She looks up, and I quickly duck back round the corner and crouch down behind some lockers. I peer out, checking if she’s seen me or not.
‘Circle,’ someone says behind me. I turn and see the boy who was sitting in front of me in maths. He’s filling his drink bottle up at a fountain and grinning down at me.
‘What?’
He points at my T-shirt. ‘To crouch in Call of Duty – circle.’
Oh, he’s a gamer, too. I grin back. ‘You don’t have any flashbangs on you, do you? I need to retreat.’
‘Retreat from what?’
‘A pair of trousers.’
He doesn’t question me, just pulls out an invisible grenade from his pocket, pulls the pin and chucks the grenade round the corner. ‘This way,’ he says, and leads me out a side door into the schoolyard. He takes cover to one side of the door while I take the other, waits a second, then makes explosion noises. Then he turns and nods seriously at me. ‘Trousers annihilated,’ he says.
I smile so broadly and for so long that I start feeling like an idiot. ‘So what now?’ I ask eventually.
He shrugs. ‘Now we eat.’ He walks off into the yard, and I follow. ‘I’m Jeremy, by the way,’ he says. ‘Jem.’
‘James,’ I reply. ‘Jim.’
Our destination turns out to be a low brick wall separating the playground from the staff car park. The wall continues to our left and curves around the front of the school, punctuated by various paths and a set of steps leading up to the main office.
Jem holds out his hand towards the wall, palm upwards, offering me a seat. Thank you. Don’t mind if I do. We sit side by side looking out across the schoolyard. We don’t talk at first, but I don’t mind. For the first time in days I feel relaxed, sitting next to this kid who will be my friend very soon. After a while, though, he seems to wake up to his responsibilities as host.
‘So,’ he says. ‘Jim.’
‘So, Jem.’
‘How long have you been here?’
‘In Ouse? Since yesterday.’
‘Where from?’
‘London.’
‘What school?’
‘St. Giles.’
He nods knowingly. ‘I don’t know it,’ he says.
‘No, well, it was kind of small,’ I say apologetically. ‘A bit different to here.’
‘How?’
I wish I hadn’t said that, because I don’t want to insult his school by using words like “better” and “posher” and “less muddy”. He’s probably been coming here since kindergarten.
‘Oh, you know. Just different.’
He nods again, squinting out at the yard and the school buildings, thinking about things that are different, perhaps. ‘I’ve been here since kindergarten,’ he says.
I knew it. ‘What’s that been like?’ I ask.
‘Boring, mainly. It’s always the same here, and nobody’s said anything original for about five decades. If you’re old you talk about farming and football, and if you’re young you talk about girls and football. Unless you are a girl, of course, then you talk about shopping. Any age.’
‘I’m not a girl,’ I clarify.
‘No.’
We’re silent for a moment. I try to think of something original to say, to make his day a little more interesting.
‘Syphilis is making a come-back,’ I say after a while.
He turns and smiles. ‘I didn’t know that,’ he says. ‘That’s bloody excellent, that is.’
‘Yes, the victims of this fascinating bacterium are delighted. They’ve got their own chat rooms and are holding forums and planning to take over the government next spring. Unfortunately, they’ve discovered a simple and effective cure.’
‘Oh, yeah?’
‘Yeah, a shot of penicillin in each butt cheek.’
Jem shakes his head. ‘It’s a tragic world.’
‘That it is, my son.’
‘Is there just the one of you?’ he asks.
I frown, confused. ‘Unless that last blood test was used by MI5 to make a clone of me for secret government operations, yes.’
‘I meant in your family, idiot,’ he says, laughing. ‘Are you the only child?’
‘Hardly. There’s five of us, plus my parents.’
‘Jeez,’ he says, impressed. ‘So are you planning to rival the syphilis patients in their efforts to take over the government?’
‘Already tried it. That’s why we had to leave London so quickly.’ I bite into my apple. ‘We’re not planning our next attack until the hand-held missile launchers get here from Russia.’
‘Plotting world domination, are we?’ a voice behind us says mildly. We look around to see a middle-aged man in grey trousers and a red pullover, hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his feet. ‘That’s very enterprising for a Monday morning.’
Jem slides off the wall to face the man. I do likewise. ‘It’s actually only the government so far, sir,’ he reassures him.
‘Now you don’t want to go limiting yourselves,’ the man says to Jem. ‘Plenty of time for that when you’re older.’
‘Well, there’s only seven of us, you see, sir,’ I explain. ‘We didn’t want to be overly-ambitious.’
He peers at me, squinting as if he’s short-sighted. It’s probably because I’m new, or my southern accent startled him. ‘Quite right,’ he says after a bit, smiling. ‘You don’t want to overexert yourself before you’ve built up your ranks.’
Then he just wanders off. I turn to Jem for an explanation.
‘Headmaster,’ he says. ‘Mr Grayson, nicknamed Graceful. He likes to think that he understands us, and it’s quicker to let him. Otherwise he stands there trying to talk to you for ages.’
‘Right,’ I say, nodding. ‘I’ll try to remember that. Why is he called Graceful?’
‘Because he isn’t.’
As if to demonstrate, Mr Grayson reaches out to grasp the banister of the stairs leading up to the main school doors, misses, trips on a step, then continues on, trying to pretend that nothing happened.
And there’s the crazy girl again, sitting by herself on the wall on the far side of the stairs. The front of her skirt is hitched up slightly, revealing sturdy black boots and long stripy socks underneath. She’s found a small branch with a few dying leaves still attached, and is switching it backwards and forwards on the wall beside her.
A glowing blue cat pounces after it.
I gawk at her in astonishment. She seems to feel the attention, beca
use she raises her head. She’s thirty yards away, but her gaze bores into me like we’re nose to nose, searching me… challenging me…
I pull my own gaze away and shake my head to clear it. When I look back she’s jumped off the wall and is walking away. There’s no sign of the cat.
Could she see it too, or was she just playing with a branch?
‘Jem,’ I say slowly, watching her go, ‘who is that?’
He follows my line of sight. ‘That’s Pippa Green,’ he says.
‘And is she… um…’
‘Nuts?’ he supplies. ‘Yeah, she’s totally cracked. Says funny things, talks to herself. Pretty harmless, but definitely crazy.’
‘But why?’
He shrugs. ‘She just is. Don’t ask me to explain it. You’re the smart one.’
I snort. ‘Since when?’
‘Since you understand trig. I mean, you followed that class in your sleep, man.’
‘Oh, trig’s easy. I can help you with it, if you like.’ I worry then that I’ve just been condescending and that he’ll take offence.
‘Cool, thanks,’ he says. ‘Not that you’ll succeed or anything, but you can sure try if you like.’
I don’t think he’s easily offended, this one.
‘Okay, um, do you want to come round to my place tonight so we can study for the maths test on Wednesday?’ I ask.
We agree that he’ll come round for dinner at around six, after he’s been to football practice, and I agree with myself that Mum and Michael won’t mind, because they’ll be delighted I’ve made a friend in record time. The bell rings, and we head on into the murky world of a history lesson, where I do not particularly distinguish myself.
Chapter Four: Safe as Houses
I spy Mum’s car over in the staff car park as a sea of blue pullovers spreads out into the countryside. Claire’s already swinging her bag into the boot and climbing into the front passenger seat, even though I’ve got longer legs. So annoying.
I thread my way through the milling masses, and suddenly realise that Jem’s by my side. What does he want? Maybe he doesn’t want to come anymore. Maybe he’s friends with Martin and Martin’s told him I’m a twat and now he doesn’t want to be my friend anymore.
‘Don’t know where you live,’ he says.
‘Oh, right. It’s the old pub. The Shaggy Sheep, or something.’ I point down the road.
‘The Woolly Ram,’ he says, laughing. ‘Cool. I was wondering what it looks like inside, now they’ve renovated.’
‘It looks like a complete mess,’ I warn him. ‘We’re still unpacking.’
I cross over to the car and open the back door. I wave briefly before I climb in and settle down for the agonising two minute drive home.
‘Explain again why we’re not walking home,’ Claire is saying to Mum.
‘I thought you’d like me to drive you on your first day.’ Mum sounds slightly upset. Claire undoes her seatbelt, leans across and gives her a kiss on the cheek. There are times when I suspect that Claire is mellowing.
My door opens and Garth appears. He clambers over me with his awful muddy shoes and swipes me in the face with his backpack before collapsing into the middle seat.
‘Of course,’ I say, ‘because there isn’t another door you could have gone round to.’
‘And where were you at lunch, young man?’ Mum says to me as Win climbs in the other side. Once Win’s buckled up Mum starts the engine and angles her way out into the road. ‘You were supposed to come and meet me to sort out your uniform. I had to guess what sizes you’d need.’
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I forgot. I kind of got busy.’
‘Busy doing what?’ Claire says, craning her neck around to glare at me accusingly. I think she’s still on crazy alert. Either that or she’s jealous I got out of an embarrassing family situation and she didn’t.
I shrug. ‘Just hanging out.’
‘With that boy you were talking to just then?’
‘Which boy?’ Garth says, kneeling on his seat to look back at the crowd behind us, as if he’s going to instinctively know who we’re talking about, using his super nine-year-old senses to help him, no doubt.
‘Sit back down, darling,’ Mum says. She would have told him off a bit more, only she obviously wants to know about Jem too.
Claire’s still staring at me. ‘So?’ she says.
‘Yeah, I was hanging out with that boy,’ I say.
‘Really?’ says Mum. ‘That’s wonderful, honey – a new friend. What’s his name?’
Jeez, talk about third degree. ‘Jem.’
‘Jim and Jem,’ Mum tries out wonderingly.
‘The flowerpot men,’ Claire snorts.
Hilarity ensues. Garth is practically howling. Bet he doesn’t even know who Bill and Ben are. Idiot.
‘Well, at least he looks halfway normal,’ Claire says. ‘I thought you might have gone and made friends with that freaky girl in my class.’ She swivels around in her seat to sneer back at me. ‘She seems just your type.’
‘Oooo,’ Garth crows. ‘Has Jamesie got a girlfriend? Is Jamesie in luuurve?’
‘I don’t even know who you’re talking about,’ I point out. Although I have a pretty good idea.
‘Oh, just some weirdo,’ Claire says. ‘Her name’s Pippa something. Wears strange clothes and talks funny. Apparently you’re supposed to avoid her like the plague if you want to keep your sanity intact.’
‘Poor girl,’ Mum says. ‘Being avoided just because she’s different. I’d like to think you’d all be especially nice to her. She’s probably very interesting.’
Claire rolls her eyes at the limited understanding of mothers, but drops the subject. ‘So, what about this Jem creature?’ she asks me.
‘Nothing about him,’ I say. ‘Except that he’s coming to dinner.’
‘What?’ Mum screeches from the front seat. ‘James, we’ve only just moved in. The place is a dump!’
‘I’ve already told him that, and he’s prepared to risk it.’
‘Well, we’re going to have to go shopping again, then,’ she snaps. ‘I can’t offer a guest spaghetti bolognaise.’
‘Mum, the guy’s coming round for trig study, not a dinner party. Spaghetti’s fine, really.’
We go shopping.
What is it with mothers? Why must they make the simplest situation as difficult for themselves as possible?
She’s glaring at me through wafts of steam as she chops, grates, blanches and sautés the mountain of food she insisted we buy. I’m trying to keep her happy by tidying up the lounge room, but I must not be doing it right because the glares are still coming in strong.
‘This really isn’t necessary, you know,’ I say to Michael as he helps me push some boxes into the study.
He shrugs. ‘Your mother thinks it is.’
By six o’clock she’s muttering curses under her breath and throwing tea towels around. She jumps when the doorbell goes, then stands there fuming. I’m almost scared to open the door and invite the poor bastard in.
‘Hi,’ Jem says through the fronds of a pot plant he’s holding. ‘I brought this for your mum.’
‘Why, Jeremy,’ Mum gushes, charging at him with outstretched arms and a beaming smile. ‘How lovely of you. Come in, come in. You must be freezing. How about a nice cup of tea to warm you up? No, no, don’t worry about taking your shoes off – it’s an absolute mess in here.’
An absolute mess? I’ve just spent the last two hours inhaling detergent fumes. My hands are cramped up from holding the broom handle so long.
An absolute mess, my arse.
She shepherds us to the dining table and produces dish after dish from the kitchen. There almost isn’t room for it all.
‘Blimey,’ Jem says. ‘You guys eat fancy. I think we were just having spaghetti tonight at home.’
Is that right? Spaghetti, huh? I give Mum a pointed look.
‘Oh, well, I just love cooking,’ she says, and offers him the hollandaise sauce she
was swearing at five minutes ago.
No one but Mum seems to think it’s necessary to put on company manners, so dinner is the utter chaos it usually is with everyone talking over everyone else. Jem seems a little terrified by it all at first, until he realises that he’s not expected to compete in the attention seeking. After that he relaxes and laughs and eats, and later falls into a conversation about football with Michael.
‘Sweet kid, Jimmy,’ Mum says as we take the dessert plates back to the kitchen.
I roll my eyes. ‘Yeah, adorable.’
‘Okay, I need two volunteers to do the washing up,’ Michael says as I walk back to the table. Jem shrugs and opens his mouth. Oh, no you don’t.
‘We can’t, we’re studying,’ I say and pull him out of his chair and down the passageway.
‘I wouldn’t have minded,’ he insists as I show him into my room.
‘You don’t usually wash up for eight people, do you?’
Like men of our word we study trig. For about fifteen minutes, and then Jem mentions a cheat in God of War III that I didn’t know about and we have to set that up so he can show me quickly. It won’t take long.
Two hours later, when we’ve moved on to Assassin’s Creed, he puts his controller down and stretches his arms. ‘You should really try the new Mortal Combat,’ he says, reaching for the packet of jelly babies on my desk. ‘The fatalities in that are so gruesome that… Hey!’ He laughs. ‘Cool hat, dude.’
I look up and see him holding a framed photo from my desk. It’s of me when I was little, wearing a blue beanie with an orange pompom. I bite my lip and turn back to the game.
‘Yeah, pretty fetching, huh?’ I say lightly, willing him to put it down again.
He doesn’t.
‘How old were you?’ he asks.
‘Um, about four.’
‘And who’s this guy? The one whose shoulders you’re sitting on – is he your uncle?’
‘No, he’s…’ Oh, hell. ‘He’s my dad.’
Jem stops swivelling about on his chair. I keep playing. Right-two. Circle.
James Munkers Page 4