Lori and Max

by Catherine O’Flynn

  ‘Why’s that then?’

  ‘Because I’m thinking. Calculating. Long dividing.’ I didn’t like to go into the whole ping-pong disaster scenario.

  ‘The answer is sixteen, with a bit left over.’

  ‘Pardon?’ I said.

  ‘Eleven left over in fact. Sixteen remainder eleven.’ I stared at her – she had actually picked up her pencil and was doing the sum in her own book, humming merrily to herself. ‘Can’t resist a little bit of maths,’ she said cheerily. ‘Long division’s not difficult, you know. My mum taught me the best way. First off, forget this bus stop foolishness. I’ll show you.’

  ‘But…’ I said.

  She looked at me. ‘What?’

  ‘Well … I mean, I’m the learning mentor.’

  ‘But,’ she tapped the blank page again and whispered, ‘you’re not very good at maths, are you? Now,’ she said, in her normal voice again, ‘look at this…’

  That was how it started. Turns out that, not only could Max do long division, she could also explain it better than any teacher ever has and now I can do it, too. Not just long division either. Whenever I see her doing nothing and offer some help, she never needs it; she already knows the answers. It must be something to do with how many schools she’s been to. She told me she’s been to hundreds. Well, maybe not hundreds, I lost count to be honest, definitely tens, though. I guess she learns something new at each one and now she basically knows everything! Except how not to get expelled. She never seems to learn that.

  I lean over and ask her to remind me how you calculate the area of a circle when Josh Ryman suddenly marches up to the front of the classroom and bangs his fist on the desk. Naturally Miss Casey is off on a FBD. Everyone falls silent.

  ‘That’s more like it. I could teach Casey a thing or two about class control.’ He leans back against the desk with his arms folded, a grin spreads across his face.

  ‘As you’ll all have seen,’ he announces, ‘or if not seen, then smelt, we have a new addition to Class 6B.’

  There are a few snorts of laughter from some of Josh’s gang.

  ‘It’s called Max, but I’m not sure what it is. A boy? A girl? Some kind of creature?’

  Josh has clearly not forgiven nor forgotten Max’s threat to turn him into a rat. I start to get a bad feeling in my stomach.

  It’s obvious that Josh Ryman is going to grow up to be some kind of criminal mastermind. He already has most of the necessary skills and attributes: a baby face, a mean streak, a gang of dim-witted henchmen. He needs to work on some kind of crazed laugh – an evil cackle to let out whenever he comes up with a diabolical new plan – but apart from that he’s pretty much all set. One day, when we’re both adults, we’ll come up against each other in a big case and I’ll defeat him with my powers of detection and deduction and he’ll never trouble anyone again.

  ‘Oi, you, Mason!’

  Josh is looking straight at me. This was a bit sooner than I’d planned. I was hoping I’d be less scared of him when I grow up.

  ‘What about you? You’re sat right next to it. What do you say?’

  I try giving a shrug.

  ‘What’s that? Tut tut, Lori, you don’t do that when Casey asks a question. Come on, now. What is it?’

  Everyone looks at me. My heart beats loudly. I do what I always do in difficult situations and try to imagine what Sylvie Clandestino would do. Miss Sylvie Eveline Clandestino is my all-time favourite fictional detective. I think of the time she was held by kidnappers. They tried to force her to reveal the location of her secret underground headquarters. Sylvie just smiled and said: ‘You’ll never make me sing.’ Which didn’t actually mean sing. Singing would have been a crazy thing to do at that point. ‘Sing’ is American cop slang for ‘tell’. The point is that Sylvie was totally cool under pressure and all the time she was secretly using the transmitter watch she’d invented to send her location to Jim, her equally brave crime-fighter husband. My watch is excellent and has thirty-six functions (I may have mentioned that) but, frustratingly, they don’t include an emergency transmitter or any kind of Josh Ryman-elimination button. He’s still staring at me with his weird baby eyes.

  ‘Well? Chop chop. Answer the question!’

  I think of Sylvie. She wouldn’t be scared by a bully like Josh.

  ‘Max is a girl,’ I say quietly.

  ‘Wrong answer!’ shouts Josh, slamming his hand down so loudly that it makes me jump.

  ‘You!’ Max sits like a statue with her head down. ‘You’re going to have to help them. They all seem confused. You need to come up here right now, face the class and tell them what you are.’

  She doesn’t move.

  ‘It’s OK, I’m here to help you.’ Josh is talking in a creepily soft voice now. ‘You don’t know what you are either, do you? You’re not one thing, you’re not the other, you’re not really anything. That’s it! You’re nothing! Well, that can be your name from now on, to help us all to remember. Come on now, Nothing, the rest of the class need to hear it from you. You need to come up here and tell them your name.’

  ‘Don’t go,’ I whisper to her.

  But Max stands and stretches lazily like a cat waking up. She walks slowly up to the desk.

  A smile spreads across Josh’s face. He loves to win. Max walks until she’s face to face with him.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘You’re facing the wrong way. Turn around. Face the class. Tell them what you are.’

  We can’t see Max’s face, but we can see Josh’s smile slowly fade and his face begin to turn red.

  ‘Why are you smiling, you mental case?’ he shouts. ‘Do you think this is funny? You won’t. Turn around right now and repeat after me: “I am nothing.”’

  Silence.

  ‘Say it! “I am nothing.”’

  Max leans toward Josh. Her face moves closer and closer to his face. I think she’s actually going to kiss him! Josh’s eyes are fixed on hers. She stops with just a fraction of an inch separating their noses. The entire class is holding its breath and then, suddenly, and very, very loudly, Max shouts: ‘Boo!’ and Josh Ryman jumps about six feet in the air. There’s a moment’s stunned silence and then everyone laughs and laughs and laughs. Everyone except Josh. He twists his angry, red face from side to side, glaring furiously, disbelievingly, at everyone laughing. When the laughter dies down, Max looks him up and down and says, ‘You’re right, you are nothing and now everyone knows it.’

  She saunters back to her seat, turns to me and whispers, ‘Want to come to a birthday party tonight?’

  Chapter Ten

  ‘I didn’t know you lived above Rooster Party!’ says Lori, standing on the doorstep, as if this was something she should have known. She seems weirdly impressed. ‘Are you troubled much by the anti-social behaviour?’

  Max is puzzled: ‘What anti-social behaviour? You know the roosters aren’t really having a party, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m talking about the littering. In the street outside. Fast-food debris. Attracts rats, Nan says.’

  ‘Oh, that. Well, what’s wrong with rats? They’ve got to live, too, haven’t they?’ says Max. ‘Do you want to come in?’

  Upstairs in the flat, Max can see that her mum has made an effort. She has changed out of her dressing gown into her jeans. She’s set the table and put some crisps and kola kubes in little bowls. Best of all, she’s also bought a big bottle of Dandelion and Burdock, which is Max’s favourite.

  ‘You ever tried Dandelion and Burdock before, Lori? It’s a bit old-fashioned but Maxie loves it,’ says Max’s mum.

  Lori shakes her head. ‘My nan is a bit anti old-fashioned things. She likes to keep up to date.’

  ‘Ha. Does she? Good for her. Well, try a bit anyway; see what you think. The problem with liking old stuff is that it’s not very easy to get hold of. I had to go all the way to Meacham’s sweet shop to get this, that’s the only place that still sells it. Still – it’s for a special occasion isn’t it?’

  Lor
i takes a sip and Max can see straight away that she doesn’t like it. ‘Mmm,’ she says ‘Things really tasted different in the olden days. Could I have a glass of water, please?’

  Max can’t understand how anyone would ever choose to drink water, unless they were shipwrecked on a desert island and literally dying of thirst. She likes sugar in her drinks. The more sugar the better. Whenever they have squash at home, her mum always wonders how they get through it so quickly because she hasn’t realised that Max likes to drink it undiluted.

  While Max’s mum is in the kitchen, Lori hands Max a gift and says, ‘Happy birthday.’

  Max looks at it. It’s really nicely wrapped, like the proper presents you see in shop windows at Christmas, with a ribbon and bow. She opens it carefully and finds a book.

  ‘I don’t know if you’ve read it already,’ says Lori.

  Max studies the cover. It’s just a black front door. ‘Sherlock Holmes,’ she reads out loud. ‘He’s on telly, isn’t he? Is he good?’

  ‘He’s amazing! He basically smokes a pipe, wears a big hat and solves crimes. He’s super-clever but is best friends with a doctor called Watson, who is sort of the opposite. I mean not actively stupid, but definitely not a very bright person, but then again, he is cheerful while Sherlock Holmes is quite miserable, so you know, swings and roundabouts. If you like this, I can give you loads more. I’d also recommend Miss Marple. She’s another brilliant detective. She lives in a place called St Mary Mead, which is a tiny village with an absolutely unbelievable amount of crime.’

  Max isn’t sure what to say to all this so tries: ‘I’ve got a book about animals.’

  But Lori hasn’t finished yet. ‘My favourite fictional detectives are actually The Clandestinos. They’re a married couple, Jim and Sylvie, and they’re super-rich, so everyone thinks they just spend their lives swanking about in their enormous, luxury house in the California hills but, behind the scenes, the Clandestinos are totally dedicated to fighting crime. They have an entire underground HQ full of detective equipment. Jim Clandestino is amazing at disguises and Sylvie is brilliant with computers and technology.’ Lori pauses for breath and then out of the blue asks, ‘Max, have you ever wondered where Miss Casey goes during her Frequent Brief Disappearances?’

  Max blinks. ‘Her what?’

  ‘When she’s missing from class.’

  ‘Miss Casey?’

  ‘Yes. Where do you reckon she goes when she “pops out”?’

  Max frowns. ‘Well, she’s at the photocopying machine. The barcode on her photocopying card has faded and the machine takes ages to register it, so it always takes her loads longer to get all her copying done than it should.’

  Lori looks sceptically at Max. ‘How have you deduced that?’

  ‘Juiced what?’

  ‘How did you work it out?’

  ‘I didn’t, she told me. I was late one day and I passed her in the corridor and she said, “Oh, Max, this machine will be the end of me,” or something teacher-ish like that and then she told me about all her troubles with the card. She went on for ages about it. I didn’t really know what to say, so I just offered to carry some of the copies back for her.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Lori.

  ‘Why? What did you think it was?’

  ‘Well, it just seemed a bit more mysterious than that.’

  Max thinks for a minute and then says, ‘Alright then. I’ve got one for you. What’s Cheetham up to in the bike sheds?’

  ‘Up to? Mr Cheetham? He’s not up to anything. He’s the caretaker. He’s taking care of them. Cleaning them. Fighting grime.’

  ‘Cleaning them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Up to seven times a day?’

  ‘Well, evidently they get very messy.’

  ‘Point one: do they look as if they have been cleaned seven times a day?’

  ‘Well, it’s hard to say.’

  ‘Even once a day? Even once a week?’

  ‘Well, maybe not, but the wind does blow a lot of litter back in.’

  ‘Point two: does Mr Cheetham take cleaning tools with him into the sheds?’

  ‘Cleaning tools?’

  ‘Brushes? Dustpans? Bin bags?’

  ‘Erm … actually now I think of it, no, he doesn’t. I guess he keeps them in there.’

  ‘Point three: have you ever seen Mr Cheetham’s fingers?’

  ‘His fingers?’

  ‘Yes, his fingers. They’re attached to his hands.’

  ‘Yes, I know where his fingers are, and, yes, I’ve seen them.’

  ‘But you’ve not noticed anything unusual about them?’

  ‘Oh my goodness, does he have too many?’ says Lori excitedly.

  ‘What? No! He doesn’t have too many. It’s the colour. They’re yellowy-brown. Right hand, these two fingers.’ Max waggles her fingers at Lori.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Point four: do you ever see smoke coming from the bike sheds?’

  ‘Actually, yes. Yes I do, sometimes, just a little bit.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, I assume he burns litter in there sometimes. Maybe very, very small quantities of leaves.’

  ‘Wrong! Mr Cheetham is a smoker. He’s heavily addicted. His fingers are stained with nicotine. He can’t get through the day without several cigarettes, so he tries to hide his anti-social habit in the bike sheds where he thinks no one can see him.’

  Lori is completely silent for what feels like a long time and then says simply: ‘Wow!’

  ‘Wow what?’

  ‘You’re like a real detective. Like Sylvie Clandestino.’ She hesitates and then says, ‘Max, can you keep a secret?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, guess what … I’m actually a detective.’

  Max looks at Lori closely. ‘Aren’t they normally taller?’

  ‘Well, I mean, I’m training to be one. It’s what I want to be when I grow up, so I’m practising now.’

  ‘Oh! So that’s why you carry that notebook everywhere in your pocket?’

  Lori is astonished. ‘How do you know about my top-secret notebook? You’re incredible!’

  Max grins. ‘Well, that’s true, but also you’re not so great at hiding things. You’re always writing in it.’

  Lori’s face falls. ‘Sometimes I think I’m closer to Doctor Watson than Sylvie Clandestino.’

  The conversation dries up and Max realises that she is very hungry. She has only eaten two kola kubes since lunchtime. Her mum has dozed off on the sofa again. Max notices Lori looking at the table set for dinner: the pink paper serviettes on the plates.

  ‘Are we waiting for someone else to come?’ Lori asks.

  Max looks at the clock and sees for the first time how late it is. It’s five o’clock, a full hour after he said he’d be there. She feels her mood drop instantly. Another broken promise. She should be used to it. She realises Lori is still waiting for an answer. ‘No one else is coming,’ she says.

  ‘Oh. Right,’ says Lori.

  Max doesn’t know what else to say, so she goes and fetches Lori’s coat and hands it to her. ‘You should probably go home.’

  Lori looks confused. ‘OK.’ She looks again at the table set out for dinner. ‘Are you sure we weren’t supposed to be having some food?’

  Max leads her to the door.

  ‘I wasn’t sure what happened at parties anyway. They always seem to have food at the ones on telly but Nan says you can’t believe everything you see on TV. Well … thanks for … erm … the water. See you tomorrow…’

  ‘Bye, Lori.’

  Max closes the door behind her, goes into her room and lies on the bed listening to the clock tick. Sometime after seven her mum wakes up and looks in on her.

  ‘You tired, sweetheart?’

  Max says nothing.

  ‘Your friend gone home? She seemed nice. We’ll have to have her over again. Did I miss Dad? Did I miss all the food?’

  Max squeezes her eyes closed.

  ‘Sorry
I dozed off, love. I don’t know why I’m so sleepy all the time.’ She sits on the bed next to Max and puts her arm round her shoulders. ‘Happy birthday, Maxie.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Mr Wilson, the headteacher, is doing one of his assemblies. Mr Wilson loves stories with a moral. It doesn’t bother him that these stories are generally totally unbelievable. Last week he told us a very long, rambling tale about some people who made soup from a stone! I have no idea where he gets these tales from. I think maybe he has an enormous book called, ‘Unrealistic and confusing stories for children … ideal for assemblies!’

  Anyway, amazingly, today’s story is actually good. Apparently, it’s an old Indian folk tale, but it’s basically a detective story. It’s about a rich man whose money is stolen from a locked trunk in his house. The only people with access to the trunk are his four servants so it has to be one of them but, of course, they all deny it. So the rich man asks the emperor (who also happens to be a part-time detective) for help. The emperor visits the four servants and says that as none of them have owned up he’s going to have to use his magic sticks to find the thief. He shows them four identical sticks and tells them to take one each and sleep with it beneath their pillow. He says that the stick taken by the thief will magically grow two inches overnight, proving their guilt. That night the servant who actually stole the money reckons he can outwit the emperor and the magic detector-sticks by secretly chopping two inches from his stick so that, even when it grows, it will still look the same as the others. The next day when the servants show their sticks to the emperor the guilty servant is identified immediately. ‘Aha! The sticks were not magical at all,’ says the emperor. (I’ve added in the ‘Aha!’ as it sounds like the kind of thing an emperor would say when he got excited.) ‘But your guilty conscience made you chop your stick, making it shorter than the others and revealing your guilt!’