‘What are you going to do before tea?’ Mum said.
Fifty could see I still wasn’t functioning so he stepped in. ‘I think we’ll go outside and . . . find something to do there.’
‘Good. What about you, Flo?’
‘Can I do Play-Doh?’
‘Of course,’ Mum said. She cleared away the plates and sent us out.
So we stood on the grass.
My gaze was fixed on the wavy blades, the bright shiny green and the duller greyish green of the underside. I could easily have stopped breathing again. It would have been better than the embarrassment of not knowing what to say. And the worry that we’d still be standing in a silent circle when Mum called us for tea. And if she never called us for tea because a big wave swept her away, then we’d grow old and grey and die there. In between my desperate thoughts, a label kept gliding into view, like a subtitle on a film. It said, SORRY.
‘Sorry,’ said Fifty.
My head snapped up. ‘Yes. Sorry.’
‘Accepted,’ said Jonno. ‘I’ve had worse welcomes.’
Although we’d only said eight words between us, everything changed. Not speaking was so uncomfortable. Speaking was like finally having a pee when you’ve been holding on and holding on. Jonno grinned so I grinned back.
‘Have you been to lots of schools?’ asked Fifty.
‘Enough. This is the fourth school in seven years.’
‘Did you get expelled?’ Fifty said.
‘No, but I wouldn’t have minded if I had. I’ve been to schools where the classroom is scarier than being in a cage with . . .’ He paused.
‘A panther?’ I suggested.
‘I was actually deciding between the devil and the tooth fairy, but a panther would do. Did you know there’s no such species?’
‘There is. It’s black and it’s a cat,’ said Fifty.
‘It’s black and it’s a cat, but it’s actually a leopard or a jaguar with black skin. Opposite of an albino.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ I said.
‘Same,’ said Fifty.
After that the questions flew: Why does he keep moving? When is he moving again? Why is he scared of the tooth fairy? (He isn’t, any more.) Which school was the best? What is the worst thing that’s happened to him? How far can he see without his glasses? (As far as his elbow. )
We started to chuck a ball around as we chatted and it was OK. (And his neck looked normal!) He’d lived in London and Glasgow, where he met his best friend, Ravi. His worst first day was in Oxford where the teacher asked a posh kid to show him the way to the loos and he showed him the girls’ not the boys’ and then went and got all the other boys so they could watch him come out. How nasty is that?
It was nice talking to someone new – we all know everything there is to know about each other.
Jonno asked questions too: Why do you have such strange nicknames? I can guess Keener, but Fifty? Copper Pie?
We enjoyed answering that.
NICKNAMES
COPPER PIE: Ages and ages ago (we must have been about six) he was eating in class (absolutely not allowed) and the fill-in teacher (a man who didn’t know any of our names) shouted, ‘You with the ginger hair, put down that sandwich.’ And C.P. yelled back, ‘My mum says it’s copper, not ginger, and this is not a sandwich it’s a pork pie.’ He’s been Copper Pie ever since.
FIFTY PER CENT (or FIFTY): He hasn’t grown since he was about three, so he’s half the size of everyone else.
BEE: Short for Beatrice.
KEENER: It’s obvious, isn’t it?
JONNO: Has never had a nickname.
‘Do you want to go out the front?’ I said. Our garden’s quite small so we often play on the road.
We decided to play piggy in the middle, one on each side of the road and the pig in the middle, who had to try to get the ball and not get run down. I was in the middle, and had been for ages, when we heard yelling.
‘Keener!’ It was Copper Pie, and someone chasing him – Bee.
What were they doing here? My house isn’t on the way to Bee’s or C.P.’s. She lives on the estate and he lives on the main road.
Copper Pie skidded to a stop two drives down. So I ran over.
‘What is it?’
‘What’s he doing here?’ Copper Pie gave Jonno the evil eye.
‘Long story. Mum invited him. He’s all right.’
‘He’s the reason I’m for it.’
‘Come on, Copper Pie. He just wanted someone to hang out with. Do you know he’s never been at a school longer than about five minutes? He’s always been the new boy.’
‘So?’
‘Anyway, why are you here?’
Bee caught up. ‘Trouble. Big, big trouble.’
Fifty came over. ‘Did I hear trouble is brewing, witchy-poo?’
‘Brewed,’ said Bee.
Copper Pie sat on the kerb and put his head in his hands.
Bee made an aren’t-you-going-to-tell-them face, but he didn’t look up.
‘What is it?’ I said. ‘Did something happen on the way home?’
Bee shook her head.
‘Well there wasn’t time to get in any more trouble at school today,’ I said. ‘Was there?’
clumsy clot
Bee did the talking.
‘C.P. went back up to the classroom after D.T. to get his catapult. He thought he ought to leave it at home for a few days because of . . .’ She stopped and stared at Jonno with big wide eyes that seemed to say, ‘All your fault, Newboy.’
‘Anyway, on the way back down the stairs he was just testing the elastic, he says . . .’ (she made a ticking-off face at Copper Pie) ‘when his finger slipped and . . .’ (she winced) ‘he knocked the left ear off the statue of Charles Stra-Stra-Stra-att-on . . .’
The last word got longer and longer because it was interrupted by little snorts as though she was trying not to cry.
I gasped. The statue stands in the corridor right outside the hall doors. Charles Stratton was the founder of the school hundreds of years ago. I could see why she was upset. It’s probably priceless.
Bee took a breath and finished her sentence without any gaps, ‘. . . withafiftypencepiece,’ and then let out a huge ‘HA HA HA’, sat down on the pavement and carried on laughing her head off.
‘I’m sorry, Copper Pie, but only you could be so stupid and so unlucky,’ said Fifty, grinning away.
I couldn’t see what was funny about damaging such a valuable part of the school’s history but all the rest of them were in fits.
‘You’re right. I never hit anything I’m aiming at,’ said Copper Pie, who seemed to find it just as hilarious as the others even though he was in terrible trouble.
‘Listen,’ I said.
No one