“No, it’s Denise,” replied Dennis. But the game was up.
Dennis felt like he’d looked at Medusa, that Greek mythological monster who turned people to stone. He couldn’t move. He looked at Lisa. Her face was dark with worry. Dennis tried to smile.
Then out of the silence came a laugh.
Then another.
Then another.
Not the kind of laughter that greets something funny, but that cruel, mocking laugh, meant to hurt and humiliate. The laughter became louder and louder and louder, and Dennis felt as if the whole world was laughing at him.
For all eternity.
“You, boy,” boomed a voice from the school building. The laughter stopped in an instant, as the school looked up. It was Mr Hawtrey, the headmaster with the heart of darkness.
“Me, Sir?” asked Dennis, with a misguided tone of innocence.
“Yes, you. The boy in the dress.”
Dennis looked around the playground. But he was the only boy wearing a dress. “Yes, Sir?”
“Come to my office. NOW.”
Dennis started to walk slowly towards the school building. Everyone watched him take each uncertain, wobbling step.
Lisa picked up the other shoe. “Dennis…” she called after him.
He turned round.
“I’ve got your other shoe.”
Dennis turned back.
“There’s no time for that, boy,” bellowed Mr Hawtrey, his little moustache twitching with rage.
Dennis sighed and click-clacked his way to the headmaster’s office.
Everything in the office was black, or very dark brown. Leather volumes of school records lined the shelves, along with some old black and white photographs of previous headmasters, whose stern expressions made Mr Hawtrey look almost human. Dennis had never been in this room before. But then it wasn’t a room you ever wanted to visit. Seeing inside meant only one thing.
YOU WERE IN DEEP POO.
“Are you deranged, boy?”
“No, Sir.”
“Then why are you wearing an orange sequined dress?”
“I don’t know, Sir.”
“You don’t know?”
“No, Sir.”
Mr Hawtrey leaned forwards. “Is that lipstick?”
Dennis wanted to cry. But even though Mr Hawtrey could see a tear welling up in Dennis’s eye, he continued his assault.
“Dressing up like that in make-up and high heels. It’s disgusting.”
“Sorry, Sir.”
A tear rolled down Dennis’s cheek. He caught it with his tongue. That bitter taste again. He hated that taste.
“I hope you are utterly ashamed of yourself,” continued Mr Hawtrey. “Are you ashamed of yourself?”
Dennis hadn’t felt ashamed of himself before. But he did now.
“Yes, Sir.”
“I can’t hear you, boy.”
“YES, SIR.” Dennis looked down for a moment. Mr Hawtrey had black fire in his eyes and it was hard to keep looking at him. “I am really sorry.”
“It’s too late for that, boy. You’ve been skiving off your lessons, upsetting teachers. You’re a disgrace. I am not having a degenerate like you in my school.”
“But, Sir…”
“You are expelled.”
“But what about the cup final on Saturday, Sir? I have to play!”
“There will be no more football for you, boy.”
“Please Sir! I’m begging you…”
“I said, ‘YOU ARE EXPELLED!’ You must leave the school premises immediately.”
15 There Was Nothing More to Say
“Expelled?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“EXPELLED?”
“Yes.”
“What on earth for?”
Dennis and his dad were sitting in the lounge. It was 5pm and Dennis had washed the make-up from his face and changed back into his own clothes. He’d hoped this might at least soften the blow.
He’d been wrong.
“Well…” Dennis wasn’t sure he could find the words. He wasn’t sure if he could ever find the words.
“HE WENT TO SCHOOL DRESSED UP AS A GIRL!” shouted John, pointing at Dennis as if he was an alien who had momentarily fooled everyone by taking human form. He had clearly been listening at the door.
“You got dressed up as a girl?” asked Dad.
“Yes,” replied Dennis.
“Have you done this before?”
“A couple of times.”
“A couple of times! Do you like dressing up as a girl?” Dad had a look of distress in his eyes that Dennis hadn’t seen since his mum left.
“A bit.”
“Well either you do or you don’t.”
Deep breath.
“Well, yes, Dad. I do. It’s just… fun.”
“What have I done to deserve this? My son likes wearing dresses!”
“I don’t, Dad,” said John, eager to score a point. “I’ve never put on a dress, not even as a joke, and I never will.”
“Thanks, John,” said Dad.
“That’s OK, Dad. Can I go to the freezer and have a Magnum?”
“Yes,” said Dad, distracted. “You can have a Magnum.”
“Thanks, Dad,” said John, glowing with pride as if he had just been given a badge that said “Number One Son” on it.
“That’s it. No more watching that show Small England or whatever it’s called where those two idiots dress up as ‘laydees’. It’s a bad influence.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Now go to your room and do your homework,” barked Dad.
“I haven’t got any homework. I’ve been expelled.”
“Oh,