Chapter 22
Groundhog Day starts again, only unlike Bill Murray, I need to find out who stole Parker’s mobile to stop the repeating sequence of events.
“Positions!” says Parker, blowing his whistle. “Now, ladies!”
Parker’s in a foul mood. He refuses to abandon practice even though it’s too dark to see the ball, it’s raining, and there’s such a strong wind if you throw against it, the ball comes right back and smacks you in the face.
“Put some effort into it!” Parker yells as we sprint back and forth between the centre and ten-metre line. “We’ve got a cup match next weekend!”
“And that’s the only reason we’re leaving you alone,” Baxter tells me as we touch the ten-metre line at the same time. “But we’ve still got a few surprises lined up.”
They sure do. Someone’s swapped my hair gel for some kind of grease I can’t wash out, and then someone filled my shoes and rugby boots with shower gel, and by the time I get my spare pair of shoes from my room (after walking barefoot through the school because someone else threw my socks into the toilet), I’ve missed breakfast and I’m late for assembly, which gets me another detention!
I walk down corridors, avoiding elbows and feet determined to trip me up, the constant whispering feeling like needles in my brain.
“Watch it, Jarvis,” says some prefect as I go tripping over his outstretched leg. “Don’t want to be late for your next class.”
I manage to stay upright, but I drop my books, and as I scramble around for them, some girl kicks my pencil case halfway across the hallway.
More laughter as I crawl between the minefield of legs to retrieve my pencil case. Fortunately for me, it lands at Chrissie’s feet.
She goes to pick it up, but I shake my head to warn her not to help, and for once, she does as I ask — a bit too well.
“Arsehole!” she sneers, not looking like my sister at all; her eyes are so angry. “I told you to stay away from me!”
I’m glad we spoke the other night. If we hadn’t, I’d be a hundred percent convinced she hates me as much as everyone else.
“Sorry,” I find myself stammering, and it’s not an act, because Chrissie’s acting enough for both of us.
“Not interested!” she tells me, using the tip of her shoe to send my pencil case crashing into the wall.
Feeling too vulnerable on my knees, I push myself to my feet as Chrissie and the other girls burst into hysterics. Even though I tower over them, I still feel small.
“Way to go, Chrissie!” says Poppy, giving her a high five as they head into the classroom. “Didn’t I tell you you’d feel better…”
But I don’t catch what they are saying. Reminding myself Chrissie’s on my side and this is just an act, I follow them into history, and after suffering forty minutes of being pelted with stationery missiles, followed by a double dose of Latin and more missiles, it’s lunchtime, and that’s when the fun really starts.
Sandwiched between Baxter and Finny, I manage to fork the occasional mouthful of food between being elbowed in the ribs and having my toes stamped on.
“Milk?” asks Baxter, holding up the jug.
I shake my head. “No, thanks.”
“Sure?” he says. “Milk’s good for you. Strong bones and all that. You should have some.”
I freeze as he fills my glass, waiting for him to pour it over me or my shepherd’s pie, but he doesn’t. He just part-fills my glass and puts the jug down.
“Cheers,” says Finny, raising his glass.
I look at him, but I can’t figure out what he’s up to behind the fake grin.
“Come on,” he says again. “To victory next week.”
Parker’s watching, so I can’t not join in, and even though I know he’s going to pour it on me, I pick up my glass and tap it to his, just as Baxter barges me, and sure enough — two glasses of milk go all over my shirt and trousers.
The rest of the day passes in cold silences and nasty whispers, and then it’s time for study hall. Somehow, I manage to put together a half-decent essay justifying Shylock’s behaviour, and with an hour still to kill, I decide to write a long letter to Beth.
I normally tell her everything — what I ate for breakfast, stupid things Jones and I talk about, and how crap it is getting up every morning to play rugby. But I don’t tell her what’s happened and that Spencer and everyone else thinks I’m a thief; writing it down makes it real, and I’ll have to deal with it. I tell her about my ideas for my documentary, ask how all the guys are, and tell her how much I miss her. Then I get up and go, but not before Baxter trips me up.
Everyone laughs, and my ears burn from the humiliation of being made a fool of again.
“Where do you think you’re going?” As usual, Bollinger’s reading his Greek myths, feet resting on his desk.
“Upstairs,” I say, my insides still shaking from the weird mix of anger and shame that seems to be following me everywhere these days. “I’ve finished.”
“Not until I say you have,” says Bollinger, and eyes never leaving his book, he holds out his hand. “Homework.”
Under everyone’s gaze, I hand him my textbook, and Bollinger flicks through it, bored and calculating.
“Average,” he mutters, reading my arguments why Shylock was right to ask for his pound of flesh. “C minus if you’re lucky.”
I don’t know what to say; I still don’t know how to deal with being hated. It’s like being told to cover for the lead actor in a play when you’ve never even read the script.
“Is homework the only thing you’ve been working on?” Bollinger asks, handing back my textbook.
I can tell just by the way his brown eyes sparkle he knows I’ve written a letter to Beth. “No, I’ve written a letter to my girlfriend.”
“Hand it over.”
“No, it’s private!” I don’t care if I’m getting into even more trouble. I’m not going to let him make a fool of me the way he does Hermit.
“You know the rules, Jarvis!” he tells me, keeping the straightest of faces. “I need to check all letters to ensure you’re not telling any porkies about the school.”
Spencer leads everyone in a splattering of laughter as Bollinger snatches my letter.
“Oh, this is nice,” says Bollinger, grinning when he reaches the second page. “The only good thing about being stuck in here is getting a letter from you every day. I can’t believe it took me four years to realise you’re the only girl for me.”
I bite down hard to stop myself from exploding as the laughter gets louder.
“Three more weeks till the first exeat weekend,” Bollinger continues, doing a poor job mimicking my West London accent. “Can’t wait to get you on the casting sofa… Really, Jarvis, your chat-up lines are lamer than a quadriplegic leper.”
More laughter, and I swallow another ball of anger.
“So, what’s this girl of yours like, Jarvis — is she a minger?”
There’s too much anger to swallow this time. “No, and she wouldn’t look at you twice!”
Bollinger’s eyes sparkle. “You being disrespectful to a prefect, Jarvis?”
“No,” I say, my chest heaving. “I’m warning you if you bad-mouth Beth again, I’ll smash your face in!”
I know I’ve walked into his trap when a nasty smile grows on his lips and he holds out a red slip. “Congratulations,” he says. “Another detention. Report to Parker before lights out.”
Chapter 23
“Another red slip, Jarvis?” says Parker, waving my sixth detention card in my face. It also happens to be the exact number of times I missed the easiest tries and dropkicks, which saw us crashing out of the Northern Counties Under 16s. “Care to explain yourself?”
I’ve done nothing wrong. I didn’t break the chair in the common room; Finny and Baxter did when they tried to get me after I lost the game. I did my Latin homework; Spencer just failed to hand it in when he collected up the papers, but what can I do? It’s my word against ev
eryone else’s.
“I don’t know what to say.” He sighs. “To date, your only contribution to this school has been on the rugby pitch, and after yesterday’s debacle, I’ll be crossing that off the list.”
I know I messed up and it’s my fault we lost, but it’s impossible to be a team on the pitch when we’re enemies the rest of the time.
“Loss of privileges, as you know, means no trips to the village, no excursions, and absolutely no calls home, but in this instance, I’m going to let you speak with your parents.”
This time I decide to speak. “Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me, Jarvis,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “I intend to be speaking with your parents about your behaviour.”
I shudder in anticipation of Dad freaking out again — that is, if he can drag himself away from his Blackberry. “Yes, sir.”
“Well,” he says, pointing towards the door, “you know the drill.”
I thank him (no idea what for), and in no hurry to get shouted at, I go downstairs to the old-fashioned red telephone box next to the grand staircase in the hallway and step inside.
The phone eventually rings, and when it does, my stomach’s twisted into so many knots it’s strangled my voice.
“RICHARD!”
I flinch as Dad barks my name at a million decibels down the ancient heavy black handset. “Hi, Dad.”
“Don’t you ‘hi’ me!” he yells. “Stealing, fighting, vandalism—”
“It wasn’t me!”
“So why did the Head tell me you broke a chair after you lost the rugby match?”
“Because they think I took that mobile and—”
“Then you shouldn’t have taken it!”
Everything goes as red as the telephone box. I didn’t argue back when they first told Dad that I’d stolen Parker’s mobile, because there wasn’t much I could do when it was on speakerphone in the headmaster’s office, but there’s no way I’m going to let him call me a thief now. “I never took the stupid mobile. I was set up, I wrote and told you!”
“Stop trying to blame other people for your screw-ups, Richard!”
“What, like you did when you lost your job?” I know I’ve gone too far, but I just can’t help it. I’m just so angry he doesn’t believe me.
“I’m going to forget you just said that,” Dad snarls. “Now, what was the one thing I told you to do?”
“To look out for Chrissie?”
“Don’t get smart with me, boy!” he hisses. “I told you to make Robert your best friend, and you get into a fight with him!”
I don’t believe it. He won’t even hear me out. “I want to talk to Mum!”
“You’re in no position to demand anything!” he tells me. “I’m going through hell to ensure I bag this deal, and I don’t need you making my job any harder!”
“But—”
“But nothing!” he roars. “Now get back on with Robert, or you can forget all about that BBC internship.”
Chapter 24
Down corridors with year-eight girls now hurling insults at me, I walk towards the post room, and for the first time that day I feel the warm hug of a smile when I find a pink envelope with Beth’s big, swirly writing.
I go to the library to read it because it’s a sanctuary for all the dorks and loners, who, like me, want to get away from bullying for just a few hours.
They’re all here. Emily Tan from Beijing, who speaks with a lisp, is at one of the tables doing her homework, Lewis Douglas-Hamilton, the only guy in year twelve who was brave enough to come out is working on an essay, and Hermit’s reading an Orson Scott-Card book — strange, I didn’t think he was the sci-fi type.
I smile as I catch them all looking at me, and they immediately seek refuge behind their books, because they know if they’re seen talking to me, their lives will get even worse.
I don’t blame them. Being ignored hurts; it hurts just as much as being punched, and for the first time since all this happened, I realise what a scumbag I was for laying into Hermit when he was just trying to be my friend.
Sitting in the window seat behind the foreign language section, I open up Beth’s letter and find a photo of Beth posing as Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, complete with a small dog.
“It’s not what you think,” she writes me. “I’m not going to star in a West End show, but I am going to star in an advert for Luxury Coaches!”
Her letters normally make me happy; it reminds me that in the real world I’ve still got friends, but the smile falls from my face before I’ve even had a chance to enjoy it. She’d never look twice at me now.
“I think I got the part because the script sounded like something Stew and Dave had written. I had to stand there clicking my heels together saying, ‘There’s no place like home,’ then this bus turns up, and you see me reclining in some massage chair, sipping a latte, and watching a film on my own personal TV! It’s nothing like that coach trip you and I took when we went to see Mamma Mia. Do you remember?”
I do; it was before I realised I wanted to be more than friends, and I kick myself all over again when I remember she kissed my cheek and I didn’t kiss her back. It’s amazing how you can be so blind and not see what’s right in front of you.
“I know it’s stupid, but I keep thinking, ‘Oh my God! This could be it, my lucky break,’” she writes. “I mean, I know it’s only an advert, but this is how people get spotted, isn’t it?”
I nod. I know she’s going to be big; Beth’s magic on and off screen, and sinking down against the wall, I read all the news from back home, including all the details about Stew’s first girlfriend, who, according to Beth, is as crazy as she is loud, and sings in a rock band.
“Oh yes,” says Beth. “I almost forgot. Dave says you should get some of the other guys to act out some scenes in your documentary. I bet your friend Jones would. Will I meet him when we come to pick you up?”
I stop reading then. I haven’t told her — I can’t. Suddenly I feel very alone. I slip her letter into my back pocket and go to dinner.
It’s roast chicken again. Flanked as I always am by Baxter and Finny, they talk over and around me, occasionally stabbing me with a fork. More often than not they just spit or cover my meal in salt.
Moving peas around my plate since I’ve suddenly lost my appetite, I narrow my eyes and try to find my nemesis amongst all the tables. Whoever it is, they’re here, watching me, planning their next move, and if I keep my eyes open and watch really carefully, they’ll eventually give themselves away, and I’ll have them.
Films are about life, even fantasy and science fiction — they’re about people and what motivates them, and the clues are there from the opening scene. In good films, the clues are so subtle they’re almost invisible, but put them all together like the hero does at the end, and they’re so in your face you can’t believe how stupid you were not to have figured it all out.
Unfortunately for me, the person scripting the film of my life has hidden the clues too well, and the only thing I can see is that everyone’s having fun. Spencer’s scored a goal, or whatever it’s called in polo, based on his elaborate mimes, and Chrissie’s laughing so much at some story Poppy’s telling her she nearly chokes on the gigantic piece of chocolate cake she’s eating.
I might have disappointed Dad by failing to make Spencer my best friend, but I kept the only promise I crossed my heart and hoped to die for. Chrissie’s okay, and as long as whoever it is leaves her alone, I can handle anything, and so I go back to playing with my peas, killing time until I have to go back to the dorm.
Chapter 25
It’s Hermit that Spencer and his gang have decided to torment this time, by taking his glasses and doing the cruellest impressions of the poor bastard as he scrambles to try to get them back.
I wince for him as he makes another pathetic attempt to try to catch them before Finny slips them on and begins to mimic Hermit trying to fight, using Baxter as a sparring partner. For once, they’re
leaving me alone, and even though I can’t afford to get into any more trouble, I can’t just stand there and watch, not now that I’ve been there and know how rotten it feels.
“Give him back his glasses!” I say, pushing past Jones, who’s on guard duty.
The silence brings an abrupt end to the sickening mob laughter as all the sheep clear the floor in anticipation for the fight they all know is going to happen.
But I’m no terminator who strikes fear into the bravest man’s heart. I’m just an average guy with a big mouth who’ll be lucky to get out of here alive, but at least I’ll be able to look at myself again.
“Did you hear something?” asks Spencer, cupping his hand to his ear and pretending I’m not there. “I’m sure I heard someone.”
The others smirk — me, I just get mad, which is a good thing; it stops me thinking about how much this is going to hurt.
“Didn’t hear anything, Spencer,” says Finny, and looking right through me, he chucks Hermit’s glasses into one of the toilets. “Unless…”
“Unless it’s that shitbag Jarvis,” Baxter says, finishing Finny’s sentence with a nasty smile on his face. “And if it’s him, he’s got ten seconds to get his scrawny butt out of here before I break both his legs; talking to him is against The Code.”
Now I’m mad, and as Finny starts counting backwards from ten, I stand my ground, conscious a couple of the guys leave to man lookout positions farther down the hallway. As for Hermit, he runs — probably to barricade himself in our dorm.
“This is all very pointless,” Spencer tells me, his bored voice only adding to the tension. “Hermit may be a nasty little snitch, but he won’t thank you, and do you know why?”
I shake my head as Spencer approaches me.
“Because it’s against The Code,” he explains, his black eyes sparkling with sick delight at the prospect of seeing me hurt some more. “And even though he’s a pathetic worm, Hermit honours The Code!”
“You’re on your own, Jarvis,” says Baxter, joining in, as he and Finny close in around me and seal off all exits. “Now, do you still want to fight?”
I punch Spencer before I think about what a bad idea this is; there’s no way I’d start a fight I’m going to lose, even if I were thinking straight. But I’m not fighting to win; I’m fighting because I’ve got something to prove. Two seconds later, when I’m on the cold floor, my ribs burning white-hot as the three of them kick and stamp on me, I keep telling myself it doesn’t matter if they think I’m a thief and a lowlife piece of scum. I know I’m not, and when I get Hermit his glasses back, I’ll be one of the good guys again.