Dreamrider (6 page)

That was interesting. A coincidence, for sure, but I'd give it some thought.

‘Anyway,' she continued. ‘I heard about what happened yesterday. Are you all right? That Martin . . . God, he is such a bastard. Thinks he's so tough and funny. What was he doing sitting next to you? Giving you a hard time?'

I shrugged.

‘Not really,' I said. ‘It's all right. Don't worry about it.'

She looked at me closely. I liked the way her hair flipped under her chin. I liked her plumpness. But it was her eyes more than anything. I'm a sucker for eyes.

‘Listen, Michael,' she said. ‘He gives you crap, you let someone know. Don't let him get away with it. Promise me you'll tell someone.'

‘We're here,' I said. The bus had stopped outside the school gates and kids were crowding the aisles, jostling each other. I picked up my bag.

‘Come on,' I said. ‘Let's see if I can get through an entire day.'

‘Michael, let's see if you can get through an entire day,' said Mr Atkins.

He'd called me over at the beginning of Home Group. I had a bad feeling he was going to cross-examine me about yesterday, but his eyes were relaxed and smiling.

‘I'm proud of you, my boy,' he continued. ‘Falling into a chocolate cake within half a day of starting. That has to be some kind of record. And I want you to know that, having done so, you are maintaining the very high standards of Home Group 21. In fact, you have enhanced our already considerable reputation for active stupidity and for that you deserve congratulations.'

He took off his glasses and chewed the end of one arm. It was already pitted with teeth marks.

‘You don't have anything to tell me, do you, Michael?' he added. ‘Now you've had a chance to sleep on it?'

‘No, Sir. I don't think so.'

He sighed. ‘No. I didn't think so either.'

There was a flash of tiredness in his eyes. I'd noticed it yesterday. I knew he was struggling to keep something hidden, his sense of humour a guard against it. He put his glasses on the desk.

‘Michael. I am excessively old and I have been teaching for more years than is good for me. I have a theory that the more time you spend with young people the less you understand them. The less you are capable of understanding. I have no idea what interests young people anymore. I know nothing about the music you listen to, the films you watch, the technology you use. To be honest, I have no idea how my alarm clock works, let alone mobile phones and MSN messaging. But for all that, I am a good listener. Maybe because I don't know anything at all about you, I'm a better listener. Do you understand what I mean?'

I nodded, but he didn't seem satisfied.

‘Put very simply,' he added, ‘if you ever want to talk about anything to someone who is not going to make judgements, then you might do worse than talk to me. I'm too old to be judgemental.'

‘Thanks, Sir,' I said. ‘You're a very kind man.'

Mr Atkins's eyes widened. He frowned for a moment, as if trying to decide whether I was sending him up. Then he laughed.

‘Well, Michael,' he said. ‘Maybe I'm not the only one around here who is too old-fashioned for his own good. “Kind”, eh? Do you know . . . I think you are correct. I am kind. Use my kindness, if you feel so inclined. All right?'

I nodded.

Mr Atkins, almost absent-mindedly, reached out a hand and a coin blinked into existence. He rolled it over the back of his hand, flipping it along the ridges of his knuckles. Then the coin vanished. He turned his hand over, palm up, and there was nothing there. Then he clenched his fist and the coin reappeared, cartwheeling back and forth. I kept my eyes glued to his hand, but I couldn't see how he did it. Mr Atkins continued to speak, as if his magic show was of no importance.

‘Tell me, Michael. Are you coming to the Year 10 Social this Friday?'

‘The Social?'

‘An esteemed tradition in the hallowed halls of Millways High School. A time when all the Year 10s get together for a night of unbridled disco dancing in the school hall. A time for liaisons with members of the opposite sex. A time for, dare one say it, smuggled grog, the occasional fight and releasing the grip on the old testosterone. A Social.'

‘I don't think so, Sir.'

‘And why not?' The coin vanished, then appeared in his left hand. I couldn't tear my eyes away.

‘I'm not really built for disco dancing, Sir.'

‘Who is? It's always struck me as a singularly unnatural activity and one I have avoided assiduously and successfully. But that doesn't mean you can't come along just for the . . . well, the social element, I suppose. Come on, Michael. The people who know about such things assure me a splendid time is had by all. And I have it on reliable authority that this year is going to be remarkable. A “themed horror” event. Give it a go, eh?'

‘I'll think about it, Sir.'

‘Do that. Give it serious thought.' He picked up his glasses and put them on. ‘And now I'm afraid a pile of Year 9 argumentative essays awaits me.'

Mr Atkins flexed his fingers as if preparing them for the task at hand. There was no sign of the coin. I instinctively patted my pockets, but they were empty.

‘No doubt,' he continued, ‘I'll be shocked by the poverty of intellect and the complete disregard for the most rudimentary elements of English grammar, but, as the saying goes, they won't mark themselves. Have a good day, Michael.' He fixed me with his gaze. ‘That's a direct instruction.'

‘Thanks, Sir.' I nodded. ‘Sir?'

Mr Atkins peered over the top of his glasses.

‘How do you do that, Sir? The thing with the coin.'

He leaned back in the chair and locked his hands behind his head.

‘Ah, Michael. The secret is to practise. Practise and persevere. If you stick at something, you get better. At the start, you make mistakes. You stumble and fail. But keep on at it and suddenly the trick becomes second nature to you. You don't know how you couldn't do it before. If you practise you can make the impossible seem easy. Think about it, my boy.'

I smiled. I knew he wasn't talking only about the coin. My own experiences in the Dream were proof of what he had said. Maybe I could apply the same determination to the real world. I'd think about it.

There were only ten minutes left of Home Group. Kids were sitting around chatting. A few were playing hand-held computer games, but most were in small groups. Leah was with the same knot of girls I'd seen yesterday. I watched from the corner of my eyes. I like to people-watch, carefully. Some people find it annoying. After a few moments Leah came over.

‘Hey,' she said.

‘Listen,' I said, keeping my voice low. ‘You don't have to look after me all the time, you know. I'm not a charity case. I'll be fine.'

‘Get over yourself, will you?' She flicked hair out from under her chin. Irritation flashed in her eyes. ‘If I didn't want to talk to you, I wouldn't. Okay?'

I kept my head down. ‘Okay,' I said. ‘Sorry.'

‘So what was old Atkins going on about?'

‘The Social.'

‘Are you going?'

‘Doubt it.'

‘Why?'

‘Not my kind of thing.'

‘Oh, come on. It'll be fun. Honest. It's like one of the biggest things at Millways, the Year 10 Social. Everyone goes. And it's not one of those daggy things with a crap DJ and about five people dancing while the others just stand around. I'm serious. It's planned by the SRC and everything. Great music, great food. And it's themed this year.'

‘So I heard.'

‘Yeah. Fright Night. Doesn't have to be anything complicated. You know, just a bit of fake blood, dagger in the head sort of thing. Look, it sounds crap, the way I'm explaining it, but it isn't. It's fun. You should come.'

Leah was all animated. I didn't want to give the impression I was boring.

‘I'll think about it,' I said.

‘Don't think, just say yes. And if you're worried that I'll be at your side the entire time, pestering you, then I promise I won't. If you want, I'll ignore you the whole night. Okay?'

She smiled at me and I smiled back. I loved her smile. It came from deep inside.

‘Leah?' I said. ‘What is it with Mr Atkins?'

‘Mr Atkins? What do you mean? He's a good guy. A really cool teacher.'

‘Yeah, but he's worried about something. I can see it in his eyes.'

Leah glanced towards the teacher's desk. Mr Atkins was hunched over a bunch of papers, red pen scribbling furiously, a tic twitching over his right eye. Whatever he was reading, it wasn't giving him pleasure. I had to smile. Leah sighed. Then she leaned in closer.

‘Listen,' she whispered. ‘You are not to repeat this, right? Do you promise, Michael?'

I nodded.

‘Well, I heard two teachers talking on yard duty. About Mr Atkins's wife. I
think
it was about her. I didn't get all of it, but they said something about cancer and not having much time left. I can't swear to it, Michael. But it would fit. Mr Atkins has changed recently. Oh, he still has the same personality, but it's like he has to force it now. As if he's worried.'

The bell rang and I didn't get a chance to reply. I had Science first up and Leah had Art. I paused for a moment in the doorway and looked back at Mr Atkins.

He was chewing the ends of his glasses again and staring out through the window. Something in his expression suggested that whatever he was seeing was far beyond the school buildings, the oval or the clear blue sky.

2
.

At lunchtime I headed for the oval, but Jamie Archer got to me first. He was with a group of mates and I tried to slip past, but he grabbed me by the shirt and pushed me up against the gym wall.

‘What's the rush, Wrenbury?' he said. ‘You and me have got some shit to settle. When d'ya reckon'd be a good time? Now? After school?'

I avoided his eyes, but his mates were circling me, eager, expectant. My mouth went dry and sweat trickled down my belly.

‘I don't want trouble,' I said. I tried to say it with confidence, but my voice was hoarse. It came out trembling with fear. Jamie pushed his face closer to mine. My vision filled with the redness of his hair.

‘Don't you?' he said, his voice soft. ‘Well, that's strange. See, I know what happened on the oval yesterday. I saw it. And I don't care whether you want trouble or not, cos I reckon you got it.'

‘Is there a problem here, Mr Archer?'

Suddenly the circle broke and Mr Atkins was in front of me. Jamie let go of my shirt and carefully brushed me down, as if getting rid of wrinkles.

‘No, Sir,' said Jamie. ‘Just getting acquainted with the new boy. Isn't that right, new boy?'

I nodded. Mr Atkins gave a small shake of his head.

‘Excellent,' he said. He sounded bright and cheerful, but his eyes told a different story. ‘That is very public-spirited of you, Mr Archer. You embody all that has made Millways what it is today and I won't forget it. Trust me on that. However, there is only so much bonhomie I can tolerate on my yard duty, so I suggest you and your friends move on now. Spread the good cheer, Jamie.'

Jamie smiled, but it was thin.

‘Sure, Sir. No problem, Sir. Guess I'll catch you later, eh, new boy?'

‘His name is Michael, Mr Archer,' said Mr Atkins. We watched as Jamie strolled off. He sat on a wall about ten metres away, his friends ranged on either side. They stared back at us.

‘Do something, Michael,' said Mr Atkins. His voice didn't carry far. ‘Do something.'

‘I've got to go,' I said. ‘Thanks, Sir.'

I made my way to the tree I had found yesterday. Throughout the walk, eyes were an itch in the small of my back. I sat against the gnarled trunk and unpacked my lunch. Two Tim Tams, but the rest was boring – a salad sandwich, an apple and low-fat rice crackers. I ate slowly, gazing out over the oval. Time passed. Four or five wedge-tailed kites hovered, riding the air lazily. The sky was sharp, the trees were hard-edged, the clouds cut-out shapes. The scene was a child's drawing, all primary colours.

One of the kites swooped towards me, and it was a bird in two dimensions. Turning, it was as thin as paper, a black line against impossible blue. I looked at my sandwich. It bulged with meat. I pried open the two halves of bread. The thick slabs of meat were drenched in gravy. I replaced the bread and bit into it. The taste flooded my body with pleasure.

I brushed crumbs off my lap and stood. What was I going to do with this time? I felt, briefly, the urge to find Jamie, but the moment passed. I'd had enough of violence. Time for something different.

The school's administration section was busy, but I passed through it unseen. A filing cabinet in an inner office gave me the address of Atkins, Keith. I memorised it and left. It didn't take long to find the house, either. It was only a ten-minute walk from school. I stood outside the front gates.

It was a big house showing signs of age. Paint was peeling from the weatherboards and the garden was sprinkled with weeds. A large dog basked in a pool of sunshine by the front door. There was no sign of anyone. I opened the gate and the dog jumped up, a low growl building in its throat. In real life I would have been frightened. The dog's hackles rose and its lips curled back, revealing yellow teeth. I've always been scared of big dogs, even if they can't harm me. This one stared right through me, like I was something dimly sensed. It was unnerving. I felt like a ghost. I suppose in a way I was.

I skirted the dog and knocked on the door. For a while it appeared that no one was home. I knocked again and the sound resounded through the house. I didn't want to just open the door and go in. Manners are important, even in the Dream. Finally I heard a faint sound from inside. Someone was coming. There was a shuffling sound, as if someone old was moving, slowly and painfully. I thought about leaving then. It's impossible to intrude on your own dreams, yet that's how I felt. An intruder. But I didn't leave.