How To Be a Boy

Introduction,
by Tony Bradman

Last Man In,
by Dan Tunstall

Fitting the Skin,
by Steve Tasane

Let’s Go, Let’s Go,
by Jamila Gavin

Dear Tadpole,
by Katie Dale

The Other Ninety,
by Bali Rai

Project Love/Origin,
by Ian Beck

On the Fence,
by Flint Keller

Pawn,
by Tim Wynne-Jones

Mean, Meaner, Meanest,
by Keith Gray

The Family Tree,
by Mal Peet

IT ISN’T EASY BEING A BOY
.
Hardly a day goes by without a news story about the Problem of Boys – boys struggling with reading, boys failing at school, boys in hoodies, boys and knives and drugs. Is it any surprise old-age pensioners cross the street when they see a moody-looking teenage boy coming towards them? You’d be forgiven for thinking that the word
boy
today also means “dangerous druggie-gangster-criminal”.

And yet … what about that boy coming down the street towards those terrified old-age pensioners? He might be pretty nervous too. After all, he’s probably getting a whole lot of conflicting messages about the way he should be as he grows up. His friends might expect him to be cool, hide his feelings, tough it out when someone fronts up to him. But the adults in his life might be saying that’s all wrong, that he shouldn’t listen. And as for the subject of girls – well, that’s all far too difficult to deal with.

No wonder he looks so moody.

Of course, it isn’t easy being a girl, either. Nobody is saying it is. I do think boys have been getting some pretty poor publicity in recent years, though, and that it might be time to correct the balance. The best way I could think of doing that was to ask a lot of really good writers to explore what it means to be a boy today. They certainly came up with the goods, too, all ten of them – eight boys of various ages, and even
two girls
.

So that’s what you have here; ten stories about boys who
aren’t
dangerous druggie-gangster-criminals. Boys who have to work out how to deal with violence at school or on the street. Boys who have to decide whether they’re going to be bullied, or give up bullying. Boys who have to find out how they feel about friendship and loyalty and honour and courage. Boys whose parents are splitting up, or who are made into soldiers before they’ve grown up. Boys who learn what it really means to be a man.

I have to say it was a total blast putting the book together, and every time I read the stories I learn something new. I’ve been thinking that if I read them enough, I’ll finally work out how to be a boy myself.

One day, maybe.

TONY BRADMAN

IT’S ELEVEN THIRTY ON A
freezing Thursday in the middle of January, and I’m slogging down the verge of the Ingleby bypass in a T-shirt and shorts, wiping the rain out of my eyes and trying not to tread in dog turds. On a list of places to be and things I’d like to be doing, this wouldn’t be too high up. I mean, cross-country running isn’t much fun at the best of times. Still, it’s not up to you when you’re fourteen, is it?

And it’s not that bad really. I’ve got it better than most. I’m not exactly busting a gut, but I’m keeping up with the leaders no probs. I can’t think what it would be like if I was at the back with the dead-wood. The halt and the lame, Mr Loman calls them. I look over my shoulder and in the distance I can see them all lumbering along. The usual non-sporty suspects. Josh Rickell. Ravi Gupta. Tyler Burgess. The list goes on. You’ve got to have a bit of sympathy for them. As if they’ve not got it bad enough, hobbling and limping through the mud, they’ve got Loman walking alongside, barking instructions like a sergeant-major.

And then of course, even further back, waddling away in his cheap pumps, you’ve got Sportacus himself. Dale Jarrett. Dale’s not one of the world’s natural athletes. There aren’t too many sixteen-stone cross-country runners. He’s getting so far adrift they’re going to have to send out search parties soon.

Another couple of minutes and I’m clambering across the stile, back onto the Ingleby College playing fields. My lungs are on fire, but the end is in sight. I put in a final blast of effort, a couple of hundred metres of really digging in, pumping my arms and legs, and I’m at the finishing line.

I hunch over, hands on knees, heartbeat thudding in my ears, sucking in air. The burning in my chest slowly starts to die down. A few more seconds and I’m straightening up, trudging across the paved area and up the steps. Before I go into the building I have a last look out over the field, through the drizzle, seeing how things are going. A couple of lads are trundling across the football pitches, and there’s a gaggle of about ten lining up to take turns using the stile. Beyond them, the back markers are scattered out along the side of the road all the way to the bypass, getting badgered by Mr Loman. Bringing up the rear, nothing more than a dot, but recognizable all the same, is a familiar figure. Dale Jarrett. I take a deep breath and head inside.

By the time I get to the changing room, Leon King, Zac Varma and Jordan Harris are already there, stripped down to their shorts.

“All right, Luke?” Zac says. “What’s Loman’s ETA?”

I scratch my head, gauging distance and time.

“Dunno. At least five minutes, the speed some of them are going.”

Zac raises his eyebrows.

“Should be OK, then,” he says. “Still, best not to hang about, eh?”

I nod. I know what he means. We all do. Cross-country in the middle of January isn’t a barrel of laughs, but having a freezing shower afterwards is pure torture. The beauty of getting back to the changing room before Loman is that you can just have a bit of a splash in the sink, get the worst of the mud off and no one is any the wiser. As far as Loman knows we’ve all been through the showers like good boys. It’s not the most cunning plan, but Loman falls for it every time.

I pull my shirt up over my head and hook it on a peg. Sitting on the bench, I kick off my trainers then drag my socks down over my feet. I rummage in my bag, get my towel out, swing it round my shoulders and make my way to the sinks. A quick swish of my hair under the taps, a splash of cold water on my face and under my pits, and it’s job done.

I glance at myself in one of the mirrors. My wet hair is jet black, glistening under the strip lights. My face looks pale but my cheeks are flushed. The spot on the side of my chin has gone down. I’m chuffed about that. I cross to the benches and flop down, towelling myself dry. My fingers and toes are tingling, thawing out, and I wiggle them, getting the circulation going.

The changing room is slowly starting to fill up. About thirty lads were out on the run, and I’d say twenty-five of us are back now. The air is damp and heavy with the smell of BO, Deep Heat and cheap deodorant. All around me people are shouting, swinging on things, generally arsing about. Dev Joshi’s found a pair of green Y-fronts in the corner. They’ve got a massive skid mark in the back and Dev’s got them pinched between his thumb and finger, twirling them round his head, chasing Liam Nettleton up and down. There’s a steady flow of traffic to and from the sinks, lads jostling each other around. A bit of panic is setting in. The last few stragglers are coming in now, Tyler, Josh, Ravi, so everyone knows Loman’s going to be here any second. And there’s no escape from the showers then.

I’m just squirting on some Lynx when Loman makes his appearance. Mr Loman’s pretty much your identikit PE teacher. If you were at school in the 1970s, that is. He’s fiftyish, got crinkly brown hair that’s grimly hanging in there, a moustache that comes and goes every couple of weeks, blue sweatshirt, 118-man running trousers and a big pair of expensive-looking trainers. I’ve only seen him out of his sports gear once, at the party last Christmas. He just didn’t look right. It was like seeing a tortoise without its shell on.

The noise level drops a notch or two. Loman smooths down his moustache. He looks around at us all.

“Right then,” he says. “How are you ladies getting on? Who hasn’t been in the shower yet?”

People grunt, shuffle from foot to foot. The ones who’ve recently got back and don’t even look like they’ve been near the showers start stripping off, resigned to their fate. Loman watches them like a hawk, making sure there’s no dodging the icy spray. The rest of us just carry on getting ready, looking as nonchalant as we can, trying not to laugh at the sound of Tyler Burgess squealing as the water hits him.

The door swings open one final time and Dale Jarrett staggers in. He sags onto the nearest bench, wheezing and coughing. His floppy curtain-cut hair is plastered to his face. He takes his glasses off, rubs his thumb across the lenses, then crams them back on his nose. I swear I can see steam rising off him.

Loman turns towards Dale. He sniffs and then he looks away.

Over the next couple of minutes I finish drying myself, put my trousers on, stick on a clean pair of socks, tie up my shoelaces. I’m taking my time. There’s no rush. It’s the last class of the morning, but the canteen won’t be open yet. I slip my arms through the sleeves of my shirt and I’m doing up the buttons when I notice something going on over by the door. Glancing across, I see Jack Porter waving his hands in the air, looking aggrieved.

“It ain’t fair, Mr Loman,” he’s saying. He prods his finger in the direction of Dale Jarrett. “Dale never has a shower.”

I hadn’t really thought about it before but, to be honest, Jack’s got a point. Dale’s always last man in, so technically he should be in the shower after every games lesson. The thing is, he avoids it every week. He’s always got some sort of cover story lined up. We’ve been at Ingleby for more than four months now, and in all that time no one’s seen Dale get so much as a drop of water on him. It doesn’t matter if he’s caked in mud from head to toe. It’s on with the clothes and away he goes. Asthma attack. Rushing off for dentist’s appointments. You name the excuse, Dale’s used it.

Most people have stopped what they’re doing and they’re looking at Jack, Mr Loman and Dale Jarrett. There’s a general murmur of agreement.
Dale never has a shower. It’s about time he did
.

Dale’s already got most of his clothes on. There’s a wary look in his eyes but he’s ready to state his case.

“I can’t have a shower, Mr Loman,” he says, voice high-pitched but steady. “I’ve got a verruca.”

A few people laugh. Dale’s been working the verruca story for months now.

Loman clears his throat.

“So where exactly is your verruca, Dale?” he asks.

Before Dale has a chance to answer, Bradley Pritchard pipes up.

“It’s on his dick, Mr Loman.”

The whole place erupts. Dale hangs his head.

Loman tries to restore order.

“I won’t have that sort of language, Bradley,” he says.

Bradley shrugs.

“It might be, Mr Loman. ’Cos no one’s ever seen this verruca. If you ask me, he’s telling you porkies.”

Loman adjusts his tracky bottoms.

“Well, I’m not asking you, Bradley. I’m in charge here. I’ll remind you what my credentials are. Good degree. Two county sports. Can you match that?”

I stifle a laugh.
A good degree and two county sports
. Loman’s catchphrase. He comes out with it any time he thinks his authority is being challenged. He never says what his two county sports were. Egg and spoon probably. And as for the degree, God knows what that was in.

Bradley shrugs, pulling up his trousers. He’s not going to carry it on. The point’s been made.

Loman looks back at Dale.

“Your verruca, Dale. Whereabouts?”

The changing room has gone strangely silent. There’s just the
drip-drip
of the showers in the background, a reminder of what this is all about. For the first time I start to feel a bit uneasy.