How To Be a Boy (2 page)

Dale tugs at his earlobe.

“It’s on the heel of my left foot. I brought a note—”

Loman doesn’t let him finish. He shakes his head.

“You brought a note last September,” he says. “As far as I’m concerned, that’s no longer valid. If you bring another one, fine. Today – shower.”

A cheer rings out. Everyone’s attention is totally fixed on Dale now. All other activity has stopped.

I go back to buttoning my shirt. An unpleasant taste is clawing its way up my throat. I feel slightly sick. There’s something wrong about this. None of these people really care if Dale has a shower. Bradley Pritchard. Jack Porter. The rest of them. They don’t really think it’s unfair if he gets away with it. They don’t actually give a shit. It’s just a good opportunity to have a pop at Dale. Dale’s not too popular. A bit of a misfit. A bit of a smart-arse sometimes. He just puts people’s backs up.

“But I haven’t got a towel.” There’s pleading in Dale’s voice.

As if by magic, a big blue beach towel flutters through the air and lands across Dale’s shoulder. It’s like a Roman toga, only it’s got a picture of a cocktail glass and two ice creams on it.

Another cheer goes up. Much louder. As the sound bounces off the walls of the changing room, there’s an evil, sadistic edge to it. People are nodding, looking satisfied. Justice is finally being done. The atmosphere is poisonous. Loman seems oblivious to it all.

“There you go, Dale,” he says. “Problem solved. Now, into the showers and no more silliness.” He checks his watch then heads out into the corridor, leaving us to it.

With Loman gone, law and order is breaking down. Dale’s in deep shit. He’s looking around for help, a friendly face, some little sign that someone’s on his side. He’s looking, but he’s getting nothing.

I stare at the floor, making sure I don’t catch Dale’s eye. Because I’ve got a nasty suspicion he’s looking in my direction. Guilt is starting to churn me up. You see, if anyone should say something, it’s me. Dale and me have got history. Until he was seven, Dale lived next door. We were in and out of each other’s houses all the time. My mum and his mum still go to Pilates classes together. Still visit each other for a cup of tea and a gossip. I think my mum’s slightly embarrassed I’m not mates with Dale any more, but that’s just the way it is. Dale’s a bit weird. Nerdy. Maybe he always was, but it only started being noticeable when we all got to ten, eleven. Collaring people, telling them boring facts about
Star Wars
, stuff like that. I think he tried to keep things going with me for a while, but it just wasn’t happening. Whatever, he dropped off the radar, mates-wise, and he’s never really popped back up as someone I’ve thought much about. Until now.

I look at Jack Porter. He’s short and stocky with blond crew-cut hair. Pretty insignificant really. Not too bright, not the best at anything. But this morning he’s the ringleader. And he’s enjoying it. Revelling in it. There’s a nasty glint in his eye.

“Come on then, Dale,” he says. “What you got to hide?”

Dale can see there’s no way out. He looks like he’s going to cry. Painfully slowly, he starts to strip. His shirt comes off first, then his vest. His flabby torso is deathly pale, rolls of fat jiggling as he wraps the towel round his waist and starts to take his trousers down.

“Look at the tits on him,” Jack shouts.

People are pissing themselves, nudging each other, pointing, wolf-whistling. There’s a hint of a witch-hunt starting up. A lot of the lads are getting out of control now, but one or two are hanging back. Jordan Harris, Liam Nettleton, a couple of others. I can see it. There’s something in their eyes. They’re not sure about this. I take a deep breath. If I’m going to speak up, it’s now or never.

“Hey, come on,” I say, raising my voice to be heard above the din. “Just leave him alone, yeah?”

The noise in the changing room instantly stops. It’s like someone turning off a tap. My words hang in the air.

Jack Porter spins round to face me. There’s a look of disbelief in his eyes. Disbelief mixed with contempt.

“Who the fuck are you then?” he asks, voice dripping sarcasm. “His fucking boyfriend?”

The whole room bursts into laughter. The tap has been turned back on. There’s a horrible sinking feeling in my guts. I’m the target now, not Dale.

I look around. Nobody’s offering any support. Jordan and Liam might have been uncertain a few seconds ago, but they’re keeping right out of it now. I get the sense they’re vaguely with me, but the thing is, it’s hard to stand in the way of the bandwagon when it’s rolling flat-out. I feel helpless, powerless. But I know that if I’m going to go with this, I’m on my own. I open my mouth. No words come out.

Jack Porter is still staring at me, challenging me.

“So what’s it all about Luke?” he says. “You been getting in touch with your caring side?”

There’s another ripple of laughter.

I swallow. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end. I can feel myself going red. Thirty seconds ago I was just a face in the crowd. Anonymous. Now I’m right on the spot. I wanted to do what was right. I didn’t want this. I look over Jack’s shoulder. Behind him Dale Jarrett carries on undressing. He slips off his socks and stands up. He glances at me. If he knows I’m trying to do him a favour here, he’s not acknowledging it.

Jack grins.

“I’ve got an idea,” he says. He reaches into his rucksack, brings out a bottle of Radox and tosses it at me. “You’re such big mates with Dale, why don’t you get in the shower together? You can give him a nice soapy rub-down.”

Instinctively, I catch the bottle and chuck it back.

“Fuck off, Jack,” I say. I’m not trying to be aggressive, I’m just standing my ground.

But Jack’s getting carried away.

“You’re telling me to fuck off?” he says, stepping towards me. “You going to make me?”

I can hardly believe what’s happening. This is surreal. Jack Porter wants a fight. But why? What’s his problem? This is just some changing-room bullshit, something about nothing, but he’s acting like I’ve called his mum a slag.

My mind is whirling at a million miles an hour. I’ve never had a fight in my life, but I know how things go. Hit first and hit hardest, and usually that’s game over. I look at Jack, wild eyes fixed on me, and in that instant I suss out my chances if it kicks off between us. He’s quite broad, but he’s smaller than me. I could probably take him. But then what? I don’t want to be known as a hard man. That’s a lot more trouble than it’s worth. Still, at this moment, that’s just about the best scenario I can hope for.

Nobody’s interested in Dale Jarrett any more. All eyes are on Jack and me. I suddenly realize that I don’t actually know a lot of these lads too well. We’re all just one term into our time at Ingleby, here from middle schools all over town. The pecking order isn’t set in stone yet. At my last place I was OK, somewhere near the top. But by opening my trap at the wrong time today, I might just have saddled myself with a new life down at the bottom. And for what? Dale Jarrett?

Time seems to stand still. I’m almost nose-to-nose with Jack Porter now, but it’s all bravado. I don’t want a fight. And as I look into Jack’s eyes, I can see deep down that he doesn’t either. This is just a stupid bit of handbags that’s got out of hand. And someone needs to defuse the situation.

I don’t really know where the inspiration comes from. It’s just a bolt from the blue. But it feels like exactly the right thing to do. Without warning, I reach out and grab Jack by the shoulders. Then I plant a big kiss slap-bang in the middle of his forehead. There’s a split second of stunned silence, and then the entire place explodes. Jack’s laughing, I’m laughing and the whole stand-off is history. As the laughter dies away, Jack nods in my direction and I nod back. Honours even.

Jack turns round and I slump down onto the bench. My palms are wet with sweat and my heart is racing. Relief is coursing through me, but I’m not letting it show. I’m just hooking my tie round my neck, playing it cool, so everyone can see that the whole thing was no big deal. It must be quite a convincing act because, before too long, people start heading off, across to the other side of the changing room. At first I can’t think why. But then it dawns on me. Dale Jarrett. I’d completely forgotten.

Dale’s nearly made it to the shower area, wrapped up in the beach towel, when Bradley Pritchard and Dev Joshi catch up with him. There’s some pushing and shoving, a bit of shouting, and then Bradley’s skipping away, waving the towel like a flag as Dale desperately scrabbles around, trying to cover himself up. The roar of laughter that goes up this time is almost deafening.

My stomach lurches. I can’t look. Whatever’s going on, I just don’t want to know. After everything that’s happened, we’re back to square one. I spoke up for Dale, but it made no difference at all. And now what? Do I make another stand, or do I shut my mouth, put my tie on and go for lunch? Questions, questions, questions. And in truth, it all comes down to one thing. How much does this mean to me?

It doesn’t take too long to make my mind up. A couple of seconds, maybe less. You don’t get medals for bravery round here. I finish knotting my tie. I gather up my bits and pieces. I heave my bag onto my shoulder. And then I head for the door.

JORDAN.
Biggest boy in the class. Biggest boy in Year Seven. And meanest violinist. Meanest violinist and sickest MC. True. Mama tells me I have to stop growing ’cos she can’t keep buying me new clothes, but I need my threads to be big and baggy, d’ya get me? Gorgeous Jordan, Mouth Almighty, can’t spit rhymes with skinny jeans round me.

My boy Pee Wee, he’s the titchiest kid in class but the toughest beatboxer in the whole school. Together, we whip them all. You ever hear violin and beatbox mashed up tight? We gonna rewrite history, our beats ain’t no mystery, genius brothers not stupidly sisterly. We killin’ the whole damn school, yeah? Let’s hear it for Gorgeous Jordan and little man Pee Wee.

Pee Wee. Pee Wee not my birth name, right? Birth name of Unmesh O’Reilly on account of my Irish mum and my Bangladeshi dad, but Jordan tagged me Pee Wee way back in Year Three ’cos I was little even then. I’m four foot six and Jordan is five nine, so folk think Jordan older than me, but he is actually six months younger. Certainly he is a killer violinist. He catches crap for it, but he oughtta be big enough to handle that, and in any case no fool is gonna mess with him when I’m at his side. No fool from this school, for sure
.

But last week I hooked up with Gorgeous after his violin class (private lessons, would you believe?) and we ran into a crew from Bluethorn School. Let us be blunt. We hate Bluethorn, and Bluethorn hate us. That’s how it is. We battle them whenever we can. Everybody got to earn respect, and I work hard to earn enough respect. These Bluethorn boys but, they hadn’t never messed with Pee Wee O’Reilly and Gorgeous Jordan Prince, not yet. To be fair to these boys, they had no idea what they were getting themselves into. Deep, yeah?

I stride out of Mr Aspinall’s house feeling well cool. I’d been licking proper hard-core classical. I earn extra tuition on account of being a prodigy, gifted and talented, blessed. Ma don’t pay no tax on it because I get a grant. Back in the day, in Year Three, every kid in class got given a violin from some big enough charity. Somehow, it’s only me kept sweating it, despite the stress from fools who think it’s not cool. Practice takes place well away from school, so most of our class don’t take liberties, but the stress is, I’m more likely to bump into Bluethorn fools. Their turf, see? And music lovers they ain’t. Pee Wee often sidekicks me and we head back through the side ways, practising our beats.

Also, Ma been reading in the paper about a couple of times lately old ladies been getting their bags snatched round these streets, so I’m feeling much more safe with Pee Wee by my side.

Anyways, on this day we striding straight into the path of a five-strong Bluethorn crew. I whisper to Pee Wee we should hook a sharp left, but my li’l buddy he say, No, let’s front these boys, face them down yeah? That’s Pee Wee. No stress for him ’cos he has no expensive musical equipment to safeguard, has he? Pee Wee says I should hand him the violin for protection, but what am I, an idiot? No, I am most certainly not.

So I grip my violin case nice ’n’ tight as we come to face them.

Soon as we eyeball these boys, Gorgeous is like, “Ooh, let’s run away!” which would’ve sealed our fate. He wanted to head straight down a dead-end – no better than saying, “Hey boys, come and get us.” You don’t run from dogs
.

We could’ve fronted it, walked right through, but Gorgeous hugs his violin case like a bunch of girly flowers. He stares open-mouthed from one boy to the next, almost tripping over his own fool feet
.

So one of them trips him. He goes flying on his big ass. One of the Bluethorn crew grabs the case straightaway. I can see he is just a foot soldier, nothing special, so I say, “You better hand that back,” and the fool says, “Or else what?” So I punch his head. One of the others tries getting me in a stranglehold, so I elbow his ribs. Everything kicks off, fists and boots, yeah? And Jordan’s legging it all the way down the street
.

I didn’t leg it. I was running to get help.

Who he gonna call? That wrinkly old music teacher? No. He shooting home like a little yeller rabbit down a bunny hole
.

Meantime, those other boys decide they’ve swapped enough punches and kicks, so off they run. I chase them, but I can’t catch up ’cos my legs aren’t long enough, but I seen where they went. Into some house where one of them must live, and there was a little side window, and that window was open. For someone like me, that’s as good as a door
.

Pee Wee, he’s always been like that. Even if he’s likely to get truly messed up by boys twice his size, he’ll fight anyways. Pee Wee fights everybody.

Myself, I’m more of a thinker. And I thought I should head home and tell my ma. ’Cept then I thought, Oh no, Ma’ll blow up ’cos I lost the violin, and clip me good. Then I thought, I’d sooner get clipped by Ma than trashed by the Bluethorn crew. Then I thought I’d just sit on a bench a while, see what was happening.