My Brilliant Idea (And How It Caused My Downfall) (6 page)

Yatesy didn't come forward. In his defense, he had no choice. He was already on a final warning because of various past activities, which meant he'd get expelled if he did. His friends have taken on a rotation schedule to make sure one of them is always standing near the door of Bailey's office, and word went round the school that if Bailey found out it was Yatesy who had been in the fight, anyone who had visited his office in the previous week would have Yatesy's crew to answer to. So far everyone appears to care more about the threat than they do about the school trip, and Yatesy is still going about his daily business. But everyone knows that the nearer the trip gets, the more certain it is that somebody will cave.

Now I've realized I can help him, though. I've come up with a blinder. And as I stand on his doorstep, waiting for someone to answer the bell, I run through what I'll be requesting from him in return, and try to make it sound less insane.

Yatesy's room isn't like my room. I've never really thought much about my own room before, but after seeing Yatesy's I realize mine is really still just a kid's room. I still have a kid bed, kid shelves, a kid desk. Up on the walls I've got one big poster of a jackdaw eating a coconut, and one of a map of all the different areas of the brain. But that's all I've really done in the way of decoration. My computer sits on my kid desk, and my TV sits on my kid chest of drawers. Piles of clean clothes Mum has brought into my room sit on chairs and things. A lot of junk lies about on the floor. Yatesy's room makes it look more as if he's doing a house share with his parents, rather than just living in
their
house. His bed is down low on the floor, with a sort of rug thing on top of it for a blanket, and it's a big wide bed. There's one area where he's set up his television on a stand, with two proper armchairs and a low table, as if it's a tiny living room. He's even got lamps in there. He's got a sink on one wall, and the rest of the room is arranged like an artist's studio, with all kinds of things that look as if they're set out properly. He doesn't have any posters on his walls. He has proper pictures in proper frames.

“This is a bit like my room,” I tell him as he shows me inside. He doesn't respond much. I think of saying it again, but then I don't bother.

It wasn't all that easy to get in there in the first place. His mum answered the door at the beginning, and she looked like she'd have been happier if I wasn't there. She didn't really look much like a mum. She looked more like she was Yatesy's art teacher or something. She asked what I wanted, and I told her I'd come to see Yatesy.

She kind of sighed.

“What's your name?” she asked.

“Jackdaw,” I said.

“Jack who?” she asked me.

“Jack Dawson,” I told her.

She wandered off without saying where she was going or anything, but it was quite clear I wasn't supposed to come inside, so I stayed on the step. She was gone for quite a while, and I didn't hear any talking. Then she came back.

“What do you want to see him about?” she asked.

“Well . . . he's about to be expelled from school, for kicking this guy's head in, and I think I've come up with a peach of an idea for getting him off the hook.” But I only said that inside my head, while I was waiting for the arrival of the right thing to say.

“It's about the school trip,” I told her, and she disappeared again. That worked a charm. It was Yatesy himself who came to the door this time, not really smiling or anything, but I could tell I'd got his attention.

“What's the story?” he asked me, standing with the door kind of behind him and mostly shut, so I knew I still wasn't coming inside yet.

“I think I've solved your problem,” I said. “I think I can help you.”

He stared at me quietly for a minute. “What's in it for you?” he said. “Are you after something?”

I nodded.

He thought for a while, then stepped back in behind the door and opened it wider.

“Come upstairs,” he said. “You'd better not be wasting my time, Dawson.”

“Call me The Jackdaw,” I said.

“Whatever,” he muttered, and up we went.

Yatesy has a kind of minikitchen bit in his room as well. There's a kettle and a tiny fridge up on the wall, and a few cups and bottles lying about.

“Want a Coke?” he asks me, and I nod. He opens up the minifridge and tells me to sit down. It's a bit weird. Nobody from school has ever told me to sit down before when I've been in their room. I look about and then go for one of the armchairs. He brings the Coke over in a glass and hands it to me. There are ice cubes in it. I'm not sure if there's something in particular I'm supposed to say.

“Cheers!” I tell him, and he nods. Then he sits down in the other armchair.

I spin the ice cubes round in the glass and listen to the noise they make.

“Do you know Drew Thornton?” I ask him then.

He does the staring thing again for a while.

“He goes out with my sister now and again,” he says.

I take this as quite good news. It means Drew probably won't misunderstand my friend request and attempt to become my boyfriend. It also might help my plan a bit. I'm not quite sure how yet, at this early stage, but while I'm talking after that I keep it ticking over.

“Is he weird or anything?” I ask Yatesy.

“Weird?” he says. “What are you, Jack? Like, six?”

I think of asking him again to call me The Jackdaw, but I decide to leave it for later. Besides, what he's said is probably good news. It probably means Drew isn't too weird and I don't need to worry too much about having become his friend.

And I keep ticking the thing over about Drew going out with Yatesy's sister.

“So what's this all about?” Yatesy asks me, and I notice the kettle is starting to boil. He gets up and makes himself a cup of tea. Or maybe coffee. He doesn't ask me if I want one. I keep spinning the ice cubes round in my glass.

“I think I might be able to get a stand-in for you,” I tell him. “I think I can maybe get someone else to say they were fighting Cyrus McCormack.”

He changes a bit then. He brings his cup of tea or coffee back over to the armchair, and I can tell he's looking at me in more of a friendly way.

“Are you serious?” he says, and I tell him I am. I think of quoting Elsie and telling him I'm always serious, especially when it comes to my schemes. But the idea starts to crease me up on the inside, and I have to struggle to get a grip on it again.

“I'm finished if I get kicked out of school,” he says. “If that happens . . .”

He trails off, and I tell him I know what he means.

“My parents would kill me if it happened to me,” I say.

He looks at me as if I'm an idiot.

“Who cares what my parents think?” he says. “They'd probably have a good laugh about it. It's art school I'm worried about. If I get kicked out, I don't get in. I need my grades.”

I look over at the work part of his room for a while. There's a big easel there, with a blank canvas propped up on it. Hundreds of tubes of paint and a load of brushes sit on a table beside it. There are drawings lying all over the floor, and lots of other canvases stacked up against the walls so you can only see their backs.

“I wish I was good at drawing,” I say.

“Drawing!” Yatesy replies, in exactly the same way my dad said, “An idea!”

I need to start using that myself. It works good.

“I saw the paintings you did of Drew on your profile,” I say. “They were good. They look like him.”

Yatesy snorts, and then he seems to remember what I've just offered to do for him. He wipes his nose and tries to pretend the noise was an accident.

“It's more about how the paintings
feel,
” he says. “I'm not too worried if they look like him or not.”

I nod.

“They feel good,” I say. Then I decide it's time to ramp it up. I try to remember the phrase I found on the Internet earlier, and I make my voice sound as mature as I can, in case he asks me again if I'm six.

“Have you ever used a life model?” I say. And what I'm really asking him is, “Have you ever painted anybody in the nip?”

He doesn't seem fazed.

“Of course,” he says. “All the time. Come and look at this.” He stands up and waves his hand for me to follow him. We walk over past the big easel, and he kneels down and hunts about amongst the stacked canvases. Then he stands up and holds one out in front of himself. I can't see it from where I'm standing, and when he turns it round I wish I still couldn't see it. It looks like his mum. I'm pretty certain it
is
his mum. And she's totally naked. Before I can move my eyes, I'm aware of lots of crinkles and bumps, and sagging bits. It takes me about fifty-three milliseconds to manage to attach my gaze to her feet and nod slowly, but it's much too long. Part of my brain is already ruined forever.

“Isn't she beautiful?” Yatesy says, then he drops down onto the floor and starts digging through the canvases excitedly again. This time it's much worse. He brings out a painting of what is probably his dad, and he holds it up in front of my face. “Look at those lines,” he says, running a finger up and down the craggy old chest. Then he points between the legs and traces a shape with his fingernail. “Isn't that exquisite?” he asks. “We could never invent the lines we find in nature.”

“Yes,” I say. I try to say it like the bookshop bampot, and then I head for the safety of my armchair. Yatesy turns the painting so he can see it properly again and holds it at full stretch for a while, smiling contentedly to himself. Then, thankfully, he tucks it back where he found it and comes over to his armchair.

“Tell me what you want me to do,” he says. “Let's get it over with. I've got an essay I need to finish for the morning.”

I lean forward in my seat and do everything I can to block the horrendous image of Yatesy's dad out of my mind. This is it. This is my moment. I reach for the edge of the plaster. One quick move.

“Do you know Elsie Green?” I ask him.

“Greensleeves?” he says, but he doesn't laugh or have that expression on his face most people do when you mention Elsie.

“That's her,” I say, and he nods.

“She's quite eccentric,” he says. “Quite intriguing.”

I let the dust settle, mainly inside my own head, then tell him how I need her to do some programming for me. And about how she's obsessed with Drew. I tell him my project means as much to me as art school does to him, and then I tell him the price Elsie is extracting in payment for her services.

“So you want me to paint a nude portrait of Drew for her?” Yatesy says, as if he's grasped everything without any problem.

“Not exactly,” I tell him. “She says that's no good. She says it has to be the real thing.”

Yatesy chews his lip.

“So how can I help?” he says.

“I want you to paint Drew in the nude,” I say, “and I want Elsie to be there while you're doing it, hidden away. With a good view of everything that's going on.”

I hold my breath. Yatesy picks his cup up off the table and looks down into it. Then he takes a long drink, looking at me while he swallows.

“You're a devious bastard,” he says when he's finished. He leans forward and puts the cup back on the table again and asks me what happens if he doesn't agree.

“You don't get to art school,” I tell him, and I say it out loud.

He sighs.

“Drew's quite a shy guy,” he says. “I don't know if he'd do it.”

I shrug, and then the results of the thing I've been ticking over since we started talking suddenly sail into view. “Tell him he should do it as a gift for your sister,” I say. “Tell him it would bowl her over. Something like that.”

His face goes kind of red, and I wonder if he's going to take it badly, but then it passes and he smiles a bit. “Your mind is diseased,” he says. “It's a sewer. But I think I'm starting to like you. You're creative.”

He sits thinking quietly for a few minutes, and I leave him to his thoughts. I drink what's left of my glass of Coke, even though it's gone all watery from the ice cubes.

“Tell Drew it'll be tasteful,” I say then. “Tell him you'll do it kind of side on or something.”

Yatesy holds up a hand to stop me. “Don't get involved in the artistic process,” he says. “You're overstepping the mark now.”

I stand up. I decide it's probably time for me to go. I've done all I can here for the time being.

“Just a suggestion,” I say. “Think the whole thing over. Let me know what you decide.”

I put my glass down on his sink, then start heading toward the door. He gets up and follows me.

“Who's the fall guy?” he asks. “Who's going to stand in for me? Is it you?”

I shake my head. “I'm close to a final warning myself,” I tell him. “If I get kicked out, I'll end up sticking labels on whiskey bottles for the rest of my life.”

“Brutal,” he says.

“I've got a few people in mind,” I tell him. “Don't sweat it. Just don't tell Drew what's really going on, and leave everything else up to me. It'll all work out.”

He tells me that I'll have saved him from a handful of sleeping pills if it does, and then asks me what it is I call myself again.

“The Jackdaw,” I say.

“All right,” he says. “The Jackdaw it is.”

He reaches out to shake my hand and I give his a quick slap, then get out of there before he starts showing me any more traumatizing paintings, of his grandpa or something.

Back at home, Mum is sitting at the table just getting started on her dinner. From the kitchen door I can see it looks a lot better than what I had, so I go in and try to steal a few chips off her plate. She holds up a hand to fight me off. She defends them well.