Читать книгу The Day the Ear Fell Off - T.M. Alexander - Страница 11

the human wall

Mum comes straight from work to pick up me and my sister, so although it’s not very far, we go home in the car. I’d like to walk with Bee and Copper Pie but Mum says, ‘I have to get Flo so I may as well take you too.’ Fifty’s not allowed to walk either.

Why don’t mums get it? How are we meant to grow up and get a job and buy things on the internet and drive a car and shave and all the other things men do if we don’t start practising basic skills like road-crossing now?

In the playground, Mum waits with Fifty’s mum and his baby sister, Probably Rose. (They couldn’t decide what to call her, so when anyone asked her name they said, ‘Probably Rose’, and it stuck.) Our two mums convince each other that they’re bringing us up with the right amount of independence – none. They’re a bad combination: a doctor (my mum) and a pay-me-and-I’ll-make-your-life-better therapist (that’s what Fifty’s mum is). When she asks you a question she stares into your eyes – it makes you blink and it’s impossible to lie.

‘How was your day, darling?’ Mum asked.

Always the same question. Always answered by Flo before I have a chance. Even if I manage to start my first word before she does, she says her words anyway and mine get pulped.

‘Mummy, Mr Dukes says we need a packed lunch and a raincoat.’

‘Is that for your trip, darling?’

‘Yes. It’s not the day after, it’s the day after the day after.’ Flo has a problem with tomorrow. ‘And we need five pounds for the shop.’ She also lies.

The conversation went on and I thought about Newboy. I wondered whether we should have been a bit nicer to him the first time he came over. Then he’d have realised we weren’t cool and moved on to some other kids instead and we wouldn’t have to do the human barricade. It was worrying me already and it wasn’t even tomorrow yet.

At home, Flo and I had toasted buns and apple juice and then I went up to my room. I took off my school sweatshirt, hung it over my desk chair, washed my hands and then settled down in my favourite place – my hammock (which hangs across the corner of my room next to my bookcase) – to finish Stig of the Dump. Reading took my mind off the head-to-head planned for morning break. If we weren’t such good friends, I’d have been working out how to avoid it altogether. But it wasn’t an option. Buddies are buddies.

KEENER’S FACT FILE

• Likes reading, building models

• Likes ALL computer games

• Is good at ALL computer games

• Brilliant skimboarder

• Doesn’t like sticky things

• Doesn’t like surprises

• Doesn’t like sloppy food

• Doesn’t like hair cuts (true surfboy)

FAMILY STUFF

Mum – doctor

Dad – something boring with a briefcase!?!

Sisters – Flo (small and bad) and Amy (big and bad)

It happened just before Flo woke me up. I was in a dream, and so was Newboy, except he was huge and wearing a yellow waistcoat and a bow tie (yes, seriously weird). He was heading straight for me with his extra-large boots and every time they hit the ground, the earth trembled. I wanted to run away but I was stuck to the ground with the strongest glue ever. I couldn’t escape. Newboy grabbed me with a hand that was so big it went right round my middle and tried to pull me up but the glue was stronger than he was so my feet shot out of my purple (?!) shoes. He swung me round and round and threw me like a shot-put and I went flying. Suddenly I was on the ground . . . and there was blood. (I don’t do blood. I am officially a wuss when it comes to pain.) He was standing over me about to finish me off when . . .

I felt Flo burrow into my bed for the daily cuddle. She thinks I like it but it’s more that I’m so asleep I can’t make my mouth say the words I need to say to get rid of her. By the time I’m on full power, she’s gone to annoy Amy, my big sister. (Caution: avoid at all costs.)

Mum noticed my mood at breakfast. The worry had grown larger overnight.

‘Is there something up?’

‘No, I’m fine.’ I did a fake smile and she carried on buttering the toast. Fifty’s mum is much harder to convince. Her questions are the sort you can’t answer yes or no to. Questions that start with ‘how’ and have the word ‘feeling’ in the middle.

In English first thing, Bee had another go at Newboy.

‘Please, Miss Walsh. Can you ask him to stop rocking on the back legs of his chair? I keep thinking he’s going to fall.’

Good one, Bee. It’s Miss Walsh’s pet hate. You get a warning the first time. Second time: straight detention. No question. Miss Walsh looked up from her desk. Newboy was sitting perfectly still on all four legs, like he had been all morning.

‘Jonno, chairs are made with four legs for a reason,’ she said, far too nicely. She was still being soft on him.

(Jonno – what sort of name is that? I thought.)

I didn’t dare look at him. I looked at Copper Pie instead. He was leaning back on two legs, almost overbalancing, with a grin so wide it squashed his freckles together. I saw Fifty do a quick thumbs up.

But me, I was getting a bad feeling about it all. I kept my head down until break, trying to finish my story about an incredibly powerful sea creature wrecking all the fishing boats and poisoning the waters with its toxic waste.

We’d agreed to sprint straight outside to our territory as soon as the bell went. I was there second, behind Copper Pie. No one ever gets anywhere before him unless he’s not going that way. He’s the fastest in the school.

Between panting, I tried to abort the mission. ‘How about we let him hang out with us for a bit? He’ll soon see we’re no fun.’

‘Keener!’ Copper Pie gave me the look he’s used many times before. I’m always the one trying to stop the others from doing risky things. Most of the time Fifty feels the same but he relies on me to be the wimp. That’s how it works in groups. You all have a job, like leader, ideas person, dangerman, Mr Responsible (that’s me), funny one . . . Fifty’s job is smooth talker. Bee is boss. Copper Pie is secret weapon.

‘Take your positions,’ Copper Pie shouted. He stood bang in the middle of the way in, with the wire fence of the netball court one side and the trees the other. I went to the right, blocking the gap that side. Fifty and Bee took care of the rest. We fidgeted a bit to get a tight fit and linked arms. Wedged into the space, we waited. I kept swallowing something that wasn’t there.

I glanced behind at the tiny triangle of land with the rotten tree stump that we call our patch. It’s always dark and often damp and even more often smelly. Why did it matter so much? I asked myself.

‘He’s coming,’ said Bee.

‘Time, my noble friends, to defend our homeland from the wretched Gauls,’ said Fifty.

‘Someone will lock you up one day, freak,’ said C.P.

Fifty lives half in the real world and half in some other made-up universe but at least he’d answered my question: it mattered because to us it was a kind of home.

We all grew a bit taller as the enemy drew nearer. I stuck my chest out, but it made the butterflies in my stomach seem worse, so I tucked it in again.

What do you think Newboy did?

Ran at us like a snorting bull? No.

Karate-chopped our arms to break up the line? No.

Walked off? That would have been ideal but . . . No.

He strolled up to us with his hands in his pockets, a half-smile on his face, his glasses slightly too low down his nose so he looked like a professor.

‘Is it the beginning of a dance? he said, making a puzzled crease down the middle of his forehead. ‘Do you join arms and waltz round the playground?’

Nobody tells Copper Pie he’s doing the waltz. Before any of us had a chance to think of a clever reply (not that I can ever think of one until I’m in the bath three days later), Copper Pie’s arm disengaged from Fifty’s, shot out and wrapped itself round Jonno’s neck forcing his head down, ready for —

Sheesh! I had to do something.

Copper Pie tried to free his other arm – the hand was already shaped into a fist – but I held it firmly, squeezed between my elbow and my body. Getting another kid in a headlock was one thing but a full-blown assault was a whole lot worse. Copper Pie tried to shake me off but I wasn’t going to let go. He’d have to punch me first. (That would NEVER happen. He’s been my protector since nursery when Annabel Ellis used to bite me.) I held on long enough for Fifty and Bee to peel his other arm from around Jonno’s neck and for Bee to whisper the magic word ‘detention’, followed by the other magic word ‘suspension’. Copper Pie doesn’t need any more trouble. He let Newboy go.

You’ve got to respect Jonno: he didn’t hit Copper Pie, he didn’t say something mean, he didn’t cry or even do the wobbly bottom lip. I don’t think he did anyway. I didn’t look too closely – I was too ashamed. But not ashamed enough to actually help. Help came quickly enough from another direction.

‘Are you all right? It’s Jonno, isn’t it?’ Miss Maggs, the playground monitor, was by his side in a flash. Any hopes the attack hadn’t been witnessed vanished. I let Copper Pie have his arm back and watched him head for the back entrance, because we all knew what was coming next.

Miss Maggs shouted after him, ‘Wait outside the Head’s office.’

Bee rolled her eyes. ‘Another fine mess. Copper Pie will end up Prisoner Pie if he carries on like this.’

She’s right. The last thing Copper Pie needs is another roasting from the Head. Why did Newboy have to get in the way?