his dad had interrupted and said not until his birthday and only then if he was good and worked hard and got a decent report, blah-blah.
But the CD-player worked fine on his lap in the car. His mum, he knew, would have tapped his head and said, ‘Anyone at home?’ or one of her funny sayings to try to get him to switch it off and talk to her instead, but his dad was cool about it. That afternoon he had even asked to listen to one of the CDs and clicked his fingers to the beat and said itwasn’t bad, which was bordering on pathetic but sort of nice all the same. Except that a couple of minutes later he was suddenly lying next to him on the carpet, eager and earnest and asking if everything was all right at school, which had taken a lot of the niceness away and made Sam see that the finger-clicking had been one of those fake shows that adults put on when they want something from you and need to butter you up to get it.
The world looked different to a soundtrack; more interesting, better. Even tower blocks and spitting grey skies and the stop-start traffic that was blatantly stressing out his dad (fingers drumming the wheel, watch checks, tugging at his hair like he wanted more of it to fall out) looked sort of decent with the Gorillaz pumping between his ears. Sam wished he could use a similar filter for the everyday ordeal of school. With music in his head he was sure he wouldn’t notice the sniggers at his puny frame when he was down to his pants in the changing rooms, or the sneering gaze of freaky Rose Porter during the horrors of Drama, or George’s new way of sitting with his back half turned and his arm spread to cover his work or – almost worst of all – Miss Hornby’s mumsy kindness. Did you enjoy your snack, Sam? Good boy for remembering to use your pencil sharpener! Please join us in Chess Club after school one day – we’d love to have you !
Like he was a special case. Like he was a special sad little runt who needed protecting. At after-school club on Friday she had even put her arm round him – in front of everyone – leaving it there for so long he had wanted to punch her. Was he looking forward to the weekend? Was he enjoying the Tudors? Any problems and he was to come straight to her. It was positively pervy, and Sam had wanted to shout as much to everyone else sitting at the library tables, smirking at his expense. But talking wasn’t allowed and by the time his mum arrived theyhad all gone except Rose, who had kept her head bent over work as usual, writing and writing, like the words just streamed out of her pen along with the ink, no crossings-out or the desire to die of boredom that so often afflicted him.
‘Sam, sweetheart, I thought we’d go out for tea for a change – have a pizza or something. Would you like that?’
His dad had driven off in a noisy blast of exhaust fumes that Sam knew was connected to the finger-drumming and hair-pulling on the journey. He and Cindy were going to sing together and Cindy didn’t want to be late. She had said so several times during the last-minute hassle of packing his stuff. He was messy, just like his dad, she had teased; his dad had made a face to show he didn’t find the comment funny. Like her clothes always made it into the laundry basket, he had replied, prompting a blatantly unteasing remark from Cindy about wet towels and washing-up, after which she had left the room closing the door really quietly, which Sam had felt was worse than a good slam. The next thing his dad had left the room, too, and the house went totally silent and Sam had put the telly on so he wouldn’t have to notice it or think too much about the fact that it was him leaving his socks next to the sofa that had set the whole thing off. A few minutes later they had come back into the sitting room holding hands. But Cindy’s eyes were puffy and red, and saying goodbye at the door she had kept a hold of his dad’s fingers till the very last second and said again about
But the CD-player worked fine on his lap in the car. His mum, he knew, would have tapped his head and said, ‘Anyone at home?’ or one of her funny sayings to try to get him to switch it off and talk to her instead, but his dad was cool about it. That afternoon he had even asked to listen to one of the CDs and clicked his fingers to the beat and said itwasn’t bad, which was bordering on pathetic but sort of nice all the same. Except that a couple of minutes later he was suddenly lying next to him on the carpet, eager and earnest and asking if everything was all right at school, which had taken a lot of the niceness away and made Sam see that the finger-clicking had been one of those fake shows that adults put on when they want something from you and need to butter you up to get it.
The world looked different to a soundtrack; more interesting, better. Even tower blocks and spitting grey skies and the stop-start traffic that was blatantly stressing out his dad (fingers drumming the wheel, watch checks, tugging at his hair like he wanted more of it to fall out) looked sort of decent with the Gorillaz pumping between his ears. Sam wished he could use a similar filter for the everyday ordeal of school. With music in his head he was sure he wouldn’t notice the sniggers at his puny frame when he was down to his pants in the changing rooms, or the sneering gaze of freaky Rose Porter during the horrors of Drama, or George’s new way of sitting with his back half turned and his arm spread to cover his work or – almost worst of all – Miss Hornby’s mumsy kindness. Did you enjoy your snack, Sam? Good boy for remembering to use your pencil sharpener! Please join us in Chess Club after school one day – we’d love to have you !
Like he was a special case. Like he was a special sad little runt who needed protecting. At after-school club on Friday she had even put her arm round him – in front of everyone – leaving it there for so long he had wanted to punch her. Was he looking forward to the weekend? Was he enjoying the Tudors? Any problems and he was to come straight to her. It was positively pervy, and Sam had wanted to shout as much to everyone else sitting at the library tables, smirking at his expense. But talking wasn’t allowed and by the time his mum arrived theyhad all gone except Rose, who had kept her head bent over work as usual, writing and writing, like the words just streamed out of her pen along with the ink, no crossings-out or the desire to die of boredom that so often afflicted him.
‘Sam, sweetheart, I thought we’d go out for tea for a change – have a pizza or something. Would you like that?’
His dad had driven off in a noisy blast of exhaust fumes that Sam knew was connected to the finger-drumming and hair-pulling on the journey. He and Cindy were going to sing together and Cindy didn’t want to be late. She had said so several times during the last-minute hassle of packing his stuff. He was messy, just like his dad, she had teased; his dad had made a face to show he didn’t find the comment funny. Like her clothes always made it into the laundry basket, he had replied, prompting a blatantly unteasing remark from Cindy about wet towels and washing-up, after which she had left the room closing the door really quietly, which Sam had felt was worse than a good slam. The next thing his dad had left the room, too, and the house went totally silent and Sam had put the telly on so he wouldn’t have to notice it or think too much about the fact that it was him leaving his socks next to the sofa that had set the whole thing off. A few minutes later they had come back into the sitting room holding hands. But Cindy’s eyes were puffy and red, and saying goodbye at the door she had kept a hold of his dad’s fingers till the very last second and said again about
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