had gotten off lightly.
The only problem was my shoe. Slasher still had it. A red Converse. Distinctive. Physical evidence linking me to the scene of the crime. But I was too tired to worry about it. I put its mate securely in the bottom of my wardrobe, sank into bed without bothering to shower and was instantly submerged in a dreamless sleep.
Year 6, First Term
You wait for the fist to land but nothing happens. You open your eyes. The boy's hand is still cocked, but is covered by another. The fat boy's head is turned to one side, surprise, like a stain, over his plump features. He looks at the other boy—a boy with red hair and cold eyes. They stand for a while, staring, sizing each other up, hands locked together in unlikely intimacy. The red-haired boy is smaller by far, yet he seems big somehow. The silence is like a tight thread.
“Leave her alone,” says the boy with red hair.
His voice is so calm it scares you more than the fist poised above you. The heavy boy licks his lips nervously. He is weighing his chances. But it's not the physical threat. The two are hopelessly mismatched in terms of weight and physique. It's in the eyes. The sense that body size is unimportant compared to strength of will. His eyes slide away as if looking for escape. Finally, he shrugs the restraining hand away.
“Ah, she's not worth it, anyway,” he says, and walks off. He seems smaller somehow. You look at the red-haired boy.
“Thanks,” you say.
The boy looks at you and he is difficult to read.
“Fuck off,” he says, without malice.
Chapter 11
Cinderella complex
By the morning, my foot had swollen to the size of a watermelon. I woke up and the first thing I was aware of was a pulsing pain, as if someone was rhythmically beating the sole of my foot with a large piece of bamboo. I carefully removed the bedsheet. To be honest, I was a bit worried that my whole leg had dropped off in the middle of the night and that I was suffering from those phantom pains that amputees experience. When I saw my foot, I actually wished it had dropped off. Hanging from the end of my ankle was a bruised pulp, like a gigantic and overripe plum. It was as if someone had carefully inflated a very large cane toad, spray-painted it inexpertly with the primary colors and then attached it with liquid nails to the end of my leg. It was a mess.
I tried walking. That was fine until I put weight on it and the bolt of pain threatened to lift my entire brainpan from the cerebral cortex. So I tried favoring my right foot. That wasokay for a while. With practice, I developed a shuffling gait that made me look like an extra in a B-grade zombie movie. Or I could have put a hump on my back and I would have been a dead ringer for Quasimodo.
Next problem. The obvious thing would have been for me to take the day off school. That would have been easy. I could hear the Fridge downstairs making coffee and coughing over the first cigarette of the day. All it required was a halfway convincing display of stomach pains, the odd heartrending groan and I would have been home and dry. The trouble was I
wanted
to go to school. I wanted to talk to Kiffo. We had shared an adventure and there is nothing worse than not being able to replay all the details with someone who had been through it with you. The other thing was I wanted to see the reaction of Miss Payne. I couldn't swear that she hadn't seen me and Kiffo, that she couldn't positively identify us, but somehow I doubted it. I felt convinced things had happened so quickly that she might have had her suspicions about the phantom sneezer and the target of Slasher's blood-lust, but that she couldn't be entirely sure. It gave me a curious tingle of anticipation to think she could be teaching me, thinking I was the prime suspect, but being unable to prove it. I wanted to be like one of those movie criminals who sneer derisively at the cops because they know that the evidence won't stand up in court. I wanted to say to her,
The only problem was my shoe. Slasher still had it. A red Converse. Distinctive. Physical evidence linking me to the scene of the crime. But I was too tired to worry about it. I put its mate securely in the bottom of my wardrobe, sank into bed without bothering to shower and was instantly submerged in a dreamless sleep.
Year 6, First Term
You wait for the fist to land but nothing happens. You open your eyes. The boy's hand is still cocked, but is covered by another. The fat boy's head is turned to one side, surprise, like a stain, over his plump features. He looks at the other boy—a boy with red hair and cold eyes. They stand for a while, staring, sizing each other up, hands locked together in unlikely intimacy. The red-haired boy is smaller by far, yet he seems big somehow. The silence is like a tight thread.
“Leave her alone,” says the boy with red hair.
His voice is so calm it scares you more than the fist poised above you. The heavy boy licks his lips nervously. He is weighing his chances. But it's not the physical threat. The two are hopelessly mismatched in terms of weight and physique. It's in the eyes. The sense that body size is unimportant compared to strength of will. His eyes slide away as if looking for escape. Finally, he shrugs the restraining hand away.
“Ah, she's not worth it, anyway,” he says, and walks off. He seems smaller somehow. You look at the red-haired boy.
“Thanks,” you say.
The boy looks at you and he is difficult to read.
“Fuck off,” he says, without malice.
Chapter 11
Cinderella complex
By the morning, my foot had swollen to the size of a watermelon. I woke up and the first thing I was aware of was a pulsing pain, as if someone was rhythmically beating the sole of my foot with a large piece of bamboo. I carefully removed the bedsheet. To be honest, I was a bit worried that my whole leg had dropped off in the middle of the night and that I was suffering from those phantom pains that amputees experience. When I saw my foot, I actually wished it had dropped off. Hanging from the end of my ankle was a bruised pulp, like a gigantic and overripe plum. It was as if someone had carefully inflated a very large cane toad, spray-painted it inexpertly with the primary colors and then attached it with liquid nails to the end of my leg. It was a mess.
I tried walking. That was fine until I put weight on it and the bolt of pain threatened to lift my entire brainpan from the cerebral cortex. So I tried favoring my right foot. That wasokay for a while. With practice, I developed a shuffling gait that made me look like an extra in a B-grade zombie movie. Or I could have put a hump on my back and I would have been a dead ringer for Quasimodo.
Next problem. The obvious thing would have been for me to take the day off school. That would have been easy. I could hear the Fridge downstairs making coffee and coughing over the first cigarette of the day. All it required was a halfway convincing display of stomach pains, the odd heartrending groan and I would have been home and dry. The trouble was I
wanted
to go to school. I wanted to talk to Kiffo. We had shared an adventure and there is nothing worse than not being able to replay all the details with someone who had been through it with you. The other thing was I wanted to see the reaction of Miss Payne. I couldn't swear that she hadn't seen me and Kiffo, that she couldn't positively identify us, but somehow I doubted it. I felt convinced things had happened so quickly that she might have had her suspicions about the phantom sneezer and the target of Slasher's blood-lust, but that she couldn't be entirely sure. It gave me a curious tingle of anticipation to think she could be teaching me, thinking I was the prime suspect, but being unable to prove it. I wanted to be like one of those movie criminals who sneer derisively at the cops because they know that the evidence won't stand up in court. I wanted to say to her,
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