The Art of Being Normal E-Book

Lisa Williamson

• Herausgeber: David Fickling Books
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 430

Beschreibung

Two outsiders. Two secrets.David longs to be a girl. Leo wants to be invisible.When Leo stands up for David in a fight, an unlikely friendship forms. But things are about to get messy. Because at Eden Park School, secrets have a funny habit of not staying secret for long . . .

Leseprobe

For Isla

Contents

Title PageDedication12345678910111213141516171819202122232425262728293031323334353637383940414243AcknowledgementsLisa Williamson – BiographyThe Siobhan Dowd TrustCopyright

1

One afternoon, when I was eight years old, my class was told to write about what we wanted to be when we grew up. Miss Box went round the class, asking each one of us to stand up and share what we had written. Zachary Olsen wanted to play in the Premier League. Lexi Taylor wanted to be an actress. Harry Beaumont planned on being Prime Minister. Simon Allen wanted to be Harry Potter, so badly that the previous term he had scratched a lightning bolt on to his forehead with a pair of craft scissors.

But I didn’t want to be any of these things.

This is what I wrote:

I want to be a girl.

2

My party guests are singing ‘Happy Birthday’. It does not sound good.

My little sister Livvy is barely even singing. At eleven, she’s already decided family birthday parties are tragically embarrassing, leaving Mum and Dad to honk out the rest of the tune, Mum’s reedy soprano clashing with Dad’s flat bass. It is so bad Phil, the family dog, gets up from his basket and slinks off mid-song in vague disgust. I don’t blame him; the whole party is fairly depressing. Even the blue balloons Dad spent the entire morning blowing up look pale and sad, especially the ones with ‘Fourteen Today!’ scrawled on them in black marker pen. I’m not even sure the underwhelming events unfolding before me qualify as a party in the first place.

‘Make a wish!’ Mum says. She has the cake tipped at an angle so I won’t notice it’s wonky. It says ‘Happy Birthday David!’ in blood-red icing across the top, the ‘day’ in ‘birthday’ all scrunched up where she must have run out of room. Fourteen blue candles form a circle around the edge of the cake, dripping wax into the butter cream.

‘Hurry up!’ Livvy says.

But I won’t be rushed. I want to do this bit properly. I lean forward, tuck my hair behind my ears and shut my eyes. I block out Livvy’s whining and Mum’s cajoling and Dad fiddling with the settings on the camera, and suddenly everything sounds sort of muffled and far away, a bit like when you dunk your head under water in the bath.

I wait a few seconds before opening my eyes and blowing out all the candles in one go. Everyone applauds. Dad lets off a party popper but it doesn’t ‘pop’ properly and by the time he’s got another one out of the packet Mum has opened the curtains and started taking the candles off the cake, and the moment has passed.

‘What did you wish for? Something stupid, I bet,’ Livvy says accusingly, twirling a piece of golden brown hair around her middle finger.

‘He can’t tell you, silly, otherwise it won’t come true,’ Mum says, taking the cake into the kitchen to be sliced.

‘Yeah,’ I say, sticking my tongue out at Livvy. She sticks hers out right back.

‘Where are your two friends again?’ she asks, putting extra emphasis on the ‘two’.

‘I’ve told you, Felix is in Florida and Essie is in Leamington Spa.’

‘That’s too bad,’ Livvy says with zero sympathy. ‘Dad, how many people did I have at my eleventh?’

‘Forty-five. All on roller skates. Utter carnage,’ Dad mutters grimly, ejecting the memory card from the camera and slotting it into the side of his laptop.

The first photo that pops up on the screen is of me sitting at the head of the table wearing an oversized ‘Birthday Boy’ badge and pointy cardboard party hat. My eyes are closed mid-blink and my forehead is shiny.

‘Dad,’ I moan. ‘Do you have to do that now?’

‘Just doing some red-eye removal before I email them over to your grandmother,’ he says, clicking away at the mouse. ‘She was gutted she couldn’t come.’

This is not true. Granny has bridge on Wednesday evenings and doesn’t miss it for anyone, least of all her least favourite grandchild. Livvy is Granny’s favourite. But then Livvy is everyone’s favourite. Mum had also asked Auntie Jane and Uncle Trevor, and my cousins Keira and Alfie. But Alfie woke up this morning with weird spots all over his chest that may or may not be chicken pox, so they had to give their apologies, leaving the four of us to ‘celebrate’ alone.

Mum returns to the living room with the sliced cake, setting it back down on the table.

‘Look at all these leftovers,’ she says, frowning as she surveys the mountains of picked-at food. ‘We’re going to have enough sausage rolls and fondant fancies to last us until Christmas. I just hope I’ve got enough cling film to wrap it all up.’

Great. A fridge full of food to remind me just how wildly unpopular I am.

After cake and intensive cling-film action, there are presents. From Mum and Dad I get a new backpack for school, the Gossip Girl DVD box set and a cheque for one hundred pounds. Livvy presents me with a box of Cadbury Heroes and a shiny red case for my iPhone.

Then we all sit on the sofa and watch a film called Freaky Friday. It’s about a mother and daughter who eat an enchanted fortune cookie that makes them magically swap bodies for the day. Of course everyone learns a valuable lesson before the inevitable happy ending, and for about the hundredth time this summer I mourn my life’s failure to follow the plot of a perky teenage movie. Dad drops off halfway through and starts snoring loudly.

That night I can’t sleep. I’m awake for so long, my eyes get used to the dark and I can make out the outlines of my posters on the walls and the tiny shadow of a mosquito darting back and forth across the ceiling.

I am fourteen and time is running out.

3

It’s the last Friday of the summer holidays. On Monday I go back to school. I have been fourteen years old for exactly nine days.

I’m lying on the sofa with the curtains closed. Mum and Dad are at work. Livvy is at her best friend Cressy’s house. I’m watching an old episode of America’s Next Top Model with a packet of Maryland double-chocolate-chip cookies balanced on my stomach. Tyra Banks has just told Ashley she is not going to be America’s Next Top Model. Ashley is in floods of tears and all the other girls are hugging her even though they spent almost the entire episode going on about how much they hated Ashley and wanted her to leave. The America’s Next Top Model house is nothing if not brutal.

Ashley’s tears are interrupted by the sound of a key turning in the front door. I sit up, carefully placing the packet of cookies on the coffee table beside me.

‘David, I’m home,’ Mum calls.

She’s back early from her meeting.

I frown as I listen to her kick off her shoes and drop her keys in the dish by the door with a clatter. I quickly grab the crochet blanket at my feet, pulling it up over my body and tucking it under my chin, getting into position just before Mum walks into the living room.

Immediately she pulls a face.

‘What?’ I ask, wiping cookie crumbs from my mouth.

‘You might want to open the curtains, David,’ she says, hands on hips.

‘But then I won’t be able to see the screen properly.’

She ignores me and marches over to the window, throwing open the curtains. The late afternoon sun floods the room, making the air look dusty. I writhe on the sofa, shielding my eyes.

‘Oh for heaven’s sake, David,’ Mum says. ‘You’re not a bloody vampire.’

‘I might be,’ I mutter.

She tuts.

‘Look,’ she says, gesturing towards the window. ‘It’s beautiful out. Are you seriously telling me you’d prefer to lie on the sofa in the dark all day?’

‘Correct.’

She narrows her eyes before perching on the sofa by my feet.

‘No wonder you’re so pasty,’ she says, tracing her finger down the side of my bare foot. I kick her away.

‘Would you rather I lie in the sun all day and get skin cancer?’

‘No, David,’ she says, sighing. ‘What I’d rather is see you doing something with your summer holidays other than staying indoors watching rubbish all day. If you’re not watching TV, you’re holed up in your room on the computer.’

The phone rings. Saved by the bell. As Mum stands up the blanket snags on her ring. I reach to grab it but it’s too late, she’s already looking down at me, a quizzical expression on her face.

‘David, are you wearing my nightie?’

It’s the nightie Mum packed to take to the hospital when she had Livvy. I don’t think she’s worn it since; Mum and Dad usually sleep naked. I know this because I’ve bumped into them on the landing in the middle of the night enough times to be scarred for life.

‘I thought it might keep me cool,’ I say quickly. ‘You know, like those long white dress things Arab men wear.’

‘Hmmmmm,’ Mum says.

‘You’d better get that,’ I say, nodding towards the phone.

I keep the nightie on for dinner, figuring it’ll be less suspicious that way.

‘You look like such a weirdo,’ Livvy says, her eyes narrowing with vague disgust.

‘Now, Livvy,’ Mum says.

‘But he does!’ Livvy protests.

Mum and Dad exchange looks. I concentrate really hard on balancing peas on my fork.

After dinner I go upstairs. I take out the list I made at the beginning of the summer holidays and sit cross-legged on the bed with it spread out in front of me.

Things to achieve this summer by David Piper:

Grow my hair long enough to tie back in a ponytailWatch every season of Project Runway in chronological orderBeat Dad at Wii TennisTeach Phil to dance so we can enter Britain’s Got Talent next year and win £250,000Finish my geography courseworkTell Mum and Dad

I had one glorious week of being able to scrape my hair into the tiniest of ponytails. But school rules dictate boys’ hair can be no longer than collar length, so last week Mum took me to the hairdresser’s to have it all cut off. Points two and three were achieved with ease during the first two weeks of the break. I quickly realised four was a lost cause; Phil isn’t a natural performer.

Five and six I’ve been putting off in turn. I’ve practised six plenty. I’ve got a whole speech prepared. I recite it in my head when I’m in the shower, and whisper it into the darkness when I’m lying in bed at night. The other day I sat my old toys, Big Ted and Mermaid Barbie, on my pillow and performed it for them. They were very understanding.

I’ve tried writing it down too. If my parents were to look hard enough they’d find endless unfinished drafts stuffed in the drawers of my desk. Last week though, I actually completed a letter. Not only that, I very nearly pushed it beneath Mum and Dad’s bedroom door. I was right outside, crouched down by the thin shaft of light, listening to them mill about as they got ready for bed. All it would take was one push and it would be done; my secret would be lying there on the carpet, ready to be discovered. But in that moment, it was like my hand was paralysed. And in the end I just couldn’t do it and went racing back to my room, letter still in hand, my heart pounding like crazy inside my chest.

Mum and Dad like to think they’re really cool and open-minded just because they saw the Red Hot Chili Peppers play at Glastonbury once and voted for the Green Party in the last election, but I’m not so sure. When I was younger, I used to overhear them talking about me when they thought I wasn’t listening. They’d speak in hushed voices and tell each other it was all ‘a phase’; that I would ‘grow out of it’; in exactly the same way you might talk about a child who wets the bed.

Essie and Felix know of course. The three of us tell each other everything. That’s why this summer has been so hard. Without them to talk to, some days I’ve felt like I might burst. But Essie and Felix knowing isn’t enough. For anything to happen, I have to tell Mum and Dad.

Tomorrow. I’ll definitely tell them tomorrow.

Right after I’ve finished my geography coursework.

I climb off the bed, open my door a few centimetres and listen. Mum, Dad and Livvy are downstairs watching TV. The muffled sound of canned laughter drifts up the stairs. Although I’m pretty sure they’ll stay put until the end of the programme, I place my desk chair under the door handle. Satisfied I won’t be disturbed, I retrieve the small purple notebook and tape measure I keep locked in the metal box at the bottom of my sock drawer. I position myself in front of the mirror that hangs on the back of my bedroom door, pull my T-shirt over my head and step out of my jeans and underpants.

An inspection is due.

As usual, I start by pressing my palms against my chest. I will it to be soft and spongy, but the muscle beneath my skin feels hard like stone. I take the tape measure and wrap it around my hips. No change. I go straight up and down, like a human ruler. I am the opposite of Mum who is all fleshy curves – hips and bum and boobs.

Next, I stand against the doorframe and measure my height. One hundred and sixty-eight centimetres. Again, no change. I allow myself a tiny sigh of relief.

I move downwards to my penis, which I hate with a passion. I hate everything about it: its size, its colour, the way I can always feel it just hanging there, the way it has a complete mind of its own. I discover it has grown an entire two millimetres since last week. I check it twice, but the tape measure doesn’t lie. I frown and write it down.

I move up closer to the mirror, so the glass is only a couple of centimetres away from my nose and I have to fight to stop myself from going cross-eyed. First, I run my fingers over my chin and cheeks. Some days I swear I can feel stubble pushing up against my skin, sharp and prickly, but for now at least the surface remains smooth and unbroken. I pout my lips and long for them to be plumper, pinker. I have my dad’s lips – thin, with a jagged Cupid’s bow. Unfortunately I appear to have inherited pretty much Dad’s everything. I skip over my hair (sludge brown and badly behaved, no matter how much product I use on it), eyes (grey, boring), nose (pointy-ish) and ears (sticky-outy), instead turning my head slowly until I am almost in profile, so I can admire my cheekbones. They are sharp and high and pretty much the only bit of my face I like.

Last of all I inspect my hands and feet. Sometimes I think I hate them most of all, maybe even more than my private parts, because they’re always there, on show. They’re clumsy and hairy and so pale they’re almost see-through, as if the skin is thin pastry stretched over spidery blue veins and long bony fingers and toes. Worst of all, they’re huge and getting huger. My new school shoes are two whole sizes bigger than last year’s pair. When I tried them on in Clarks at the beginning of the holidays I felt like a circus clown.

I take one last look in the mirror, at the stranger looking back at me. I shiver. This week’s inspection is over.

4

‘Leo!’ my little sister Tia calls up the stairs. I close my eyes and try to block her out. It’s hot. It’s been hot for days now. The thermometer that hangs in the kitchen says it’s thirty-three degrees. I’ve got all the windows and doors open and I’m still dying. I’m lying on my twin sister Amber’s bunk sucking on a raspberry ice pop. It has turned my tongue bright blue. Dunno why. The last time I checked raspberries were red.

At night I sleep on the bottom bunk because Amber reckons she gets claustrophobic, but when Amber’s not around I like to hang out on her bunk. If you lie with your head at the end closest to the window, you can’t see the other houses or the rubbish bins or the mad old lady from across the way who stands in her front yard and just yells for hours on end. All you can see is the sky and the tops of the trees, and if you concentrate really hard you can almost convince yourself you’re not in Cloverdale at all.

‘Leo!’ Tia yells again.

I sigh and sit up. Tia is my little sister. She’s seven and a complete pain in the neck. Mam let her have a pair of high heels for her last birthday and when she’s not watching telly she clomps round the house in them, talking in an American accent.

Tia’s dad is called Tony. He’s in prison, doing time for handling stolen goods.

My dad is called Jimmy. I miss him.

‘Leo, I’m hungry!’ Tia wails.

‘Then eat something!’

‘We’ve got nothing in!’

‘Tough!’

She starts to cry. It’s ear splitting. I sigh and heave myself off the bunk.

I find Tia at the bottom of the stairs, fat tears rolling down her face. She’s short for a seven-year-old and paperclip-skinny. As soon as she sees me her tears stop and she breaks into this big dopey smile.

She follows me into the kitchen, which is a mess; the sink piled high with dishes. I search the cupboards and fridge. Tia’s right, the kitchen is bare and God knows what time Mam’s going to be back. She left just before lunch, saying she was off to the bingo hall with Auntie Kerry. There’s no money in the tin so I take all the cushions off the settee and check the inside of the washing machine and the pockets of all the coats hanging in the hallway. We line up the coins on the coffee table. It’s not a bad haul – £4.82.

‘Stay here and don’t answer the door,’ I tell Tia. She’ll only slow me down if I take her with me.

I put my hoodie on and walk fast, my head down, sweat trickling down my back and sides.

Outside the shop there’s a bunch of lads from my old school. Luckily they’re distracted, mucking around on their bikes, so I pull my hood up, fastening the zip to the top so all you can see are my eyes. I buy crumpets, Tizer, washing-up liquid and a chocolate Swiss roll that’s past its best-before date.

When I get home I stick the Tangled DVD on for Tia and give her a pint glass of Tizer and a slice of the Swiss roll while I wash the pots and stick a couple of crumpets in the toaster. When I sit down on the settee she scampers over to me and plants a wet kiss on my cheek.

‘Ta, Leo,’ she says. Her mouth is all chocolaty.

‘Gerroff,’ I tell her. But she keeps clinging on, like a monkey, and I’m too tired to fight her off. She smells of the salt and vinegar crisps she ate for breakfast.

Later that night I put Tia to bed. Mam is still out and Amber’s staying over at her boyfriend Carl’s house. Carl is sixteen, a year older than us. Amber met him at the indoor ice rink in town last year. She was mucking about, trying to skate backwards and fell and hit her head on the ice. Carl looked after her and bought her a cherry flavour Slush Puppy. Amber said it was like a scene from a film. Amber’s soppy like that sometimes. When she’s not being soppy, she’s as hard as nails.

I’m watching some stupid action film on telly with lots of guns and explosions. It’s nearly finished when the security light outside the front door comes on. I sit up. I can make out shadows behind the swirly glass. Mam is laughing as she tries and fails to get her key in the lock. I hear a second laugh – a bloke’s. Great. More fumbling. The door finally swings open and in they fall, collapsing on the stairs giggling. Mam lifts her head up and notices me watching. She stops giggling and clambers to her feet. She puts an unsteady hand on the doorframe and glares.

‘What you doing up?’ she asks, kicking the door shut behind her.

I just shrug. The bloke gets up too, wiping his hands on his jeans. I don’t recognise him.

‘All right, our kid?’ he says, holding up his hand in greeting, ‘I’m Spike.’

Spike has inky black hair and is wearing a battered leather jacket. He has a weird accent. When he says he’s from ‘here, there and everywhere’, Mam starts laughing like he’s said something really hilarious. She goes off to the kitchen to get him a drink. Spike sits down on the sofa and takes off his shoes, plonking his feet on the coffee table. His socks don’t match.

‘Who are you then?’ he asks, wiggling his toes and putting his hands behind his head.

‘None of your business,’ I reply.

Mam comes back in, a can of Strongbow in each hand.

‘Don’t be so rude,’ she says, handing Spike his can. ‘Tell Spike your name.’

‘Leo,’ I say, rolling my eyes.

‘I saw that!’ Mam barks. She takes a slurp of her cider and turns to Spike.

‘Right little so-and-so this one is. Dunno where he gets it from. Must be from his father’s side.’

‘Don’t talk about my dad like that,’ I say.

‘I’ll talk about him how I like, thank you very much,’ Mam replies, rummaging in her handbag. ‘He’s a good-for-nothing bastard.’

‘He. Is. Not.’ I growl, separating each word.

‘Oh really?’ Mam continues, lighting a cigarette and taking a greedy puff on it. ‘Where is he then? If he’s so bloody marvellous, where the bloody hell is he, Leo? Eh?’

I can’t answer her.

‘Exactly,’ she says, taking a triumphant swig of cider.

I can feel the familiar knot in my stomach forming, my body tensing, my skin getting hot and clammy, my vision fogging. I try to use the techniques Jenny taught me; roll out my shoulders, count to ten, close my eyes, picture myself on a deserted beach, etcetera.

When I open my eyes Mam and Spike have moved on to the settee, giggling away like I’m not even in the room. Spike’s hand is snaking under Mam’s blouse and Mam is whispering in his ear. She notices me watching and stops what she’s doing.

‘And what do you think you’re looking at?’ she asks.

‘Nothing,’ I mutter.

‘Then get lost will ya.’

It’s not a question.

I slam the living room door so hard the entire house shakes.

5

Family legend goes that Mam’s waters broke as she was waiting to collect a chicken bhuna, pilau rice and peshwari naan from the Taj Mahal Curry House on Spring Street. Family legend also goes that she was still clutching the naan when she gave birth to Amber an hour later. I took another half an hour. Auntie Kerry says I had to be dragged out with forceps. I must have known that I was better off staying where I was.

My first memory is of my dad changing my nappy. Amber reckons you can’t remember stuff that far back, but she’s wrong. In the memory I’m lying on the living room floor and the telly is on behind Dad’s shoulder, and he’s singing. It’s not a proper song, just something made up and silly. He has a nice voice. It’s only a short memory, just a few seconds, but it’s as real as anything.

After that, the next memory I have is knocking Mam’s cup of tea off the coffee table and scalding my chest. I still have the scar. It’s the shape of an eagle with half of one wing missing. I was two and a half by then, and Dad was long gone. I wish I could remember more about him but I can’t – that one memory is all I’ve got. I’ve tried searching for him on the internet of course, but there are hundreds of James Dentons out there, and so far I haven’t found the right one.

I wonder what he’d think if he could see me now – standing in front of the bathroom mirror wearing an Eden Park School blazer over my T-shirt.

It’s the following night, and the last day of the summer holidays. Mam called in sick for her shift at the launderette this morning and spent the day in bed with a ‘migraine’. She must be feeling better now though, because ten minutes ago I saw her leave the house and climb into a rusty white car, Spike behind the wheel. Not that I care.

I stare at my reflection, at the smart-looking stranger staring back. It’s the first time I’ve tried on my blazer since the beginning of the summer holidays, and it’s weird how different it makes me look. There are no blazers at Cloverdale School, just yellow and navy sweatshirts that go bobbly after one wash. When I modelled the blazer for Mam she burst out laughing. ‘Bloody hell, you look like a right ponce!’ she said, before turning up the telly.

I straighten the lapels and relax my shoulders. I ordered the size up so it’s a bit baggy on me. I don’t mind though; this way I can fit a hoodie underneath. It smells different to my other clothes – expensive and new. It’s burgundy with thin navy stripes and a crest on the right breast pocket with the school motto – aequitatemque et inceptum – stitched underneath. The other day, I went to the library and looked up what it meant on the computer. Apparently it’s Latin for ‘fairness and initiative’. We’ll see.

Mam and I went to the school for a meeting back in the spring. Eden Park itself was exactly how I’d imagined it, all green and lush with tree-lined streets and little cafés selling organic-this and homemade-that. And even though Eden Park is a state school, just like Cloverdale, the similarities stop there. Not only did the place look different that day, with its smart buildings and tidy grounds, it felt different too; clean and neat and ordered. About a million miles away from Cloverdale.

My therapist, Jenny, came with Mam and me to the meeting. Mam put on this weird voice that I know she thinks makes her sound posh. She always uses it when she’s around doctors and teachers and trying to be on her best behaviour. We met with the Head Teacher, Mr Toolan, Miss Hannah, the Head of Pastoral Support, and Mrs Sherwin, the Head of Year 11. They asked lots of questions, then me and Mam waited outside while they talked with Jenny. A few times pupils walked past us and gave us funny looks. They looked rich. I could tell by their neatly ironed uniforms and shiny hair and Hollister backpacks. Me and Mam must have stuck out like a sore thumb.

After loads more talking and questions, I was offered a place for Year 11. Jenny was really excited for me. Supposedly people move house just so they can be in the catchment area for Eden Park. Jenny reckons it’ll be a ‘fresh start’ and ‘an opportunity to make some friends’. Jenny’s obsessed with me making friends. She goes on about my ‘social isolation’ like it’s a contagious disease. After all these years she still doesn’t get that social isolation is exactly what I’m after.

‘Leo?’

I step out into the hallway. Tia’s bedroom door is ajar as usual, so she can see the landing light.

‘Leo?’ she says again, louder this time. I sigh and push open her door.

Tia’s room is tiny and a complete wreck, clothes and cuddly toys everywhere and crayon scribbles all over the walls. She sits cross-legged under the duvet cover she inherited from Amber. Once covered in a Flower Fairy print, it’s now so faded and worn that some of the fairies are missing faces or limbs, ghostly white smudges in their place.

‘What do you want?’ I ask wearily.

‘Will you tuck me in?’

I sigh and kneel down next to Tia’s bed. She beams and shimmies into a lying-down position. Snot clings to her tiny little nostrils. I pull the duvet up under her chin and turn to go.

‘That’s not proper,’ she whines.

I roll my eyes.

‘Please, Leo?’

‘For Pete’s sake, Tia.’

I crouch back down and begin tucking the duvet underneath her, working all the way down her spindly little body until she looks like a mummy.

‘How’s that?’ I ask.

‘Perfect.’

‘Can I go now?’

She bobs her head up and down. I get up.

‘Leo?’

‘What?’

‘I like your jacket.’

I look down. I still have the blazer on.

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Yeah, it’s well nice. You look really handsome. Like Prince Eric from The Little Mermaid.’

I shake my head. ‘Ta, Tia.’

She smiles serenely and shuts her eyes. ‘You’re welcome.’

6

‘David!’ Mum yells up the stairs. ‘Time to get up!’

I turn on to my stomach and pull a pillow over my head. A few more minutes pass before my bedroom door creaks open.

‘Rise and shine,’ Mum singsongs, creeping across the carpet and peeling back the duvet.

I snatch it back and pull it over my head, making a cave for myself.

‘Five more minutes,’ I say, my voice muffled.

‘No way. Up. Now. I won’t have you making Livvy late on her first day at big school.’

I heave myself out of bed and look in the mirror. I look awful – sweaty and pale with dark circles under my eyes and crease marks across my cheeks. I never sleep well the night before the first day back.

By 8.30 a.m. I’m sitting in the passenger seat of the car. Livvy is posing for a photograph on the doorstep while Mum weeps behind the lens. Livvy is very photogenic; everyone says so. Mum and Dad often joke her real dad’s the milkman. No one ever makes similar jokes about my parentage.

‘You’re going to take after your dad,’ aunts and uncles always tell me knowingly, as if it’s some sort of compliment I ought to be grateful for. I don’t know what they’re thinking; Dad’s hardly Brad Pitt.

Livvy cocks her head to one side and smiles angelically. The way the sunlight hits her, I can see the outline of her bra through her blouse. She already wears a 32A. She and Mum went shopping for it in the summer holidays, coming home with a plastic bag from Marks and Spencer, acting all giggly and secretive.

‘Look after her, David!’ Mum says as she drops us off outside the school gates, her eyes still wet.

As we start to walk up the drive, I place a protective hand on Livvy’s shoulder. Immediately she grunts, shaking it off.

‘Don’t walk so close to me!’ she hisses.

‘But you heard Mum, I’m meant to be looking after you,’ I point out.

‘Well don’t. I don’t want people to know we’re related,’ she says, quickening her pace. I let her go, watching as she strides confidently towards the lower school entrance, her long hair flying out behind her.

‘Nice,’ I mutter to myself, recalling a time when Livvy used to follow me round the house, sweetly begging me to play with her.

I hear two voices calling my name. Immediately I grin and spin round. Essie and Felix are heading towards me, waving madly.

Essie is tall (almost a head taller than Felix) with messy black hair that she dyes at home herself, green eyes and stupidly long legs. Beside her Felix is immaculate as usual, his fair hair combed into a neat side parting and his face tanned from the Florida sun.

I skip towards them and we collide in a messy group hug.

‘When did your little sister get so fit?’ Felix asks as we separate.

‘Ew, don’t be such a perv, she’s only eleven!’ I cry. At the same time Essie punches him on the shoulder, sending Felix staggering back a few steps.

‘Ow!’ he cries, clutching his shoulder and letting out a comedic yowl.

‘Er, hello? Girlfriend? Right here?’ Essie says.

Felix and Essie got together at the Christmas ball last year. I left the dance floor to go and buy a packet of crisps and a can of Coke and by the time I returned, they were chewing one another’s faces off to an Enrique Iglesias song. I didn’t even know they fancied each other so it all came as a bit of a surprise. Felix and Essie claim it was as much of a shock for them (‘I blame Enrique,’ Essie often says, usually when Felix is annoying her).

‘How was Maths Camp?’ I ask Felix. Felix goes every year. I can’t imagine anything more hideous.

‘Awesome,’ he replies cheerfully.

‘I missed you both so badly,’ I say, as we head towards the upper school entrance, instinctively falling into step with one another. ‘My birthday party was beyond miserable without you.’

‘Don’t talk to me about miserable,’ Essie says. ‘I’ve been in step-monster hell for the past six weeks. Can you believe she tried to make me take my nose ring out?’

‘Oh God, don’t get her started,’ Felix moans. ‘It’s all she talked about last night.’

I stop walking.

‘You guys hung out last night? Why didn’t you call me?’

Essie and Felix exchange looks.

‘It was kind of boyfriend/girlfriend hanging out,’ Essie says. ‘If you know what I mean.’

‘Yeah,’ Felix echoes, turning a bit red and pushing his glasses up his nose. I notice his skin is peeling around his hairline.

‘Oh, right,’ I say. ‘Never mind.’

We keep walking.

Although I’m obviously thrilled my two best friends in the entire world are in love, I still can’t help but get slightly freaked out by the idea of them ‘together’. I don’t know if they’ve had sex or anything yet and I haven’t asked. Which bothers me. Up to now, we’ve always told each other everything and all of a sudden one topic, and a pretty major one at that, is unofficially off limits. To me anyway.

This year I’m in form 10C. I get there early so I can reserve a seat near the front, as close to Mr Collins as possible, even if that means sitting next to Simon Allen, who inexplicably stinks of plasticine. At least this way I can guarantee people like Harry Beaumont and Tom Kerry won’t be sitting anywhere near me. For about the thousandth time I wish I was in the same form as Essie and Felix, but they’re both in 10H, next door, light years away.

Bam! The spitball strikes me hard on the back of my neck. I twist round in my seat. Harry is pretending to tie his shoelaces. Everyone around him is sniggering. I peel the spitball off my skin and flick it on to the floor where it lands with a dull splat. It’s fat, moist and heavy. He’s been practising.

‘Hey, Freak Show!’ he calls.

I pretend not to hear him. ‘Freak Show’ has been Harry’s nickname for me for years. A lot of other kids call me it too, but Harry’s the one responsible for its longevity.

‘Aw, c’mon, Freak Show,’ he says, coaxingly. ‘That’s not very polite is it? I’m making an effort to have a nice conversation with you and you’ve got your back turned to me.’

I sigh and twist round in my seat again. Harry has got up and is now lounging on Lexi Taylor’s desk while she giggles like a hyena behind him. Lexi is Harry’s current girlfriend. She thinks she’s super-hot because apparently modelling bridesmaid dresses in the fashion show at the Eden Park Summer Fair last year somehow makes her Naomi Campbell.

‘Was that your little sister I saw you arrive with this morning?’ he asks.

‘What’s it to you?’

‘No need to be touchy! I was only asking.’

I sigh. ‘Yes, she’s my sister. Why?’

‘It’s just that she looked, well, almost normal.’

Laughter ripples across the classroom. Harry basks in it, a slow grin spreading across his face. I try not to let my irritation show.

‘So what I’m trying to work out is this,’ he says. ‘Which one of you is adopted?’

Mr Collins breezes into the classroom, oblivious. ‘Welcome back everyone! Harry, on a chair please.’

Harry slides off the desk, smirking.

‘I reckon the smart money’s on you, Freak Show.’

7

Lunch time. I take a can of Coke from the fridge and put it next to the plate of lukewarm congealed macaroni cheese already on my tray.

‘Well, I heard he got expelled,’ a Year 11 girl with frizzy brown hair in front of me is saying.

‘Who?’ her friend asks.

‘The new kid in 11R.’

‘Expelled? What for?’ someone else asks.

‘I don’t know. It must be something bad though. I’ve heard it’s almost impossible to get expelled from Cloverdale.’

I’ve heard of Cloverdale School. It’s on the other side of the city and has a reputation for being really rough and scary, always in the papers for failing its Ofsted inspection or kids trying to set fire to it.

‘I know why he got expelled,’ one of the boys chimes in proudly. ‘Apparently he went mental in a DT lesson and chopped off the teacher’s index finger with a junior hacksaw.’

There’s a collective gasp. Apart from the frizzy-haired girl who says, ‘I’m not surprised. You can tell he’s a bit crazy, just look at his eyes.’

I follow their gaze to a boy sitting alone at a table in the far corner of the dining room. He has messy light brown hair and is glaring at a plate of chips. I’m too far away to tell if his eyes are ‘crazy’ or not.

‘How has he ended up here, then?’ someone else asks.

‘I dunno. All I do know is, I’m not going to go anywhere near him,’ another boy says. ‘To have got expelled from Cloverdale he must be a proper maniac.’

I pay for my food and find Essie and Felix at a table in the corner. I pass the popular kids in the centre of the room, shrieking and laughing and showing off – the star attractions. Their hangers-on are eating at the surrounding tables, forming a protective barrier, leaving the more out-there groups to populate the outer tables. Over in the opposite corner, the emo kids huddle around an MP3 player, listening intently, bobbing their heads in time to the music, hair in their eyes. A few tables over, the clever, nerdy kids are passionately debating the next Star Wars movie.

Essie, Felix and I don’t fit into any particular group. Essie reckons this is a good thing. It was Essie who came up with our name – the Non-Conformists (or the NCs for short), not that anyone ever calls us that.

‘Hey, Davido,’ Essie says as I slide into my seat. ‘We’re discussing which has more nutritional content, today’s delicious macaroni cheese,’ she leans in and sniffs at her plate, ‘or a can of dog food.’

‘I vote for the dog food,’ Felix says cheerfully, his mouth full, spraying pumpkin and tahini millet ball crumbs in all directions. He’s allergic to pretty much everything so his mum prepares him a macrobiotic lunch every day.

‘I vote for the dog food too,’ I say, unfolding a paper napkin. ‘I once tasted some of Phil’s Pedigree Chum and it wasn’t actually all that bad.’

‘You did what?’ Felix says, putting down his carton of carrot juice.

‘How have we not heard this story before?’ Essie demands.

‘Mum caught me eating from Phil’s bowl one morning,’ I say. ‘I guess I must have just been really hungry. In my defence I was only about three at the time.’

‘And this is precisely why we love you, David Piper,’ Essie says. ‘Pass the salt, will you?’

I can’t quite pinpoint the moment Essie, Felix and I became best friends. I only know we somehow gravitated towards one another like magnets, and by the end of our first year at primary school, I couldn’t imagine the world without the three of us in it together.

As I pass the salt to Essie, my eyes fall on the new boy. He’s sitting two tables away, picking at his food. Up closer, he doesn’t look crazy. In fact, he’s sort of cute-looking with a snub nose, sandy brown hair falling across his forehead and the most incredible cheekbones I think I’ve ever seen.

I lean in.

‘Hey, do either of you know anything about the new boy in 11R?’

‘Only that he got expelled from Cloverdale and is meant to be a violent lunatic,’ Felix says, his voice carelessly loud.

‘Ssssshhhh, he might hear you!’

I peer over Felix’s shoulder but the boy is still having a stare-out competition with his chips.

‘I feel bad that he’s all on his own,’ I say. ‘Should I ask him to sit with us?’

Felix raises his eyebrows. ‘Did the words “violent” and “lunatic” not raise even the faintest alarm bells?’

‘Oh, don’t be so boring!’ Essie says. ‘Anyone who has got an official screw loose is more than welcome at our table. Go for it, Mother Teresa, spread some NC love.’

I hesitate, suddenly afraid.

‘If you’re keen, you do it,’ I say.

‘I don’t want to scare him off,’ Essie says. ‘A lot of men are intimidated by strong women.’

Felix and I roll our eyes at each other.

‘No, definitely best you go, David,’ she continues. ‘You’re nice and unthreatening.’

‘Gee, thanks,’ I say in an American accent, pushing back my chair and making my way over to the boy’s table.

‘Hi,’ I say, hovering at his side.

I notice a red ‘free school meals’ token poking out from under his tray. The boy doesn’t respond.

‘Er, hi?’ I repeat, worried he hasn’t heard me.

He sighs heavily and slowly angles his head to look up at me.

‘I’m David Piper,’ I say, extending my hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’

The boy ignores it and takes a swig from his can of Coke instead, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his blazer. My hand hovers awkwardly in midair. He finally looks at it before sighing again and shaking it once, firmly.

‘Leo Denton,’ he says gruffly.

He raises his eyes to meet mine, and I have to catch my breath for a moment, because, wow, those Year 11 kids were totally wrong. Leo’s eyes aren’t crazy at all; they’re beautiful, hypnotic, like looking down a kaleidoscope almost – sea green with amber flecks around the pupil and just really intense, like they could see into your soul or something.

‘Can I help you?’ Leo asks.

I realise I’m full on staring.

‘Er, yes, sorry,’ I stammer, dragging my eyes away from his. ‘It’s just that me and my friends over there …’

I point over to Essie and Felix. Helpfully, Essie has plastered her top lip to her gums and Felix has flipped his eyelids inside out.

‘Er, well, we were wondering if you’d like to eat lunch with us?’

I hold my breath. Leo is looking at me like I’ve got two heads.

‘No thanks,’ he says finally.

‘We’re not weird, honestly,’ I glance back at Essie and Felix. ‘Well, we are a bit …’

‘Look, thanks, but no thanks. I’m done anyway.’

And with that, Leo pushes away his tray, picks up his can of Coke and heads for the door.

I amble back to our table.

‘He wasn’t interested,’ I report.

‘What?’ Essie cries, outraged.

I shrug and sit down.

‘Psychopaths do tend to be loners,’ Felix muses.

‘He didn’t seem very psychopathic,’ I point out.

‘They never do,’ Felix replies loftily.

I crane my neck to look out of the window, but Leo has already disappeared from view.

‘Olsen alert! Olsen alert!’ Essie starts to hiss.

‘Where?’ I say, turning my attention back to the table, instinctively sitting up straight.

‘Behind you. Over by Harry’s table.’

I slowly turn round in my seat. And there he is. Zachary Olsen. Otherwise known as the love of my life.

I have loved Zachary Olsen ever since we shared the same paddling pool, aged four. The fact I was once in such close proximity to his semi-naked body is sometimes too much to bear. The fact he clearly has no recollection that our semi-naked bodies ever shared a paddling pool in the first place is even worse. Zachary is everything I am not – a half-Norwegian love god complete with shaggy blond hair and tanned six-pack. He’s captain of the football and rugby teams. He’s crazily popular. He always has a girlfriend. He basically stands for everything we Non-Conformists claim is wrong with the world. And yet I am utterly in love with him. Unfortunately he doesn’t appear to know I’m alive.

Today he has his arm slung around Chloe Hollins’s shoulder, indicating she is his current girlfriend (death to Chloe) and laughing at something Harry has just said. Even Zachary’s fraternising with the enemy does little to dampen my love for him. He could probably torture kittens and rob old ladies at gunpoint and I’d still adore him.

I watch as he and Chloe saunter out of the canteen, looking totally smug and sexy. Essie reaches across and gives my hand a squeeze. Which says it all really. I am a hopeless case. In about a billion different ways.

8

My first day at Eden Park School goes more or less to plan. Apart from some Year 10 kid who tries to talk to me at lunch, no one comes near me all day. Not that I’m invisible exactly. All day kids have been staring at me. At first I can’t work out why, but then I notice the way they’re staring at me. They’re scared. So I play up to it. I act the hard man and stare right back, and every time they chicken out first. Who cares why they’re scared. As long as they leave me alone, I don’t give a toss what they think.

The bell rings for the end of the day. The corridor is packed but as I walk down it, kids scramble to make way for me, parting like the Red Sea. It’s as if I have a glowing protective shield around me, like I’m some new breed of super hero. It would actually be pretty funny if it wasn’t so weird. I’m almost at the end of the corridor when this girl appears out of nowhere and bashes right into me.

Her eyes spring open in surprise and I can’t help wondering what kind of idiot walks around the place with their eyes closed.

‘Jesus, sorry!’ she laughs, lowering the massive pair of red headphones she’s wearing so they’re hanging round her neck. ‘I was totally not looking where I was going. Are you OK?’

She reaches out and puts her hand on my arm. When she doesn’t remove it straight away I have to force her to by folding my arms. If she guesses that’s what I’m doing, she doesn’t show it. She has black curly hair that shoots out in all directions, and light brown eyes almost the exact same shade as her skin. Basically, she’s gorgeous. I quickly chase the thought out of my head.

‘It’s just that I was listening to the most amazing song,’ the girl continues, ‘I’m literally obsessed with it. Want to hear?’

She thrusts the earphones at me.

‘No thanks,’ I mutter, squeezing past her, careful my body doesn’t touch hers.

‘Hey!’ she calls after me.

Reluctantly I turn round and raise my eyes to meet hers. Her lashes are stupidly long, Disney-Princess long. I hate that I notice this.

‘You’re new, right?’

‘Yeah, I’m new,’ I say reluctantly.

She breaks into a fresh grin.

‘Well in that case, welcome to Eden Park School, new boy.’

I arrive home to discover Spike’s bashed-up white Peugeot parked at a funny angle outside our house, as if he’s abandoned it at the scene of a crime. He stayed over again last night. This morning his Homer Simpson boxer shorts were drying on the washing line and the bathroom sink was full of black stubble. If I blurred my eyes, the hairs looked like tiny ants trying to crawl out of the plughole.

I push open the front door. Spike is sitting on the settee with Mam perched on his knee. He’s whispering in her ear and she’s giggling like a little girl. His hand is on her bum.

I slam the door shut. It makes the two of them jump. Mam glares at me and straightens her mini skirt.

She’s always going on about how she’s as skinny now as she was when she was fifteen, and insists on wearing the skimpiest of clothes to prove it. It’s her eyes that give the game away – dead and tired, like life’s sucked all the sparkle right out of them.

‘All right, mate?’ Spike says over her shoulder. He takes in my blazer and lets out a whistle. ‘Bloody hell, what are you wearing kid? You go to Hogwarts or something?’

I ignore him and wander into the kitchen. I open the biscuit tin. It’s empty apart from half a soggy custard cream.

‘Excuse me, Spike’s talking to you,’ Mam barks after me.

‘It’s the Eden Park School uniform,’ I say, replacing the lid.

‘Eden Park, eh? Very swish,’ Spike replies. ‘Clever clogs, are you?’

I shrug.

‘Just don’t go getting ideas above your station,’ Mam says. ‘Just because you’re wearing a fancy blazer it don’t mean you’re above us.’

‘Like I would dare,’ I mutter.

‘What did you say?’ she asks sharply.

‘Nothing. Can I go now?’

‘Please do, you miserable little sod.’

I find Amber sitting on her bunk, brushing her clip-in hair extensions.