There are about ten million thoughts going through my head but the main one is RUN. This boy races towards me, arms flailing like Catherine wheels. As he approaches, I realize he’s about fifteen and built like a bulldog, if that bulldog was actually made of bricks.

I bomb towards him as if I’m a superhero with wings on his feet. Speed is mine and I’m going to get past Catherine Wheel Boy. My trainers are moving so fast they’re a blur. I’m halfway up the pebble path when his toe connects with my ankle. He loses his balance, which is no bad thing, because suddenly there’s this ooooof sound coming from my stomach and I’m less superhero, more the boy with broken wings sprawled on the path.

“Paparazzi paparazzi paparazzi,” he shouts quickly, which is impressive since it sounds like a tongue-twister.

Swallowing back the pain, I jump up and run away from him, leap onto the trampoline and boing up and down as fast as I can. On the final bounce I’m on top of the fence, then over the other side and onto a rubbish bin. After that, I jump to the ground and half run, half hobble down the alleyway and into Swallow Street.

“Loser,” screams the boy and I can hear a thud as he kicks the fence.

Reaching Skateboarding Hill is the only target in my mind. The pain is forgotten as I run through the wood, and I don’t stop or look back in case Catherine Wheel Boy is behind me. I find the spot where I hid my skateboard and drag it out from under the brambles, then run through the wood with it in my clutches. When I reach the top of the hill, I risk a backward glance. The boy hasn’t followed me. With a quick flick my skateboard goes down onto the pathway and I jump on and whoosh down Skateboarding Hill, grateful for those high-performance bearings. At the bottom I dive off and land face down in the long grass.

I lie there for ages asking myself the same question.

How could my dad be his dad?

Frosted blades of grass tickle my cheeks and the Paradise estate is on its side. I thought I was the only boy in the universe who could say Malcolm Maynard was my dad. But I can hear Catherine Wheel Boy’s words inside my head and my eyes see dark sponge clouds gliding across the horizon. I found Dad’s house. Operation Baskerville was a success. A tear eases out and runs along the side of my head and seeps into the earth. I think I’m a genius. Another tear follows. I think I am invincible. A third tear follows the path of the first two. I think I’m lonely.

An hour later I find myself under my duvet without knowing what steps I took to get there. The glow-in-the-dark stars light the ceiling; five-pointed beacons of happiness. It hurts to look at them, so I close my eyes. When Mum got home from the supermarket she shouted up that she’d brought back some slightly stale biscuits that they couldn’t sell. Even then I didn’t leave my bedroom to get any.

That night I dream of the Paradise estate again. It’s the same dream as before: the one where I’m standing beneath the Dad tree. This time the Saint Gabriel medal has turned into the moon and the leaves from the tree fall like rubies from heaven. At first I catch them, but they shatter and fall around me like petals falling from a blood-red rose. They blanket the ground before building up until they reach my knees and then my waist. I stumble and fall below a scarlet river, my fingers the only thing visible. The hand, when it comes, fills me with hope. From nowhere it grasps my fingers and pulls me upwards. I wake up thinking of Dad.

“The monster appears for breakfast,” says Grace, shovelling toast into her mouth. “You look a right mess.”

Mum looks up at me and then her eyes skip away. Her fingers wrap around a mug of steaming tea and occasionally she takes a sip. “Do you feel rough too?”

I shrug and sit down at the table.

“Something I ate hasn’t agreed with me,” says Mum. A volcanic burp rumbles in her ribcage and she puts a fist to her mouth before it explodes. “Sorry.”

As I pour the last of the chocolate cereal into a bowl I mentally cross number six off my list. Saint Gabriel is never going to get me a swimming pool full of these babies.

“Too many biscuits,” Mum sighs. “I knew I shouldn’t have eaten the entire packet myself.”

Mum’s face is the colour of a dolphin’s flipper. If I put her in my grey school jumper you wouldn’t be able to tell where Mum’s skin begins and the jumper ends. Usually Mum is never ill, so it’s a surprise when she says she’ll have a little lie-down before her shift at Aladdin’s. When I ask if I can help, she smiles and says I could look in her handbag for some indigestion tablets and bring them up to her with a glass of water.

“Ooh, Mr Suck-Up from Suck-Up Street, Suck-Up Town,” says Grace as Mum disappears up the stairs. She’s just jealous because I thought to ask Mum if I could help, which makes me Number One child. As I stick my tongue out, Grace screeches, “Ugh! Chocolate puke.”

Mum’s pink sequined bag is tucked neatly under the coats in the hallway. I unzip it and look inside. This is the same as discovering one of the mysteries of the universe. I’m like that bloke going into Tutankhamun’s tomb for the first time. What am I going to discover? Will there be treasure?

At first sight, nothing exciting. No mini gyro flyer or finger skateboard, and definitely no pick ’n’ mix sweets. Neatly folded up and hiding at the bottom of the bag is a booklet. I take it out and sit on the bottom stair, smoothing the paper across my lap. There is a questionnaire inside and it’s from our local hospital, The Princess Rose. And I know it’s wrong to read other people’s stuff but there you go. There’s only room for one saint in this house and that’s Gabriel. So the first question is:

1. Your boobs are:

a) Perky

b) Lumpy

c) Sore and prickly

Prickly makes me think of hedgehogs and I’m quite certain Mum doesn’t have two of those in her bra. But she has circled b) and c). Question number two makes no sense whatsoever.

2. Is there:

a) No blood

b) Spotting

c) Heavy blood

Mum has circled a) this time, which is the only answer that doesn’t make me gag.

Question three has me completely stumped. In fact, it might as well be written in French for all the sense it makes.

3. Describe your symptoms:

a) Fit, happy and full of life

b) Heartburn, achy, uncomfortable

c) Moody, exhausted and always going to the toilet

Again, Mum has circled two: b) and c). I know she’s heading towards forty in a fast car, but surely it’s not time to give up on life just yet. Mrs Nunkoo from down the road is eighty-six and she’s probably more a) than Mum.

The last question isn’t really a question at all. It says if you circled more than two b)s or c)s then you need to ring the clinic to make an appointment. Mum has underlined the phone number, twice. In red ink, no less.

I fold the booklet up again and hide it back in her bag. Not what I was expecting to find when told to get the indigestion tablets. From upstairs I hear the drift of Mum’s voice asking me to hurry up before the acid starts eating her stomach alive. “I’m coming,” I call back.

At school I keep thinking about secrets. Mum’s sick and keeping it secret and Dad’s living with Catherine Wheel Boy and keeping it secret. Big Dave is living with Caroline 1973 and keeping it a secret. I’m worried about everyone and keeping it a secret. And Grace is just Grace. Earlier I shoved Saint Gabriel in my blazer pocket and brought him to school with me.

“Is number nine out of the question?” I whisper into my pocket. “If I had a rocket I could fly to the moon and escape all these problems on earth. At least send me a rocket if you can’t do the other things.”

“Daniel Hope, can you please pay attention?” says Mrs Parfitt.

“I suppose I could settle for number eight if I can’t have the rocket,” I mutter under my breath. “Number eight would be mega.” I idly scribble my new address on my notebook.

Daniel George Hope

221b Baker Street

London

“Whoever is whispering, please stop.” Mrs Parfitt, with her big bird beak, peers in my direction and then she puffs up her chest until the buttons on her blouse strain against the fabric. “This is more important than your inane chit-chat. This is Project Eco Everywhere news. Now, as you know, we’re not doing a nativity play this year, as Project Eco Everywhere is going to take its place.”

“Awww…” says Kevin Cummings. “I wanted to be Joseph.”

“The donkey, more like,” says Jo.

“Quiet, please,” replies Mrs Parfitt. “This is going to be unique. Perhaps not quite as unique as the story of Jesus’ birth, that I’ll grant you, but special nonetheless. If you’re missing the nativity angle, I can promise you we’re going to have some stars hanging from the ceiling in the hotel.”

“We’ll need a few shepherds too,” says Kevin.

“There will be no shepherds,” Mrs Parfitt says flatly. “Unless your hero is an actual shepherd, although I find this hard to believe.”

“Nah,” replies Kevin. “I’m doing my dad and he’s very important because he works for the Queen.”

“In what capacity?” asks Mrs Parfitt. You can tell she’s impressed because her eyes are twice the size they normally are.

“Dad works in Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs. In fact, I bet he collects your tax, Miss.”

“Oh,” says Mrs Parfitt and her eyes shrink back to little rabbit droppings. “Well, that’s very interesting but I think we should move on.” She claps her hands. “Okay, for today’s task I want you to write a poem about your hero and this will help you visualize them and perhaps give you ideas for your costume. Yes, Kevin, what is it now?”

“What if I swapped Dad for the man who owns the pawn shop?”

“Why would you want to do that? Is he your hero?”

“Not really, Miss, but he could bring gold like one of the wise men. There’s loads of it in his shop window.”

“There is no nativity, Kevin. I thought I made that perfectly clear. This is about your hero. You can write an ode, a sonnet, a shape poem, a haiku or whatever else you like, but I want to be pleasantly surprised. If it will help, I looked up the definition of a hero and it’s a person who is admired for their noble qualities. Now it’s up to you.”

“Can I do the Virgin Mary?” asks Jo. “I was going to do my mum but then I thought about how much I admire Mary and how she’s the most famous mother in the world.”

Mrs Parfitt sighs and replies, “If you really must. But make sure she jumps off the page at me.”

“Sounds scary,” whispers Jo, pulling out her notebook and drawing a halo.

It is scary. How the heck am I supposed to write a poem about Dad being my hero when I’ve just realized I don’t actually know much about him? In the end, I manage to write something, but I’m not sure it says much about Dad’s noble qualities.

My Dad: A poem

There once was a man called Dad

Who made me incredibly mad

I sent him some mail

It came back as fail

And now I’m really quite sad

I glance over at Christopher’s work and instead of writing a poem he’s drawing this picture of his dad. In it, his dad is wearing his heart on his sleeve.

“Christopher.” Mrs Parfitt glides over to his desk. I knew this was coming. “All very commendable but I didn’t ask you to draw your hero. I asked you to write a poem about them. Instead of drawing hearts, why not write it from the heart?” I quickly put my arm over my work in case she sees what I’ve written. “If you’re stuck on what to write about your father, I suggest you try writing about your mother instead.”

“I don’t have a mother,” says Christopher, playing with his fingers.

Later, when I ask Christopher if he meant what he said in class, he pretends not to hear me. When I repeat the question he gives me a death glare and says he was only messing around so he could draw pictures instead of doing work.

I know he’s lying but I don’t know why.