On Tuesday I try to give Jo the medal back. Instead of Saint Gabriel helping me, he’s making everything go wrong. I’ve got hardly anything left on my list and I don’t believe he’s going to make a dream come true. I tell her I wasn’t unhappy to begin with so I don’t need to hold onto him. I urge her to give him to some other poor person who is truly sad and needs healing.

“That is the precise reason why you need it. You’re still sad and need healing,” echoes Jo, pressing Saint Gabriel of Our Lady of Sorrows back into my palm. She holds my hand for a second. “Keep it. I won’t accept it back. I know you’re not going to tell me what’s going on but I want you to understand that Saint Gabriel is here for you.” She nods knowingly. “Remember how he sent me a feather. It was a sign from beyond the grave. That’s what I wanted most and it happened to me because I believed.”

From the corner of my eye I can see Christopher staring at us and I pull away from Jo’s grip. Too late – Christopher’s turned away. “Hallelujah, Jo,” I say firmly, “but I don’t need you to tell me how to feel. And I’ve told you before where I think feathers come from.” As I force the medal back into my pocket I cannot get the image of a bird’s bum out of my mind. Jo looks upset and walks away, but not before telling me she knows I’m hurting, so she’ll try to forgive me.

“Just so you know, there were no birds around when Grandma sent me that feather,” Jo calls back. “And by the way, you need to brush your teeth in holy water because the words coming from your mouth are cruel.”

Is it cruel not to believe in a bit of metal? Is it cruel to be angry that my friend Christopher has deserted me because of it? Is it cruel that nothing on my stupid list has come true? And am I losing my marbles by asking myself all these stupid questions about whether things are cruel? I had to score off the new bike (number five) when Mum said she was buying me something small for Christmas. And I gave up on number three when Charles Scallybones brought up another pirate, a rowing boat, a skeleton and the Southern hemisphere (aka the bottom half of my planet mobile).

Jo turns back and looks at me again as I stand like a broken robot in the middle of the busy playground. When I pull a face at her, she lifts her nose in the air and marches off to the girls’ toilets. At that point Kevin trots over and gives me a sympathy punch on my arm. And I give him a sympathy punch to the stomach and say, “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Busy being a no-mates,” replies Kevin. “Jo didn’t look too happy with you.”

“She’ll get over it.”

Kevin shrugs. “I hope you’ll get over this. After I left you yesterday I bumped into Stan. I may have congratulated him on being a father.” Kevin ducks, which is probably not a bad idea as my fist appears to have shot out to grab his jumper. “I did cross my fingers, which means I didn’t have to keep it a secret – I told you.” His voice rises so high my ears are bleeding.

“You’re joking,” I say, curling my hand into a fist. “This is payback for the folic acid, isn’t it?”

“I’m not joking,” Kevin replies, retreating into his jumper. “I really did cross my fingers.”

The toilet block wall is very hard, as I discover by banging my head off it a few times. “This isn’t happening to me.”

Kevin whispers, “It is.”

Thanks to Foghorn Cummings, the apocalypse is nigh. So the rest of the afternoon, while Mrs Parfitt is talking about Project Eco Everywhere, I’m writing my will under the desk.

I, Daniel George Hope, bequeath my dog, Charles Scallybones the First, to Aunty Pat. Mum says Aunty Pat’s only friend is the bottle. Now she can have a new friend. What’s more, Aunty Pat has loads of ornaments which Charles Scallybones could eat and sick back up. This would be a fitting end for her pottery.

I bequeath my A–Z book of medical problems to my mother. If, for some reason, Mum dies before me, I wish the book to go to Grace and she should turn to page 122 for information on what to do when one boob is much bigger than the other.

I bequeath my membership to the local soft play area to Grace. Of course, I realize she may not have any interest in rolling around in a ball pit, but at least she can cancel this membership, unlike The Club, where membership is for life.

I bequeath the Saint Gabriel of Our Lady of Sorrows medal to Kevin Cummings. When he’s finished with it he can return it to Jo Bister. Meanwhile, the medal is likely to send him gaga before it ever heals his problems.

Signed: Daniel George Hope, Esq.

As I finish with a flourish, I hear Mrs Parfitt saying, “I hope you’re all going to ask your heroes to attend the show.” She looks over at Jo. “Perhaps the Virgin Mary won’t be able to come but I’m sure she’ll be there in spirit.”

My heart, which was already at the bottom of an ocean, sinks down to the earth’s core. What are the chances of Dad wanting to come? A piece of folded-up paper whizzes in my direction and I open it up and mouth the words: After school, I’ve got a surprise for you. Be there or be a chicken. Christopher catches my eye, nods, then waggles his fingers.

At a guess, this is the sort of surprise that comes wrapped up in a tae kwon do master killing me with his little finger. I quickly look away, but Christopher fires a paper aeroplane. This time I let it sail past me and land on the floor. When he launches another, Mrs Parfitt threatens to make him stand in the corridor if he doesn’t stop.

What was it Christopher told me before? I think it was something like “Watch your back”. So I cannot leave school today without a plan or I’ll be bruised like the peaches Mum brings home from Aladdin’s. This is where a bright idea would come in handy. I suppose I could hide in the stationery cupboard until everyone leaves, or I could offer to walk Mrs Parfitt to her car and then follow it into the road and run alongside it until I get far away enough from Christopher to be safe. Or I could just apologize and say I’m completely rubbish.

Completely rubbish! Yee-ha! My bright idea has just touched down.

The Project Eco Everywhere desk is at the back of the classroom and contains all the rubbish everyone brought in to complete their outfits. The things I contributed:

• Two pairs of laddered tights
• An empty bucket of popcorn from Kernel Sanderz
• Microwave chip box – crinkle cut and with sunflower oil
• Toilet roll tubes x 8 and one empty box of diarrhoea relief capsules

The things I think Kevin Cummings contributed:

• Leaflets about self-assessment: because tax isn’t taxing

The things I think Jo Bister contributed:

• A plastic statue of Saint Patrick with a broken staff
• A holey holy tea towel
• A piece of burned toast with Jesus’ face on it

Although all these items are very interesting, they’re no use to me. Luckily there are lots of other things on the table that will help. As Jo is picking up a foil pie case and sniffing it, I edge alongside her and choose a few items for myself. She looks over her shoulder and says her Virgin Mary costume will be nothing short of a miracle, which I agree with, judging by the rubbish she has in her hands. She looks annoyed so I quickly carry my chosen items to my desk, and while no one is looking, put a few bits inside my school bag. Stage one is complete. Stage two finds me and my Project Eco Everywhere items in the boys’ toilets after school. First I take off my jumper and school shirt, and then I wind a whole heap of bubble wrap around my belly and replace my shirt and jumper. When I look in the mirror I am a walking advert for who ate all the pies.

Next, as I drop my trousers to my ankles, a Year Three boy comes into the toilets, gives me a weird look and runs out again. Mumbling and sweating, I put half a coconut shell in my pants and yank up my trousers. Then I write I’M NO CHICKEN across my forehead. (It’s not easy to write I’M NO CHICKEN using a mirror.)

As I hobble towards the school gate I see Christopher sitting, facing away from me, on the wall. Fury bubbles up in my chest when I think about how he’s ruined our friendship over a girl – a girl I don’t even fancy. Everything that happens next is a slow-motion scene full of rubbish. I think he hears me coming because he turns around and his jaw drops open. Before he can say a word, I launch myself forward and land on him with a crump. It’s like landing on the jelly part of a pork pie. Christopher grabs my belly, which starts popping and exploding, much to his shock. Unfortunately, he’s not shocked enough to avoid biffing me. Fortunately, the main part of the biffing includes him bringing his knee up sharply. I feel sure that this type of knee-to-groin move isn’t an accepted tae kwon do move. There is a wince of pain in Christopher’s eyes when he realizes I’m rock-hard down below.

Next, Christopher rugby-tackles me and as we drop to the ground I feel a furry thing scuttle across my shoulders and into the undergrowth. “Boo!” screams Christopher. “Get back here, you rodent.”

“What are you two doing?” Christopher scrabbles to his feet as Grace reaches down and helps me up. “You’re going to be in big trouble if Mum finds out you’ve been fighting. What’s it about?”

Christopher says, “I told your lunatic brother I had a surprise and to meet me after school.”

“The surprise was to beat me up,” I snap.

“No,” Christopher says firmly. “If you do tae kwon do you’re not allowed to use it for fighting people at school. Here’s the second note you didn’t pick up from the floor.” He passes me the note and I read it, furious to start with, and then embarrassed.

Dan. Meet me after school. I told you I had a surprise for you. Guess what? It’s Boo! He’s been living in my pocket all day and no one has even noticed. Didn’t you hear him squeak when Mrs Parfitt asked us about the capital of New Zealand?

“Oh,” I say. Just oh. I tug on Grace’s coat sleeve and say it’s time we were getting home.

“What are you having for dinner?” shouts Christopher as we walk away. “Humble pie?”

I think he’s on his knees calling for Boo, then, but I don’t look back. All I can do is limp, putting one painful foot in front of the other. When I can bear it no more, I stop and fish around in my trousers. Grace goes the colour of wet putty and her hands fly in front of her eyes. “Don’t worry, I’ve just been kicked in the coconuts,” I say.

“I’ve heard of it being called many things,” replies Grace, peeking through her split fingers, “but not coconuts. Stan would have laughed at that.”

I pull an actual coconut shell out of my trousers and say, “It’s a long story,” before firing it into someone’s garden.

Grace’s eyebrows shoot into her fringe. “Stan would have liked to hear your long story. And I bet you didn’t know that he liked coconuts. Well, he enjoyed a Bounty bar from Biddolpho’s Newsagent’s, if that counts. Anyway, what does it matter? He dumped me today.”

I think it’s my turn to go the colour of putty. I reach into my pocket and bring out the will and wave it in front of my face, saying, “Did Stan mention Kevin Cummings from my class?”

“Why would he mention Kevin Cummings?”

The will is quickly brought to my nose and I pretend to give this big blow and then return it to my pocket. From Grace’s confusion it’s obvious she knows nothing about Kevin Cummings telling Stan she’s pregnant. Maybe Stan just broke up with her because she’s annoying. To be honest, I often find that the case too.

All the way home she tells me how horrible Stan is and when I agree with her, she says, “Who asked you? I’m allowed to talk about Stan, but you’re not.”

When we get back to the house Grace goes straight to her room and doesn’t come out for dinner, even though she knows it is potato waffles and she loves those because they’ve got fewer calories than chips, what with the holes and everything. In fact, Grace stays in her bedroom all evening. Even when I’m upstairs playing guitar, I can hear her wailing through the walls. By the time I’ve listened to her banshee moans for an hour I can’t stand it any longer.

I no u r pregnant. Dan :’ (

Six words in my text and they took as much effort as it took Sherlock Holmes to solve all the mysteries in Dad’s book. Rather than send my text straight to Grace, I decide I’ll give it some more thought and I drop the phone onto the bed before picking up my guitar and letting my fingers slide along the strings. At this point Charles Scallybones jumps on my bed, begins to howl and starts doggy krumping. Now, this would be very funny if I didn’t hear a small bleep, the sort of bleep that only comes from sending a text message. I lunge for my mobile but it’s too late. Charles Scallybones has sent my text.

The mobile phone might as well be wearing a huge neon sign saying: THE TEXT MESSAGE HAS GONE. AREN’T I BIG AND CLEVER? Yes, my mobile phone is big but it’s not clever (it is actually Grace’s stupid old phone with glittery girly stickers on it). I half expect Ninja Grace to break through the wall, with her mobile clenched between her teeth and her fist ready to bop me on the head. Nothing happens. Grace is still listening to misery music and every so often there’s a muffled sob, but nothing else. Surely Grace would have read it by now?

I scroll down the messages to double-check it’s been sent. Yes, it has, but not to Ninja Grace.