poison

n 1 a substance that causes illness or death 2 something that has a destructive influence

v 1 give poison to a person or animal 2 contaminate with poison 3 have a detrimental effect on another person: to poison a person’s mind

Last night I spent hours listening to Mum snoring, just to make sure she hadn’t died. I even got up at one in the morning, tiptoed downstairs, found the dictionary and brought it back to my bedroom to read the definition of poison. I think I fell asleep just after that, because I woke up in a dried puddle of drool with the word poison printed on my cheek. I tried to wash it off but some of it had set like concrete.

“You’re alive,” I say as Mum walks into the kitchen and pours herself a cup of tea.

“Just,” replies Mum. “You haven’t got rid of me yet.”

I choke on my cereal and Grace thumps me on the back, saying, “I’ve just saved you from death by puffed rice. Don’t feel you have to thank me. But if you want to, I’ve seen a new pair of pink tweezers you could buy me as a gift.”

“Bushy eyebrows are in,” I wheeze. “Don’t you read anything in those magazines?”

“I would if I could get them off my little brother.”

Just as I open my mouth to answer back Mum says, “Well, this chatter about eyebrows is just riveting and I’d love to stay and join in, but I’ve got a hospital appointment in an hour.” Mum drains the last bit of tea and sets the cup down.

What? Did Mum just say she’s got to go to the hospital this morning? Not only has she been feeling ill for ages but yesterday I just about finished her off by poisoning her with two folic acid tablets. This can’t be good.

“After my appointment I’m going to put up all the Christmas decorations, and when you get home from school I’d like to have a lovely chat.” Mum’s eyes glitter with tears. It must be a symptom of poisoning. “Don’t press me for information on what we’ll be talking about though. My lips are zipped.” Mum then snorts with laughter, which I take to mean the tablets have turned her hysterical. “Right, I’ve got to get off now or I’ll be late for my appointment, but be good and if you can’t be good, be amazing. Oh, and Dan, I’m not sure you can be totally amazing if you’ve got a tiny print of the word POO on your cheek.”

As Mum leaves the house I wipe my cheek with my sleeve and ask Ninja Grace what she thinks is wrong. “You don’t think she’s been poisoned, do you?”

Grace has a bit of cereal stuck to her chin. It makes her look like a witch and I don’t tell her it’s there (which is the most fun I’m going to get for the day). Grace’s eyes narrow. “Give me strength. Get rid of those detective stories you’re always reading and get with the real world. It’s probably women’s troubles.”

I don’t ask what those troubles are because I’ve got enough men’s troubles of my own. The most pressing one being: poisoning a woman with troubles.

I have to make sure Mum’s okay. Grabbing my school bag, I leap up from the kitchen table, telling Grace it’s already eight thirty-five so I’m off to school. I swear she’s still shouting that I never go to school on time when I slam the front door behind me.

Up ahead, I see that Mum’s only just made it to the end of Paradise Parade. I dive behind a privet hedge as she turns the corner. Thankfully, she doesn’t spot me. And she still doesn’t see me flinging my body behind wheelie bins and fences as she takes the alleyway towards the Ireland estate. I’m going in. I’m slipping through the shadows of the alleyway like Mum’s much thinner shadow. Occasionally, Mum looks behind her, but I’m too quick to be spotted.

The Princess Rose Hospital is a huge university hospital three miles further east. It is in no way close to the houses on the Ireland estate. In fact, you can’t even catch the 237 hospital bus from here. Mum hoists her bag further up her shoulder before heading down Carnation Road in the general direction of Big Dave’s house. So far, she hasn’t clocked me. She turns into Big Dave’s street. As I’m hunkered down in a garden, I hear a doorbell parp further down the road. I bob up and then down again.

There’s going to be a massive showdown. Mum has pitched up at Big Dave’s house, as I suspected. Any minute now, Caroline 1973 is going to answer the parping doorbell and find my mum standing there with her fancy sequined handbag and give her what for. All that’s going be left of Mum will be sequins on the front lawn. My nose rests on the edge of a hedge as the front door flies open. One eye squeezes shut in a wince. Big Dave steps out into the daylight and snogs Mum full-frontal. Curtains all the way down the road twitch like a Mexican wave. Then they jump into his car and zoom away like two lovebirds in a…um…Mondeo.

Like Grace has said many times before, Big Dave is up to something, but I can’t work it out. Where was Caroline? Didn’t she mind Mum kissing her husband on the doorstep? The whole thing makes my head rotate and that’s no good when you’ve got maths first thing.

Mrs Parfitt isn’t impressed when I hand in my unfinished lines and then she asks why I didn’t stay in the library to complete them. Mrs Parfitt, it seems, has spies everywhere. So I have to lie and say the inferno in Kevin’s guts spread like wildfire and ended up in mine and I spent the rest of the afternoon on the toilet. Mrs Parfitt says the next time something like that happens can I please let a teacher know where I am. But I tell her that when you could poo through the eye of a needle you don’t have time to let anyone know.

Kevin looks at me as if to say, What the actual flip are you on about? But we both know he can’t argue because he used exactly the same story on Mrs Parfitt and if he says I’m lying then he must have been lying too.

Mrs Parfitt stays annoyed with me the whole morning. She says that as soon as she opens her mouth in the maths lesson, I switch off. And she says I’ll get more lines if I don’t start listening, pronto. She doesn’t actually say pronto but that’s what she means. But how can I take in mathematical problems when I’m trying to solve a problem of my own?

“Daniel, I won’t tell you again.”

The pressure builds up inside me as if I’m a dropped bottle of fizzy pop.

“Please pay attention.”

I might explode with all these worries in my head. And if I’m fizzy pop, am I cola or lemonade?

“Daniel Hope. Are you listening?”

“Yes, of cola,” I say. “I mean, of course.” I feel my cheeks burn before I look over at Jo. Without smiling, she turns away. Ever since I tried to give the medal back and told her I didn’t need her, she’s been avoiding me.

“That was funny,” whispers Christopher. I could swear he’s happy that Jo is ignoring me.

“Right class – including you, Daniel – listen up. I have some phenomenal news that I’ve been saving for the right moment.” Mrs Parfitt perches on the edge of her desk, her long skirt spilling down to the floor. “I told you you’d want to work hard on Project Eco Everywhere. There was a reason for that, and now I can reveal it: Project Eco Everywhere is going to be on TV.”

The school roof is nearly taken off by a big whoop from the whole class.

“The local TV station have heard about Project Eco Everywhere and think it’s a great idea, particularly at Christmas time when we waste so much. They want to come to the Amandine Hotel and film it. I imagine it will only be a small slot at the end of the news, but nonetheless this is fantastic. We might even see their new presenter at the show. Now, what’s his name again?” Mrs Parfitt shuffles through a deck of papers.

And then she says it: Malcolm Maynard. There’s a firework display inside my head.

It’s going to be the best moment ever. Things couldn’t have worked out better if I’d planned them myself. When he saw me at the TV office it was a shock, which is why he ran off, but if I’m onstage he’ll get the chance to see me properly.

Then rockets turn into damp squibs. I’ve just remembered I’m not going to be on the stage.

“Miss, Miss, Miss!” I raise my hand as high as it’ll go.

“Yes, what can I do for you?”

“Please, Miss, do you think that I could go onstage instead of being behind the scenes? If I promise to be good, Miss. Please, Miss.”

Mrs Parfitt says, “No, Dan, I do not think you can go onstage. I gave both you and Christopher a punishment and that still stands. Nothing has changed just because the TV cameras will be there.”

Everything has changed, I tell myself. I try to hypnotize Mrs Parfitt because I remember Jo saying God helps those who help themselves. For ages I stare into Mrs Parfitt’s eyes, trying to communicate my desperation. Her eyes are the colour of a stag beetle’s back and she blinks rapidly, as if blocking my mega mindwaves. When I start pulling strained faces and staring even harder, she asks me if the gut inferno is still raging and do I need the toilet. I shake my head and look away, swallowed up by embarrassment and anger that God was no help whatsoever.

Someone behind me clears their throat. “Excuse me, Miss. What if we weren’t fighting? What if you…” Christopher clears his throat again, “…were mistaken? What if we were play-fighting and it was a game?”

Mrs Parfitt looks baffled and then says, “Are you telling me I didn’t look out the school window and see you fighting? Are you actually being truthful?”

Christopher flares red and it travels right up to the tips of his ears. “It was fun, not fighting.”

“Don’t be preposterous. I saw it with my own eyes and it was anything but fun.” Mrs Parfitt adjusts her glasses. “That is my final word on it.”

I repeat, “Please.”

“No,” Mrs Parfitt replies firmly.

“So no is your final word on it?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“So yes is your final word on it?”

Apparently, “If you don’t be quiet, you’ll be going to the head’s office” is her actual final word on it.

We are told to bring out our Project Eco Everywhere costumes and continue working on them. Even though I’m not going on the stage, I’ve made a pair of glasses from the cut-off bottoms of two plastic water bottles. When I put them on, not only do I look like a bluebottle, but I can see nine classrooms. Dad would be impressed. Nine Jos approach me with red half-blown-up balloons in one hand and scrunched-up tissues and pictures of a fire ripped from a celebrity magazine in the other.

“What’s that?” I take off the plastic glasses and try to make conversation as Jo passes my desk.

“It’s the sacred heart of Mary. I’m going to make tissue roses and wrap them round the balloon. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“What’s with the fire picture from a magazine?” I ask. “I’m not sure the Virgin Mary would be interested in gossip.”

“No,” says Jo. “But her heart was burning so this is the closest I could get. And can you please stop talking to me as I’m very busy.” She puts a tea towel on her head before walking away.

Meanwhile, Kevin has a pair of holey underpants on over his trousers and is cutting up an old furry blanket, while Mrs Parfitt moves in to stop him, horrified that he’s using his lap as a cutting table. Saleem is struggling with loads of toilet roll (unused). And Christopher is drawing on his arm. I take a bit of wrapping foil and make a star and then squeeze it between my fingers until it crumples and I feel better.

At lunchtime Jo blanks me but Christopher waves me over to the gravel football pitch. “Come and play footie with us. We’re a man down. You can go in goal.”

I throw my scarf and gloves into a small heap and run towards Christopher. “Thanks,” I say.

“On me head, Saleem,” he shouts, bobbing up. “On me head.” Saleem kicks the ball and it travels towards Christopher, before he heads it away again. “Kick it in their goal. Awww, c’mon, are you blind?”

“Thank you,” I echo. “For telling Mrs Parfitt we were just playing.”

“Ref! That was handball.” Then to me: “We were, weren’t we?” Christopher skirts around the edge of the goal and I wave my arms about as though I’m swatting a cloud of flies. “Anyway, why are you so desperate to be in the Project Eco Everywhere show?” Christopher stops.

“I just wanted to be on TV, that’s all,” I say indignantly. When the football comes bombing in my direction it takes me by surprise. I forget to swat the flies and don’t manage to catch the ball with my hands, although I do save it with my stomach.

“Well saved,” says Christopher, helping me up. “It didn’t work anyway. We’ve still got to stay behind the scenes and it’s going to be boring.”

“Perhaps it doesn’t have to be,” I say, grinning through the agony. “I have the brightest idea ever.”