At school, Miss Mawes the art teacher has developed this notion that I’m good at art. I’ve been avoiding her since term began but just before registration this morning she caught me.
‘Tom, at last I’ve found you. Now, I’ve got the Sculpture on the Beach details here. You really should enter – you’ve got a talent.’
This is based on a drawing of a badger that I traced last term for a project. Somehow she thought I’d drawn it from scratch and somehow I didn’t tell her the truth. I shouldn’t have done it. I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I was desperate and now she thinks I’m Leonardo.
I’d copied it from Eric’s Wildlife Fun for Lively Children book, which is now hidden under my bed.
‘Well, at the very least, come to Art Club. After school, Tuesday. Shall I put you down?’
She took my silence as a yes.
About a foot down the corridor I met Dad, his arms full of cooking ingredients. ‘Give me a hand, Tom, just as far as Rainbow Class.’
I debated running away, but left it slightly too long and took the butter and flour from Dad’s tottering pile. He pushed the door open with his bum and swung inside. I followed him into the classroom at which point the bag of flour slipped from my hand and exploded on the floor.
There was an awful silence. Someone at the back giggled. Mrs Hawk glared at me. Every single child in the classroom gaped, and some clapped their hands to their mouths dramatically.
‘Oh dear,’ said Dad.
I turned scarlet and fled.
I’m wondering what I might have done wrong in a former life to deserve Dad, when Eric arrives carrying a copy of the Bywater Times. He points at the headline: FIREMEN ACT IN BUCKET MYSTERY.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Worrying, isn’t it?’
‘We need to get this –’ Eric uncurls his hand to reveal the tiny deckchair – ‘under there.’ He points to Mr Bell’s pride and joy. The brand-new XX900 Macrocaster, purchased by the PTA with money raised by a sponsored midnight cliff walk. Since the school bought it we’ve been allowed to look at a fragment of onion skin and the scrapings from under Jacob’s nails, which were more lively than expected.
The problem is that the XX900 Macrocaster is behind Mr Bell’s desk and takes five minutes to warm up.
‘Sooner rather than later,’ I say. ‘Before it starts to grow big again.’
‘So,’ says Jacob, appearing behind me. ‘What’s the plan, team?’
‘The plan is –’ I say, but I’m interrupted by Mr Bell clapping his hands. I notice he’s wearing what can only be described as a cardigan. Which is odd because he normally wears a tracksuit. He’s been behaving strangely ever since his wife had a baby.
‘Good morning, class,’ he shouts, before modulating his voice to something uncharacteristically soft. ‘How are we this morning? Are we ready to try a little role play?’
There’s a mumble.
‘Because – today – we are going to get in touch with our sensitive side. In fact, the whole school is getting in touch with its sensitive side.’
‘What?’ says Jacob.
Mr Bell sits on the front of his desk and tilts his head towards Jacob in a sympathetic manner. I can’t help feeling that he’s been practising this in front of the mirror. ‘Yes, Jacob. I know that under all that … bravado is a sensitive, feeling, human being.’
Mr Bell may be sure, but I’m not.
‘Why, Mr Bell?’ asks Jacob, scratching his bottom.
‘Why what?’ asks Mr Bell.
‘Why are we getting in touch with our sensitive sides?’
‘Very good question,’ says Mr Bell, reverting to his normal megaphone volume. ‘Does anyone know the answer?’
There’s a pencil-rolling silence in which lots of people roll pencils.
‘Empathy,’ he says in the end. ‘We’re going to study empathy. So, for starters, I’d like you to look it up, find out what it is and we’ll meet again in five minutes with some definitions.’
‘“Empathy” and “Mr Bell” are three words that I’d never put in the same sentence,’ mutters Eric, reaching for the huge dictionary that he keeps in his bag.
‘What’s empathy?’ says Jacob, taking Eric’s sharpener and sharpening his pencil. ‘Is it good on toast? Is it necessary? Do I have it?’
‘No, yes, no,’ says Eric.
I reach for the dictionary. I’m a bit hazy about empathy. It’s something Mum says as if it’s really important, and which she says Tilly has but keeps hidden.
She never says if I have it.
‘It says here,’ I say, ‘it’s the power of entering into another’s personality.’ I drop my voice to super-quiet. ‘How are we going to get to use that microscope?’
‘Shape-shifting?’ says Jacob.
‘No – more like climbing into another person’s skin and feeling what they feel from the inside,’ says Eric. ‘We need a diversion.’
‘That’s disgusting,’ says Jacob, screwing his nose down towards his mouth.
Eric shakes his head and I say, ‘Yes, a really good diversion. That keeps Mr B out for at least ten minutes.’
Which is when Jacob’s eyes light up as if some kind of electrical impulse has passed through his brain. ‘Leave it to me,’ he says.
* * *
‘Sir, Mr Bell, sir – can I go to the toilet?’ Jacob stands with his legs crossed, looking desperate.
‘Yes, of course,’ says Mr Bell.
Jacob trips out of the classroom.
‘So, role play. Now I’d like you to imagine you are someone else in this room. Don’t tell us who, we can guess …’
Jacob soon trips back into the room, grinning and winking and generally looking as subtle as a thunderstorm.
People are shuffling uncomfortably. ‘Sir, can I be you? Is that allowed?’
‘I don’t want to be anyone else.’
‘I don’t get this – what does he want?’
‘Can I go to the toilet, sir?’
‘Sir, what’s the point of empathy?’
It feels like it could all go horribly wrong. The chatter gets louder and Mr Bell’s voice rises to foghorn level just as someone lets out a really long, really high-pitched scream.
‘Aaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrghghghghghghghghgh!’
We all go completely silent and look around.
‘There!’ shouts the screamer, pointing at Mr Bell’s cardigan.
‘What?’ says Mr Bell.
‘Spider,’ whispers the screamer.
There’s a second’s massive silence.
Mr Bell leaps to his feet and jumps and twitches and yells. He rushes out of the classroom still screaming, to yell and jump and run about in the playground, followed by the entire class, laughing and screaming.
‘Very effective,’ says Eric.
‘Quick,’ I say. ‘The microscope.’
‘Good, eh?’ Jacob says.
‘Yes,’ says Eric, pressing a big red button that says ‘ON’.
‘Can I just ask,’ I say, checking from the window that Mr Bell is still writhing in the playground surrounded by our giggling classmates, ‘what happened?’
‘Well,’ says Jacob, reaching into his pocket and finding something covered in fluff, which he then thrusts into his mouth. ‘It was that word, “empathy”. I thought what it would be like to be Mr B. What it would be like to stand in his shoes. And then I thought: what does Mr B really not like? And then I thought about spiders and then I remembered that there was a particularly large spider in the locker in the PE store. So I went to get it. Empathy, see?’
‘It’s not really what empathy means,’ says Eric, peering through the lens on the now humming XX900 Macrocaster.
‘But you said you had to imagine being someone else.’ Jacob sounds puzzled.
‘You do – but not usually like that,’ I say.
‘Oh,’ says Jacob. ‘So scaring Mr B wasn’t empathy?’
By the microscope Eric lets out a long loud sigh.
‘It’ll help us find out what’s wrong with the deckchair,’ I say.
‘So on balance, it’s probably OK?’
I nod. Eric shakes his head.
‘Good,’ says Jacob. ‘Good.’