Monday tries to make up for it.
‘Parents’ night tonight,’ says Dad, picking up a purple-spotted backpack and slinging it over his shoulder.
‘You’re not wearing that, are you?’ I ask.
‘I thought I’d get down with the kids – like hip with the groove, YO?’ says Dad, doing something only people under fifteen should do with their hands.
Tilly flatly refuses to catch the bus.
‘But you have to go to school,’ says Mum.
Tilly crosses her arms and purses her mouth into a fine pout.
‘You’ll have to walk,’ says Grandma.
In the end, Mum drives her, while I sit on the bus with Dad thinking dark thoughts, especially about parents’ evening.
‘I could not come,’ I say to Eric. ‘I could let them come in on their own. Wander about, embarrass Tilly, and I could be at home.’
‘My dad’ll come,’ says Eric. ‘I can’t imagine your parents will be worse than that.’
But they are. Much worse.
First, we arrive early. Mum and Dad sit on the row of tiny chairs that have been placed in the middle of the hall and wait like expectant cartoon rabbits, smiling and keen and awful. Dad’s so tall his knees are up by his chin.
I sit at the other end of the row, pretending to be unrelated. Tilly has hidden in the toilets. I suspect she might have to spend the whole evening there.
‘Hello, Mr and Mrs Perks. Hello, Tom,’ says Mrs Mawes, sitting at her table on the side. ‘Well done for winning Sculpture on the Beach. Top work.’
I blush.
‘He’s so clever,’ says Mum. ‘They said it made a profound commentary.’
Mrs Mawes gives me a patronising smile.
‘Oh, and can I give you one of these?’ says Mum, brandishing a dayglo flyer with SARAH PERKS FOR MAYOR printed on it.
‘Oh.’ Mrs Mawes looks surprised. ‘Thank you.’
As she stuffs it under her desk, Eric and his dad stroll in.
‘Er, um, Mrs Mawes?’ says Eric’s dad. ‘Can I give you one of these?’ He hands her a badly photocopied sheet with SMALL IS GENERALLY NICER scrawled on it in different coloured felt-tips.
Mrs Mawes reddens and puts it under her desk with mum’s flyer.
I hope there aren’t any other parents running for mayor.
Other teachers arrive and the hall begins to hum with activity. Parents flow in and out, including Jacob’s, who manage to look more embarrassed than most of the kids.
Dad makes tea for people and rattles around the hall with a trolley and an apron. I stare at the floor and try to imagine myself somewhere else – like on the beach, in the sunshine, without any deckchairs.
‘Mind out, Tom. Stop daydreaming – you could help me with these.’ Mum springs up and hands out more of her flyers. Eric’s dad also hands out flyers but he’s more polite and less aggressive. Eric doesn’t seem to mind, but I just want to sink through a hole in the ground.
‘So the thing is,’ says Mum loudly to Emily Smee’s mum. ‘I’m thinking honesty, transparency, no more corruption, and this whole beach thing – it’s definitely a cover-up.’
Eric’s head snaps up, so does mine.
‘Oh?’ says Emily Smee’s mum. ‘Covering up what?’
‘I don’t exactly know,’ says Mum. ‘I’d love to get to the bottom of it – I mean, free ice cream? And wind? Could wind really cause all that rumpus?’
‘Agreed,’ says Sanjeev’s dad from behind us. ‘It makes no sense.’
‘It’s the veil,’ says Eric’s dad. ‘Too thin here. Things happen.’
‘Funny things do happen,’ says Dad, parking his trolley next to us and sitting down. ‘Remember that hole in our roof? I’ve always thought that was very odd, and that thing that happened to Tilly’s birthday cake.’
‘Oh yes,’ says Mum. ‘And all the ghostly things that happened before they built the theme park.’
‘And the mining in the castle with all the strange lights –’
‘Dad,’ I interrupt. ‘I think it’s our turn.’
I practically shove my parents towards Mr Bell’s desk, which is far too small for him. There’s some jostling while we all cram around it, feeling uncomfortable and generally being too big.
‘Tom,’ says Mr Bell, holding his fingers together in a considered and intelligent way. ‘Tom, Tom, Tom. Lovely Tom.’
I can see by the cardigan and cravat that Mr Bell is still in his ‘sensitive’ phase.
‘Tom.’ He breathes in slowly and exhales noisily. I wonder if for some awful moment he’s forgotten who I am.
There’s a long hideous silence in which we hear all the other parents and teachers chatting away.
‘Marvellous,’ he says in the end. ‘Marvellous.’
‘So glad, Graham,’ says Dad.
Graham?!?
No one calls a teacher by their first name. That is simply forbidden. Isn’t it?
Mr Bell smiles back at Dad. I’m not sure he smiles with his eyes though.
‘So.’ Mr Bell shuffles through the notes on the table. ‘This term we’ve been doing empathy …’ Mum makes approving noises. ‘I think it’s very important,’ says Mr Bell, doing the hands thing again. ‘It’s part of making a strong community.’
‘Absolutely, Graham, couldn’t agree more,’ says Dad, puppy-like.
‘Yes,’ says Mr Bell, looking confused.
I notice Tilly fiddling with the overhead projector nearby.
‘So what should we be doing to encourage empathy in Tom?’ asks Mum.
A picture of Mum and Dad’s Alice in Wonderland-themed wedding comes on the screen. Dad dressed as the white rabbit, Mum as the dormouse. One person giggles.
‘Well,’ says Mr Bell, ‘I don’t know. Empathy is of course important, but so is art – and, er – physics.’
Next, a baby picture of Dad dribbling, followed by a shot of Mum aged two, sitting naked on a bucket.
‘I’m concerned that Tom may be wasting what is obviously a very important talent.’
A silent film of Mum dancing in an overly tight golden-sequinned body stocking cuts quickly to a video. There’s sound too.
This time everyone stares at the screen. It’s been filmed in the bathroom really recently. I can tell because most of Dad’s hair has gone. The camera seems to be in the mirror. He’s facing it and first he blows himself a kiss.
Everyone in the hall laughs. Except Mum and Dad.
Next, he practises the ‘yo’ hands. Doing things with fingers splayed in a V, and shuffling his shoulders. He does jazz hands at the mirror, and sings loudly. Then he tries to rap.
I bury my face in my hands, and a huge roar goes up. I have to know what’s going on so I peer between my fingers to see the screen cut to another video, this one downloaded from the Internet. It’s Mum, microphone in hand, singing: ‘I’m walking on sunshine – ooh – oooooooh …’ It’s flat. It’s awful. It’s the Christmas karaoke that they did in the privacy of the sitting room. Tilly must have filmed it.
It goes on.
Two seconds of Mum practising Spanish verbs.
Three seconds of Dad swearing at a flat tyre.
A shot of Dad’s favourite tracks on his iPod. They’re all terrible.
I stare at Tilly. She’s got the biggest smile on her face.
A photo of Mum’s giant purple running pants.
A picture of Dad wearing the chef’s trousers in the playground at school.
And finally a photo of Dad aged about seven, standing on stage dressed as a donkey.
I die.