I clambered down from the truck and watched Angelica run off, mobile phone held high like a trophy, schoolbag thumping against her back.
She was a bit early; according to my watch, school didn’t start for another half hour. Pretty soon, though, the whole street would be bristling with Perpetual Suckers heading on down to the school.
‘Friend of yours?’ Caleb appeared at my shoulder, gripping the other end of the coffin close to his chest.
I shook my head, too sick to speak. Manny nudged me with the casket, rocking me back on my heels. ‘You want a photo too? Souvenir of your morning’s work?’
‘I didn’t do much.’ My voice came out sounding flat and pathetic.
Manny snorted – ‘Suit yourself ’ – and started to move off, pulling Caleb along with him.
I mentally shook myself. I had to get a grip. I’d come this far, it would be stupid not to salvage what I could from the morning’s disaster. I fished my mobile out of my pocket and snapped off a couple of quick shots as they carted the coffin off down the driveway.
Now I had my evidence ... and a whole lot more trouble than I had bargained for.
The back of the truck creaked and a shadow flitted across me; I flinched as the tall, dark-haired man landed with a light thud beside me.
‘You should go to school.’ His voice was hoarse, creaking like old leather that had been left too long in the rain. His gaze swept across the footpath, to the house and back again, brushing past me without stopping.
He started towards me, then stopped, his eyes locking onto mine. Something like pain rippled across his face. The wiry muscles in his forearms tensed, as though readying to fend off a blow. Like he was cornered, out here in the open ... threatened, in a street that was empty, apart from the two of us.
I took a step back. ‘I will – I am ... Tell Caleb – uh, bye.’ I turned and tried not to break into a run as I stumbled back up the drive and into my house.
Once inside, I slammed the front door and sank down beside it, my back to the wall. The bloke had spooked me, but to tell the truth, I was more frightened about what was in store for me at Perpetual Suckers.
Angel Girl had enough evidence to drive a stake through the heart of any chance I might have had of making any friends at this school.
I glanced at my watch. Maybe, for once in my life, I’d catch a break, and develop swine flu in the next thirty minutes. I’d give it fifteen, and if no symptoms developed, I’d phone Mum and suggest she sign up for early starts and late finishes for the rest of the year. Then I could forge a note from her: Dear Mr Paulson, I am withdrawing Henry from your school and enrolling him in one where he might have some slight chance of making a friend...
That could work. Then I could lock, deadlock and bolt the front door and hole up at home until it was time to start high school.
Thirty minutes later, the ringing of the morning bell forced me to choose: truancy police or public ridicule? I groaned and pushed myself to my feet.
What was the worst thing that could happen? More squealing girls accusing me of being something I wasn’t? How bad could that be? The blood welled up my neck and pooled in my face as I slammed the front door on the likely answer to that question.
Outside, rush hour had been and gone in the street. There was no sign of anyone at the truck, so I was spared any further confrontations with the weird mob from next door. Peterson Street had emptied of kids and only a few chatting mums were still hanging around the front gate as I slipped past.
The stream of green-striped uniforms being siphoned off into classrooms had slowed to a trickle by the time I dragged myself up to the Six/Seven room.
Joey Castellaro and Jironomo Marquez were the last to go in, jostling at the port racks and laughing. Joey caught sight of me and elbowed Hero in the ribs. They produced a perfectly choreographed stare – at me and then at each other – before bolting into the classroom.
I hung up my bag and hat, took a breath and pushed open the door.
The classroom was equal parts chaos and noise, with kids shoving, yelling and laughing. Ms Sanders was out the front, ineffectually waving her hands about, trying to get everyone to calm down.
‘Class ... Year Six/Seven – Will you please all just sit down and be quiet–’
I stepped inside and silence spread like a Mexican wave across the room. Every eye in the classroom was on me. Every eye except for Ms Sanders’.
‘Thank you.’ She adjusted her glasses. ‘That’s much better. Now if you could all open up your Spelling Matters–’
I slipped into a seat at the back of the classroom, trying to ignore a couple dozen pairs of eyes drilling into me.
‘–and please turn to page twenty-two.’
Reluctantly, heads swivelled back round to the front of the room, and hands began flipping through pages.
I was so grateful for this small mercy that I decided to repay Ms Sanders tenfold for unintentionally diverting attention away from me. I vowed that I would throw myself wholeheartedly into her chosen classroom activity, exceed all her expectations and excel at this, if at nothing else in life.
Within minutes I had memorised the impossible vowel combinations in manoeuvre and facetious,the correct number of ‘ l’s in signalling and enrollingand their correct placement in parallel.
‘Class–’ I looked up expectantly at the sound of Ms Sanders’ voice. ‘When you are confident that you know your list of words–’
I was ready, yessiree, was I ever.
‘–pair up with a partner, and commence testing one another.’
It was as though she’d dropped a stink bomb in the middle of my desk.
Chairs scraped on vinyl tiles as everyone inched as far away from me as they could get. Within seconds, the classroom had subtly rearranged itself into pairs of heads busily quizzing each other on spelling as though their lives depended on it.
‘All right then, everyone has a partner–?’
Ms Sanders’ eyes roved the room, came to rest briefly on me, then fluttered about for a quick double-check before zeroing back in.
‘Henry–’ She knew my name. That was not good. ‘Bring your book up. You can work with me.’
Usually, you had to be disabled, diseased or otherwise dysfunctional to show up as a blip on a supply teacher’s radar.
I stood up and managed to knock my Spelling Mattersonto the floor. Blood lit a fuse in my jugular and exploded across my face. I ducked down, scrambling for the fallen textbook, wondering if the day could get any worse. The answer wasn’t long in coming.
‘Excuse me, Ms Sanders–?’
The disciplined curls of the school secretary’s silver perm inserted themselves through the gap in the door. ‘Could you send Henry to the office at morning break, please? Principal Paulson would like to see him.’
I somehow made it all the way to Ms Sanders’ desk.
A long, lonely walk for a prisoner facing a life sentence in solitary; my only immediate prospect for social contact, an interview with the warden.