3

The bell rang.

Kids poured out of the classrooms and down the stairs to the chilly, bleak playground.

I hate playtime. But I hate it slightly less than class. You see, during class I’m always in grave danger of embarrassment and humiliation. The teacher could point to me and ask me to speak at any time. And I know that opening my mouth always leads to misery. Whatever I say is out of step with everyone else, because I see and hear them say things before they actually do.

Whereas during playtime, I don’t need to talk to anyone. I can sit in an utterly miserable, hostile way in a corner by myself. People might think that I’m one of those kids who like to sit in an utterly miserable, hostile way in a corner by themselves. That suits me just fine.

I found a quiet spot on a battered green bench, one of a line of old benches that ran down one side of the playground. A few other shy kids sat there, including a couple of kids who didn’t speak much English. There was also a girl from my class who had braces and red glasses.

For several minutes I sat there and watched the brats in the playground doing the usual stupid playground-brat stuff—running and shouting and talking and pushing each other around and so on. It was cold. The kids running around weren’t cold, but those of us sitting were soon shivering.

No one was bothering me, so I was relatively happy. Or as near to the concept of being happy as I ever get, which I suppose is not really particularly near.

Time passed.

I sat.

I watched.

Time passed.

I would have got through that first break time just fine . . . if it wasn’t for Trudie Stig. She was the sort of person I hated most; the sort I always avoided. Sadly for me, there seems to be no end of people who have the same sickening quality: friendliness.

I grunted and nodded in a not-very-friendly way as she approached. Two other girls followed behind her. They were loud and pretty and ultra-confident in a really scary way. You know the sort of girls I mean—just too perfect, like pictures on the covers of glossy magazines. I focused on my feet.

‘Hi,’ she said.

Without looking up, I mumbled, ‘Simon.’

‘You’re the new boy, aren’t you? What’s your name?’

I sighed. This was going to be difficult. ‘Art.’

The three girls looked at each other. Two giggled.

‘Really?’ said Trudie, still trying to be friendly. ‘Like short for Arthur? What’s your favourite subject?’

‘Easterpark Road. The north side.’

The three girls flashed their eyes at each other again. The one with blonde ringlets put her hand to her mouth and laughed. ‘That’s a place, not a lesson, Dork-brain,’ she sneered. ‘So you’re from Easterpark North? Which road?’

‘I hate this school,’ I said.

The blonde girl, whose name was Eliza Marshmallow, made a he’s-crazy-so-let’s-get-out-of-here sign, spinning her index finger at the side of her head and tugging at her friend’s sleeve.

‘His name’s Poopoo,’ she whispered to the girl next to her.

But Trudie was still trying to be friendly. She had brown hair and brown eyes, and she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.

‘Is something wrong?’ she asked.

‘So are you,’ I shouted to her friend.

Eliza grabbed Trudie’s arm and pulled her away.

‘You’re a weirdo,’ Eliza shouted at me as the three girls ran off laughing.

Yep. Exactly as I expected. Life at this school was going to be the same as it had been at all the others: a total disaster.

Another four or five painful minutes passed. Playtime finally came to an end with a jangling bell.

I started walking towards the building.

‘Ouch,’ I yelped.

Then somebody kicked my leg from behind and I fell into the dust. I turned my head to see Eliza Marshmallow walking away with her sniggering group. I lay on the ground, lacking the willpower to get up again.

Then I felt long, thin fingers gripping my upper arms. A grown-up took my weight and hoisted me to my feet. I turned to see who it was. She was a slim woman with very short hair. She held out my school bus identification card, which I had dropped. She stared at the name on the card, but she didn’t laugh.

‘Is this the correct spelling of your name?’ she asked quietly.

‘Yes,’ I said, astonished. ‘That would be good. Thanks.’ ‘Perhaps we’ll just go by first names,’ she said, and winked. ‘Simon’s a lovely name. See you around, Simon.’ And then she was gone.

I stood with my mouth open as she strolled away. Who was she? How come she didn’t make fun of my name? How come she didn’t laugh?

I followed her with my eyes, fixing her in my memory. She wore grey overalls under a long white coat that billowed like a cloud. She walked in a floaty sort of way, as if she barely touched the ground, and she was holding a mop.

She looked more like a cleaner than a teacher. I watched until she disappeared into some sort of utility block.