Malcolm could feel the bulge of the tightly folded $100 in his pocket the next day at school. Finally he had found it, something he could not share with his mother. He would spend the money after school, something to cheer himself up. A new computer game maybe, or a concession booklet for the movies. Not that it would work. It was going to take more than shopping to claw his way back out of this hole.
The gloom of failure covered him all morning, even affecting his performance in class, where his answers were uncharacteristically slow and sloppy. It wasn’t the sort of morning that needed another disaster.
It was bad enough just to pass Charlotte in the corridor, see her smile, and know just how impassable the lands between them really were. It was worse having to watch all the other boys, crude stupid boys whom Malcolm had always felt a little sorry for, and realise so many of them had managed the simple act which seemingly was beyond him. It was torture enough to see in his mind the years stretched out before him, barren years of lies and frustration.
Malcolm’s day was turning out quite miserably enough already. It didn’t need the help of the principal, Mr Ramsay, who called Malcolm to his office in the middle of class.
Mr Ramsay was an oddly proportioned man whom Malcolm didn’t much like. He was one of those people who look fat in front, but thin from behind, as if the product of a laboratory mix-up. He had huge, lush eyebrows which curled down over his glasses, while elsewhere on his body the hair was struggling to get a start. His eyes were tiny, his nose on the large side and his teeth were crooked. In fact there was no single part of him that could be called normal, and some days this made Malcolm feel sorry for him. Today, though, Malcolm was far too busy feeling sorry for himself. The only thing he could think, when he was called into the well-appointed office, was I bet you can do it. I bet you do it all the time.
‘Malcolm, please, have a seat.’ Mr Ramsay smiled his wonky smile and his eyes screwed up even smaller, two dark dots beneath the foliage. ‘So how’s this year’s Science Fair project going?’
In Malcolm’s experience Mr Ramsay only did two moods: he fawned and he bullied. It was impossible to respect a man who believed life could be balanced out this way.
‘All right, thank you.’
‘You know we have high hopes for you this year Malcolm?’
‘I have high hopes for myself too, sir.’
‘Oh, please, no need for the sir. You’re not like the others you know Malcolm, and I mean that as a compliment. You understand that, don’t you?’
Malcolm nodded. This was going somewhere. Even through his misery he could see that much.
‘If there was a way of having a school full of Malcolms, I’d be a happy man.’
‘Right.’
‘Yes, very happy indeed.’ Mr Ramsay stopped abruptly and fixed Malcolm with his famous I’ve been straight with you, now you be straight with me stare.
‘So, tell me Malcolm, it’s not true is it, this rumour I’ve been hearing?’
‘What rumour sir?’
‘About your Science Fair entry. They’re saying you’re doing a study of teenage sex. That’s not correct now, is it?’ And the principal’s face told Malcolm there was only one acceptable answer, and Malcolm’s mood told him not to give it.
‘Oh no, I’ve tried to be far broader than that. I think teenage sex could be easily misinterpreted, out of context. I’m more interested in sex in general. Actually, it’s good you raised this because I was rather hoping I could interview you, if you don’t mind.’
Mr Ramsay The Bully rose in his chair, his face contorted with venomous rage.
‘Of course I mind!’ he spluttered.
‘I think people would be quite interested.’
‘I don’t doubt it young man. That, however, is not the point.’
Any other day Malcolm might have read the signs and beaten a tactical retreat, but Malcolm wasn’t in the mood for humouring bullies. Mr Ramsay was, after all, a fairly dim-witted man, and the law was very clear on just how far he could take his little pantomime.
‘Honestly sir, you really could be quite helpful. For example, I am in part interested in the nature of the male orgasm. If you were to imagine a simple scale, where one is a satisfying sneeze and ten is the greatest moment of your life, where would your average orgasm lie?’
‘Malcolm!’ Mr Ramsay was shouting now, and the stationery in front of him grew damp with spit. ‘I am warning you. This sort of filth may find favour amongst your grubby peers but it is not appropriate in my office, nor indeed in my school’s entry in the National Science Fair.’
‘I’m sorry sir,’ the still seated Malcolm calmly replied. ‘But I have to disagree.’
‘You do, do you? Well perhaps it is not your place to disagree.’
‘Sex is all around us you know. Why, it is this very school that taught me the names of body parts I didn’t even know I had, where I was briefed on puberty, warned of disease and loaded up with condoms. In fact, without naming names, it is fair to say that my own interest in the topic was—’
‘Malcolm!’ Mr Ramsay advanced another step. Malcolm did not flinch.
‘Sex is all around us sir. Everybody is fascinated by it.’
‘I most certainly am not,’ Mr Ramsay assured him, ‘and neither is my school. All Science Fair entries come through me for approval Malcolm and I will not be approving yours. End of discussion.’
It was a heavy blow to an already sputtering spirit and Malcolm crumpled. ‘Then I will find a school that better appreciates my talents,’ he blurted.
‘And I’m having my video monitor back.’
‘You can forget the work you wanted for the open evening.’
‘Don’t be so childish.’
‘When in Rome.’
‘The entry is out. That’s my final word.’
Mr Ramsay broke away from Malcolm’s stare, as if deep down part of him knew how ridiculous this was. ‘Now leave before you make things worse.’
Malcolm did as he was told. He was shaking and close to tears and needed to be alone. He found the toilets deserted and chose the only cubicle with a functioning lock. Just yesterday two competing dreams had fought for space inside his heart: winning the Science Fair and winning Charlotte. Now he was reduced to that saddest of all things, a man without hope. Through the blur of his tears he focused on the single piece of graffiti in front of him.
I love you Brian — K
‘Lucky bitch,’ Malcolm sniffed. ‘At least you’ve still got your dreams.’