The dad trap, p.3
The Dad Trap, page 3
Harsh.
I painted some amazing stuff in Art Club in Year Five, but Miss Jennings didn’t write about that in my report.
I look at Rude Boudica now and wonder what her school reports might say about her. “Angry.” I bet all her teachers say that. “Angry, arrogant, miserable.” Has she always been like this? Has she—
“Now, William,” Mrs Oliver says before we finish for break time. “This is Florence’s first day…”
Rude Boudica’s name is Florence! Maybe she was named after Florence Nightingale? We learnt about her in Year Two. The founder of modern nursing. Cool lady.
The only problem is that this Florence doesn’t look like she’s the kind of person to wander around a hospital comforting people at night. Or comforting people at any time of the day, to be fair. Nah, she doesn’t seem like the caring type.
“… she didn’t want me to make a big fuss about introducing her to the whole class, which is understandable, so I thought maybe you could look after her at break time?”
As if she senses my reluctance, Florence quickly mutters, “I’ll be fine, Mrs Oliver. I’m fine on my own.”
Mrs Oliver looks at Florence and then nods slowly. “OK, Florence. First days are always tough, so maybe we can agree that William will keep a lookout for you on the playground? Just in case you need a friendly face or any help?”
“OK,” Florence murmurs, her dishevelled hair covering her face.
“Sure thing!” I squeak, blushing. “Will definitely do that!”
But I don’t mean it. Not really.
Something is telling me that Florence wants to be left alone, and that’s A-OK with me.
March 2019
Dear Gemma,
I just thought I’d write and let you know how William is getting on. I can’t believe he’s two already!
William’s settled in really well – no doubt in part due to all the help and support you’ve given us. He is so lucky to have had you as his foster carer!
We’re having lots of fun together. He certainly keeps me on my toes!
We have been going to a local playgroup every Wednesday and he has made some lovely friends there. They run around the hall causing havoc and racing cars round and round in circles.
We also go to Sensory Sing and Storytime on Fridays. William likes sitting in the dark tent and playing with all the flashing toys. He likes joining in when we sing nursery rhymes at the end of the session, especially if he gets to bang on an instrument!
William is very creative and loves playing with his crayons and pencils! He’s even started recognizing some colours. He currently says “boo” for “blue”, which always makes me laugh. His face really lights up when he’s drawing – I think he’s going to be an artist when he grows up!
We spend most of our weekends at the park – William loves climbing, running and jumping. Afterwards, we go to the library. William’s favourite book at the moment is “Shh! We Have a Plan” by Chris Haughton. He borrows it every week! William also likes to go to the local cafe on a Saturday afternoon. He seems to be developing a love of carrot cake!
Anyway, I think that’s it for now. I will write again in September to let you know how William is getting on.
I hope we can sort a catch up soon! I’m sure William would love to see you.
Take care,
Ted
Chapter Four
Click or Clique?
It’s cold outside, so I wrap my beautiful school coat around myself and put the collar up.
The sky looks like concrete today. It’s grey, heavy and foreboding. I walk quickly across the playground to my bench and sit down. It’s a bit soggy and damp, but it’s mine. Jabari and I used to sit here in Year Four. Sometimes we’d pretend to be detectives.
“Something odd’s going on over there, Agent Huxley,” Jabari would whisper.
I’d grin back and say, “Looks like we should investigate, Agent Jackson.”
We were going to make a comic book together too, but now…
Well, now I sit here on my own.
I take a quick peek at the photograph I keep in my pocket. It’s a photograph of me and Dad when I was four. We’re in a little cafe in Dorset. We’d been on a blustery beach that morning and I’d cried and screamed because I didn’t like the feel of the sand on my hands. It felt scratchy and wet and horrible. Dad picked me up and took me into this ramshackle old cafe by the sea. It was empty but cosy. I sat on his lap and munched on a flapjack and soon felt better. In the photograph we’re laughing and our faces are squished together. There’s a long, wide window behind us and you can see the windy, barren beach in the background.
Barren. That’s a good one. From an Old French word, “barhaine”.
It means desolate, lifeless, drab. A bit like how I feel right now.
Anyhoo! When I started in Reception class, Mr Dummigan suggested that I bring in a special photograph of Dad and me for when I was feeling “wobbly”, which was a lot back then. I’ve kept it with me every day since. The photo is creased and faded, but I don’t mind.
I smile at Dad, put the photograph away and get my snack out of my coat pocket – two digestive biscuits thickly smeared with butter and accompanied by some hunks of cheddar cheese.
Perfect!
The playground is loud today. I see a tiny girl from Reception class standing by the climbing frame and crying. She’s got blonde pigtails and angry eyes. Mr Dummigan wanders over and kneels down in front of her. The little girl is soon smiling and giggling. Mr Dummigan’s still my favourite teacher.
In the corner, Millie Kitty Briggins-Foster-Jones has assembled a new gang of poor unfortunate souls and is pointing bossily at them, swishing her perfect, bouncy hair.
She didn’t get that toothpaste advert, but it turned out at the end of Year Five she finally landed the starring role in an advert for spot cream where she played a thirteen-year-old – “Suds ’N’ Scrubs is perfect for zapping those zits and popping those pesky pimples!” Since then she’s been unbearable and seems to think she’s more mature than all of us, even though she’s not actually a teenager.
I brush my gingery-blond hair away from my face, nibble on my biscuits and cheese, and open my book.
I feel a sense of peace and calm wash over me. As I’m reading and eating my snack, I see Jabari walk by a few times. Back and forth in front of me. I’ve no idea why. See! People ARE weird!
I try not to make eye contact with him and concentrate on my book instead. Maybe when I get home I’ll draw the characters and the huge, dusty mansion they’re exploring. That would be nice.
A few minutes pass and I’m suddenly aware that someone is hovering close by. What does Jabari want now? But as I look up, I see that Jabari has joined Scarlett, Dinesh and some others in a game of football. He’s racing up and down the playground, running rings round everyone with his fancy footwork.
He always was good at football.
So, it’s not Jabari in front of me, after all.
Nope. It’s Florence. She’s standing next to the bench – arms folded, face stony.
“I’m just coming over to tell you that I don’t need your help,” she says in a monotone voice. Her face is slightly flushed, though. “I’m going to sit down on the bench, but that doesn’t mean I want to talk to you, OK?”
See what I mean about people being entirely unfathomable? Now, that’s a good word! Unfathomable.
Florence sits down on the other end of the bench and shakes her head as she watches Freddie show some kids how to make burping sounds with their armpits.
“‘You’ll never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy,’” Florence mutters to herself.
“Sorry, what?” I ask.
“It was a Star Wars reference… Never mind,” Florence snaps, waving her hand at me dismissively.
My feet begin to get cold, and I chew nervously at my bottom lip. I start rocking from side to side, forward and backwards.
“Would you like a digestive biscuit and some cheese?” I ask.
“Gross,” Florence says, making a face like I’ve just offered her rotten prawns.
I should have known better.
I stick my finger in my mouth and try to dislodge the claggy mixture that’s got stuck to the roof of it.
“Ew! That’s foul, William!”
Oh no. I’d recognize that whiny, condescending voice anywhere. It’s … drumroll please…
Millie Kitty Briggins-Foster-Jones.
It might just be the hazy September sun, but there’s definitely a glow surrounding her. She’s wearing a black-and-white-chequered coat with bright pink furry earmuffs. She looks like she’s chewing gum, but we’re not allowed gum in school so maybe she’s pretending to chew gum, which is a very weird thing to do. Of course, she could have snuck in some gum, or—
“Heeeeyyy, hun,” Millie says, turning to face Florence. “We are so happy you’re here at Westford. Aren’t we, girls? I’m Millie Kitty Briggins-Foster-Jones, and these are the Millies.”
There are three girls standing behind Millie, their hands on their hips. It takes me a moment to recognize Sophia, Evelyn and Ivy. I didn’t pay much attention to them this morning, but they all appear to have had a makeover over the summer holidays.
In fact, they all look the same. Same perfect, bouncy hair. Same bright cherry-pink lip gloss. Same tight, forced smile.
Same withering stares trained on us.
Florence snorts. “You’re ALL called Millie?”
“Well, no. But it’s much easier for me to just call everyone Millie.” Millie sighs. “I meet soooo many people in my line of work, hun.”
Florence looks at Millie like she’s never heard anything so horrifying in her life.
“This is Millie Number One, Millie Number Two and Millie Number Three,” Millie says, standing to one side. Millie Number One and Millie Number Three wave nonchalantly, but Millie Number Two grins excitedly and says, “Hello! It’s so lovely to—”
“Shh! Be quiet, Number Two!” Millie hisses.
“So,” Florence says, smiling sweetly, “does that make you Millie Number Four, then?”
“Err, no!” Millie snaps. “I’m Millie. The original. The start of it all. The leader.”
“Hmm… Well, wouldn’t that make you Millie Number One, then?” Florence says slowly, scratching her head.
Milie looks like she can’t quite work out if Florence is making fun of her or not. I stare down at my book because I’m afraid I might laugh.
“Anyway,” Millie says, recovering her composure, “there’s always an opening for a Millie Number Four. I mean, we’d have to sort your outfit and that bird’s nest on your head, right, girls? But if you do want to join our little click…”
“Click or clique?” Florence asks.
“Click,” Millie says huffily.
“It’s clique,” I whisper, without thinking. “I think it’s an Old French word. It means—”
The Millies all gasp, and I suddenly realize what I’ve done. I’ve corrected Millie Kitty Briggins-Foster-Jones. I’ve angered the beast.
I gulp. It feels like the whole playground has come to a grinding halt.
“Sorry, Willy-Ham,” Millie sneers. “I know you’re desperate to be noticed, but we’re not looking for any weirdos to join our click, so you’ll just have to stay sitting on this sad little bench all year. On your own.”
I know what you’re going to say. Rise above it all. Ignore the haters. But, sadly, I’m not the kid who keeps his mouth shut when faced with a bully. Never have been. Never will be.
I look up at Millie and grin widely. “You know, even though there’s four of you, you’ve always seemed a bit odd to me, Millie.”
Florence snorts, and I can see Evelyn, AKA Millie Number Two, covering her smile with the sleeve of her coat. Millie Kitty Briggins-Foster-Jones looks at me blankly. Then it slowly dawns on her what I’ve just said and she looks like she’s about to explode. Her nostrils flare and her eyes narrow. Before she can say anything, Florence interjects with a smirk, “Thanks for the offer, Millie Number Four, but it’s a ‘no’ from me. I’m not going to be at this school for long.”
Millie’s apoplectic with rage now. I hold my breath.
Finally, she huffs and says, “Whatever! Come on, Millies!”
As she turns on her heel, her hair swishes through the air like a whip, but she bumps into Millie Number Two and trips. “Get out of my way, Number Two!” she hisses.
The playground bell rings, and Florence gets up and starts to walk back to class. After a couple of steps, she turns and says to me, “Nicely done.”
“Oh – thanks.” I smile and stand up, brushing the biscuit crumbs off me. Maybe Florence isn’t so bad, after all! She actually seems quite—
“Don’t think this makes us friends, though,” Florence says, shaking her head.
I stop in my tracks, clutching my book. My heart sinks.
I hear a voice in my head. A voice I’ve tried to ignore since the last day of Year Five.
“Ha ha! Look! No one wants William!”
A flash of anger surges through me, but I push it down again.
Before I can snap back something like, “Yeah, whatever!” or “Ha! I don’t care anyway!” Florence is gone.
Chapter Five
Persephone and the Pomegranate
As I trudge back into class, my head is feeling loud and fizzy again, and I’m picking at my fingers. But then something promptly cheers me up. There’s no assembly after break, so we have an extra-long art session instead! I breathe a sigh of relief. This is what I’m good at. This is something I CAN do.
We look at famous pieces of art about Persephone and Hades. Mrs Oliver organizes us into groups, then gets us to push our tables together and put old newspaper over them. We’ve all been asked to bring in an old shirt for art lessons, so I’m wearing one of Dad’s. It’s huge on me and the sleeves keep unrolling and falling down, but it smells like he used to – of wood sage and sea salt – and that makes me happy.
I hope he’s OK at home, whatever he’s doing. Ever since he quit teaching he’s been a bit lost. He’s having some time out at the moment to think about what he wants to do with his life. I suggested he could be one of Chappell Roan’s dancers, but he didn’t think that was very amusing.
Florence has a big, baggy old T-shirt that says “I PUT THE ‘SHE’ IN SHENANIGANS” and I think that’s quite cool and funny, but I’m not going to tell her that after how she’s just behaved!
Mrs Oliver places part of an ACTUAL pomegranate on each table. She talks about light and shade, and we spend the rest of the morning painting pictures of the pomegranate. Jabari is in my group and whispers to me, “Yours is really good, William.”
I nod stiffly and say, “Thanks.”
A memory stirs of us sitting next to each other at Art Club, laughing, dappled sunlight streaming in through the windows. I push it away.
What I really want to do is ask Jabari his thoughts on having sausages for fingers or burgers for feet because he loves that sort of thing, but I keep it to myself.
I try to enjoy the lesson and forget all about Jabari and Florence. I even start to relax a little bit. The swishes of my paintbrush – back and forth, back and forth – feel calming. But as we approach lunch, something terrible happens.
Something mortifying, you might say.
I happen to notice that the water pot in the middle of the table is all mucky and dirty. I don’t want my painting coming out looking like brown poo. Pomegranates should be dazzling and bright ruby red, don’t you think?
“We need some new water,” I say decisively, standing up. I bump the table a bit by accident as I pick up the water pot.
“Be careful, Willy-Ham!” Millie snaps.
Florence, who up until this point has been studiously sketching and painting, looks up at me.
It’s then that I look down at her painting, and my stomach lurches.
It’s amazing.
It looks like you could pick up the pomegranate and bite into it, like all the juice would run down your chin.
I feel a stab of jealousy. I’m the one who’s good at art. Everyone says so. Me. It’s the one thing I get to be the best at. I feel myself get hot and immediately sit back down, putting the water pot back in the middle.
Millie is talking at everyone around our table. “… I’ve got Madame Strasberg’s drama class after school! I’m performing a monologue about a runaway teen who gets abducted by aliens…”
But all I can think about is Florence’s painting and how I’m the artist in the class. I’m the one who draws and paints and sketches. If I don’t have that, if I don’t have my art, then what do I have?
I can’t let Florence take this from me.
So, I get up again quickly, and this time I bump into the table on purpose. I want Florence’s hand to slip. Just a tiny bit. I want her to smudge her work. To ruin it.
But what happens is worse.
The pot of filthy, sludgy water shakes precariously from side to side and then
wobbles
and
teeters
and suddenly topples with a CRASH!
The water splashes and sloshes all over, and I do mean ALL OVER, Florence’s painting.
No, no, no.
Jabari gasps and our whole table stops what they’re doing. There’s a tingly feeling behind my eyes and my jaw starts to ache.
I can’t breathe. I didn’t mean to… Did I? I did. I did mean to. I wanted to spoil Florence’s art and now I have but it doesn’t feel so good. It doesn’t feel good at all.
Miss Jennings’s voice reverberates in my mind.
“You need to think before you act, young man!”
But I never do. When I get like this, when all these feelings build up and up and up, I don’t think. I don’t think about the consequences at all.
“It was an accident!” I blurt out. “I didn’t mean to!”
But I did. It’s just like when—
