When I Was Joe (17 page)

‘He's certainly happy to do that,' says Maureen,
giving me a quick glance, ‘but I'd also like to know what your strategy is for avoiding this kind of bullying in the future. I don't need to tell you what the consequences could have been if one of the broken ribs had punctured a lung.'

‘Well,' says Mr Naylor, ‘we're trialling a form of restorative justice at the school, which involves the two parties coming together to discuss the effect such an incident has had and jointly find a way forward. In this case, I was keen for Joe's mother to talk to Mr and Mrs Royston, as well as to try and avoid police involvement. So why don't I ask them to come in and we can see if Carl and Joe can, as it were, make peace?'

He gets up to go to the door, and Maureen rolls her eyes at me and mimes slapping her wrist. I'm so impressed at how she managed to turn me from villain to victim. But I wonder if a real court is also so open to twisting and turning the facts. Maybe there's no such thing as real truth, just lots and lots of different ways of explaining the same thing.

Carl and his family file in. We're all squashed into the space in front of Mr Naylor's desk and there aren't enough chairs, so Carl and I have to stand up.

His mum and dad make a lot of noise about how disgusting I am and how Carl's sporting career may be affected by the re-routing of his nasal passages.

Maureen counters with her poor-little-bullied-newboy story, adding in some scare stuff about punctured lungs and a bright future in athletics that could have been blighted.

Everyone threatens to report both of us to the police. Everyone agrees that it's not necessary to involve outside bodies and criminalise two previously blameless teenagers.

Mr Naylor says, ‘I'd like Carl and Joe to speak about how this incident has affected them and make a commitment to having a better relationship in the future. Carl, you go first, please.'

‘You've smashed my entire face and I might not be able to play football for weeks,' says Carl. ‘I might even have to have an operation on my nose. I only like playing football, so you've taken away the only thing I like.'

‘Now, Joe,' says Mr Naylor.

‘You set up that kit bag so I'd fall over and you could kick me, but I'd never done anything to you. I thought you and your mates were going to drown me in that pool. It wasn't my idea to give me an access card and not you, so none of this is my fault. And now it's been taken away from me.'

‘Now, how sad it is to hear two of the school's most promising young sportsmen battling each other like this,' says Mr Naylor, sounding like we're all in church.
‘Can we make a commitment to working together for the good of the school from now on? Perhaps there's a way that you two can find a joint project to work on?'

‘I don't mind,' I say warily. I do feel a tiny bit sorry for Carl, if it's really true that he's got to have an operation.

‘OK,' grunts Carl.

‘So perhaps you two could apologise to each other, and then I'll ask Mr Henderson to work with you on finding a joint project to bring you together.'

‘Sorry, Carl,' I mutter.

‘Sorry, Joe,' he growls.

‘Good,' says Mr Naylor. ‘I shall expect to see a much more positive relationship in the future. You boys have great potential to bring glory to the school.'

We're dismissed. I'm not excluded. I'm no longer suspended. I suppose I might even get the access card back.

I ought to be happy, but I'm not. Joe's been given a second chance. I'm just not certain that he deserved one.

Half term is when they said I might be able to see my gran. But nothing seems to be happening. I keep on asking Maureen and she keeps on saying be patient, and I never hear anything from Mum. I'm beginning to feel she's forgotten me, even though I know she's not allowed to phone.

Ellie never contacts me either. I've been going for a run every day and do as much of the other training as I can with the few machines that they have at the local swimming pool – they have concessionary rates for under-sixteens, it turns out – but it hurts that she's not in touch. Maybe she feels that I've let her down and she can't be bothered any more.

Ashley's gone off to Spain for the week with her family. I texted her on the Friday night:
ddn't gt xcldd, hv a gd time, c u Jx
. I didn't hear anything back.
I'm almost sure that means she's chucked me.

Half way through the week Ellie's mum rings Maureen to find out how things are going and invites me over for lunch again. I think Maureen's relieved to get a few hours off – it can't be great fun being a permanent babysitter to a moping teenager. She drops me off at noon on the dot, although Janet had told her any time between twelve and one.

I'm really nervous. I'm worried about seeing Ellie again. Is she even going to talk to me? Have I mucked everything up? And I'm even more anxious about Claire. Ever since Mr Naylor made me apologise to Carl I've known I must say sorry to Claire for hurting her and scaring her. Only then will I be able to forgive Joe.

Alex lets me in. ‘Come and play football in the garden!' he yells, and I follow him out to where Ellie's dad Gareth is setting up the barbeque. ‘Hello, lad. How's it going?' he says, handing me a can of Coke. Ellie and her mum are out but will be back soon, he explains. The boys shout for me to play with them, but I ask, ‘Where's Claire?'

‘Upstairs, I suppose. Why don't you see if you can persuade her to come and get some sunshine for once?'

I creep upstairs as quietly as possible. Claire's room is up a second flight of stairs – it's a converted attic. There's a sign saying ‘Private – Keep Out', but I don't
even knock. I push the door open and for a moment I'm completely confused. The curtains are closed and it's totally dark in there.

I stay still and quiet while my eyes adjust. I don't think Claire's even in there; there's no sign of life. Then I see a slight movement and realise that she's sitting on the floor, half hidden behind the bed. She's got headphones on and her eyes are closed and she's got a strange look on her face, a look that reminds me of something, but I can't quite think what.

This is incredibly awkward. The only way I can attract her attention is to touch her arm, and I don't really want to scare her.

I'm frozen with indecision and about to give up and go downstairs again when I see it. A knife. In her hand.

It's a small, sharp knife, the type you use in art classes sometimes. What's she holding it for? As she holds out her arm and kind of strokes it with the knife I know what she reminds me of. Her face and her pose and the way her body relaxes as the blood oozes out are just like the junkies I've seen sometimes, shooting up in the park.

I feel as sick as I've ever felt, and I have to bite my tongue to make no noise. At the same time there's a tiny undercurrent of . . . I don't even want to say it . . . but there's something almost exciting about being there
to see her gaze at the blood running down her arm. I feel like I'm watching something very private and very real.

She dabs at it with a tissue and pulls out a plaster and carefully sticks it over the cut. It's all planned I realise. She's got everything there ready. And then she unrolls her long sleeves and lies back against the bed.

I pull the door silently to try and escape. But she must have seen something out of the corner of her eye. She starts up and tugs the headphones from her ears. And shouts at me.

‘What the hell are you doing in my room?'

I'm so amazed to hear her make a noise – quiet, mousey Claire – that I can't speak for a minute. I step forward and then sit down on her bed.

‘I'm . . . uh . . . sorry. I mean I came to say I was sorry for the way I behaved the other day. I was out of order.'

‘How long had you been standing there? No one is allowed in my room!'

It's very tempting to lie. It's very tempting to say, ‘Only a minute,' and escape downstairs. What do I care anyway what she's up to? If she wants to hurt herself it's her business. But I say, ‘Long enough to see what you did,' and after a moment's silence she whacks me in the mouth.

She's got the strength of a rag doll. ‘Ouch,' I say unconvincingly, and I collapse backwards, lying on her bed. ‘I'm sorry Claire. I could have said I didn't see anything. But I did and, to be honest, I don't think it's a great thing to be doing.'

‘I s— suppose you and your g— girlfriend are going to tell the whole school about this are you? How dare you sneak up here and spy on me? I kept your stupid secret. You can just leave me alone!'

‘I don't think Ashley wants to know me any more,' I say. ‘I don't give her enough attention.'

‘She's a cow. I hate her.'

‘I thought you used to be friends?'

‘Yeah, until the first day at Parkview when she and Emily and Lauren pretended they didn't know me, and they wouldn't talk to me and they didn't let me sit with them in class or at lunch and they told everyone that I was a dork.'

‘I kind of know a bit how that feels,' I say, remembering the look on Arron's face when he realised that the rest of our gang would be going to St Jude's and he and I would spend two hours a day together just travelling to and from school.

‘Oh, do you?' she asks, obviously not believing me.

‘Yes. Look, Claire, I really won't tell anyone. After all, you never told anyone about my eyes and
I really appreciate that.'

‘How did they change colour anyway?' she asked. ‘Are they brown again now?'

I go and open her curtains. She blinks as the sunshine streams in. ‘Look,' I say and I stare into her eyes. ‘Now they're brown.' I flip one of the lenses out. ‘And now one's green. I really trust you, and you can really trust me.' And I put the lens back.

‘What the hell was that?' she says, but she's not so angry any more. She's still staring intently at my eyes. ‘Is that your party trick?'

‘No, no, really, Claire, no one must know. No one. Only you.'

‘Not even Ashley?'

‘Especially not Ashley. To be totally honest, I only went out with her because I was a little bit scared of her. And because she's quite . . . you know. . .'

‘A slapper?'

‘A twenty-first-century post-feminist,' I reply, a bit shocked, to be honest, by her unsisterly sexism. I was brought up by my aunties on a diet of
Cosmo
magazine and I know that you're not meant to disrespect women who want a full and active sex life. Especially if they want to have one with me.

She starts giggling and says, ‘That's one way of putting it,' and I'm laughing too, and I know it's OK and
we can trust each other. But there's a slight niggling doubt in my mind about keeping her secret. Maybe I should tell Ellie or her mum that she's hurting herself?

Ellie. What's going on there? ‘Claire, is Ellie angry with me?'

‘Oh I don't think so,' she says. ‘She's just totally wound up about her preparations for this race at the weekend. When she's really focused, then she doesn't think about anything else. I think that's why mum arranged this barbeque, to take her mind off it. And also she's getting used to Magda, her new helper, and she hates that.'

‘Hates what?'

‘Ellie doesn't really like to admit she needs a helper, but mum and dad feel they can't always be there for her, so she has to have Magda, but she resents it. It's hard . . . for everyone. Ellie can get really cross sometimes.'

‘Oh. Look, I really am very sorry about the other day. I was completely wrong to hurt you, I don't know why I did it.' I think about what Maureen said about my judgement being affected by lack of oxygen, but I don't think even that's really an excuse for hurting someone as delicate as Claire.

‘I knew all the time you were scared,' she says. ‘I just didn't know why you were scared of me. Why do you make your eyes brown when they're really green?'

For one crazy second I think I might tell her everything, this girl with a deep, scary secret of her own. This girl who understands that I'm scared. ‘It's a long story,' I say, and I'm thinking how much I'd love it if someone my own age knew what's been going on. ‘It's hard to know where to start.'

Bam! Alex and Sam crash through the door shouting their heads off. ‘What are you doing? You're missing all the food! Mum says you've got to come downstairs right now.'

‘Get out of my room, monsters,' yells Claire, and we chase them down the stairs. But as they disappear outside I ask, ‘Can we talk more later?'

And she says, ‘I'd like that.'

The garden is full of people. There's Janet and Ellie and Magda, who's blonde and Polish and seems sweet and shy. I say hello to her in Polish and you can see she's amazed that anyone's bothered to learn her language. Pity Doug cut off my lessons in the hotel. Maybe I can ask Magda to teach me more.

There's Alistair, who's Ellie's trainer and has one of those ludicrous, super-gelled, boy-band hairstyles; and there's Kieron who's another wheelchair racer with incredible pumped-up arms; and Tim and Sue who turn out to be the next-door neighbours. I can hardly get near Ellie. There're four small boys – two belong to Tim and
Sue – and they're nagging me to play football with them so, after I've swallowed a burger, that's what I do.

We play for about an hour and then we're all burning hot and sweaty and lying on the grass. ‘We won! We won!' shrieks Alex, dancing around, and Janet comes out of the house with a bowl of cut-up watermelon. I look around and catch Ellie's eye. She doesn't look too unfriendly.

‘Joe, come and tell me what‘s happening with your training,' she shouts.

‘Yes, and Joe, you can tell us what Ellie's like as a trainer,' says Kieron. ‘Is she as impossible to work with as she is with her teammates?'