Henry Hoey Hobson (2 page)

Call it a death wish, but Sebastian's defiance in the face of fear had inspired me. If a hip-high mushroom could face up to a vampire in an empty toilet block, then I could face down this first day.

Bring it on
.

I made a beeline for Angelica, the leader of the pack. I wanted her to be the first to draw blood, to wound me so badly that I could take home the evidence. Let Mum see how I'd suffered, then rub her face in my injuries. Force her to accept that she'd been wrong to send me to this godforsaken school. Make her realise that I wasn't ever going to be remade in their image, a Perpetual Sucker. Not now, not ever.

Angelica's pretty face lit up as she whispered asides that made her posse scream with laughter. The pounding of my heart flushed blood to the surface, heating my skin to scalding. But still I marched on. Into the valley of death. Preparing to meet my doom.

I ground to a halt in front of her. She took a step towards me. We were exactly the same height. Our eyes met. Her lips parted and I caught a glimpse of white, even teeth.

Silence roared in my ears. The giggling had stopped. Everyone was waiting. For me. For Angelica. For someone, to say something.

A bead of sweat trickled down the side of my face. I didn't trust my voice. I stood, dumb as a stump, waiting for the axe to fall.

A sly smile spread across her face. I stiffened –

‘Angelica, I hope you're making Henry feel welcome.'

The mild tones of Mr Paulson, the principal, spun me round on the spot.

He was like a toy principal, a mini man. Shorter than me and I'm only twelve-and-a-bit years old. As short as my mum, who's finer than a fairy's fart and wears killer heels to make herself taller. They'd make a lovely matched pair of bookends, both small and perfectly formed, but for the one glaring difference. (Well, two if you count the fact that Mr Paulson is a bloke and Mum isn't. She's so not a bloke. With that soft blonde hair, the ridiculous girly heels and the short tight skirts, she barely qualifies as a mum, but don't get me started...)

Anyway, the key difference between Mum and Mr Paulson is
colouring
. Mr Paulson is a ranga. Possibly the rangiest ranga of all time. The kind of iridescent springy-haired ranga that makes the reddest orangutan look dull in comparison. With matching freckles that sizzled like bacon bits in the white bun of his face. Poor man. Miniscule, with hair like fluorescent orange steel wool. His school days must have been hell.

But he'd remembered my name, after only meeting me the once, so maybe he wasn't too bad. I remembered the school secretary, Mrs Newton, leaning in confidentially when Mum hauled me in for the interview. ‘You'll like Principal Paulson,' she whispered. ‘Knows the name of every child in this school.' Then nodded, like that was a good thing.

In my experience it was better to slide in under the radar, stay out of sight of the office and do nothing to bring yourself to a principal's attention. In my experience, it was better if the principal had no reason to recall your name.

The purr of Angel Girl's voice cut in, bringing me back to the question at hand. ‘We certainly are, Mr Paulson. We're all looking after Henry, aren't we, girls?'

A happy hubbub of agreement bounced off my ears, which had started burning, along with the rest of my face.

Mr Paulson's eyes were a clear green, bright in the freckled flesh of his face.

‘I'm sorry I missed you this morning, Henry. I was looking forward to introducing you to everyone here at OLPS.'

Fresh blood pumped through my face.

Sprung.

When Mum had woken me that morning with a kiss and our ritual first-day-at-a-new-school pancakes, she had given me the bad news. ‘I've got an early house inspection, honey-bun. I'm really sorry, but you'll have to brave that big scary principal on your own this morning.'

I'd shrugged, my mouth full of pancakes, and she'd ruffled my hair. But we both knew it was a big thing, her not being there on my first day, and she'd held me for about five seconds longer than was cool when it was time for her to go.

I had sort of promised I'd go straight to the principal's office before school, but it was a hard thing to do on my own. When I heard the bell go – that's how close we lived to Perpetual Suckers – I'd scooted up the street and run straight into the classroom that Mr Paulson had shown me at the interview.

I'd introduced myself to the substitute teacher, who was strung out over some presentation the class was supposed to be doing at assembly. She'd pointed at an empty desk and promptly forgotten me in the general stress of her morning.

‘Well, perhaps we could have a little chat now, Henry.' From the look on Mr Paulson's face, he was going to cut me some slack, give the newbie the benefit of the doubt. ‘The school sign needs changing. Would you like to give me a hand with that?'

He gestured towards the front of the school with the broad-brimmed hat he'd been holding in his hand.

I nodded – I didn't have much choice – and stepped aside, letting him lead the way.

He squished his springy hair under the hat and we moved off into the harsh sunlight to a chorus of ‘Bye, Henry's interspersed with giggles.

So much for my confrontation with Angel Girl.

Mr Paulson set the pace, pointing out every landmark we passed, taking it real slow, like we had all day. ‘This is the adventure playground, very popular with the younger children, though we roster all the classes so everyone gets a turn.'

A traffic jam of preps driving old cardboard boxes blocked the square of lawn fronting the playground.

‘Steady on, Maxwell, you'll crash into Rosie if you don't keep your eyes on the road. Nice set of wheels, Addison; go see if Mrs Hillcoat can find you an equally nice car body to go with them.'

I picked my way through the gridlock, half-listening to the principal's guided tour. One hundred and twenty-six Perpetual Suckers at the school, and he was determined to say hello to every last one of them.

‘I'm really sorry that I wasn't able to let you know about the changed enrolment situation. It must have been quite a shock when you walked into the classroom this morning.'

It took me a moment to realise that this time he was talking to me. When I turned, his eyes were serious, maybe even concerned.

‘When you and your mother came to see me last week, I told you both that there would be three other boys enrolled in Year Seven, as well as the twelve girls. It must have been quite a shock when you realised you were the only boy in the class.'

I shrugged, ducking the flailing legs of a determined kid on the monkey bars.

I'd never been able to do the monkey bars, not properly anyway. Too heavy. Bad strength-to-body-weight ratio. It was a major regret in my life. Along with the inability to do cartwheels, handstands and cryptic crosswords.

Actually, I did manage to do a perfect handstand once, on a crowded beach at Mooloolaba, in front of thousands of people. Unfortunately, I was drowning at the time. Cryptic crosswords I've had more luck with – I can work out the odd clue, especially the anagrams. I figure if I keep at it, I'll be able to do them one day. Unlike cartwheels and handstands, cryptic crosswords don't require much in the way of upper-body strength.

‘–then when Mitchell decided he'd take up that late offer from St Joseph's, I realised that–'

Whoops, Mr Paulson was still talking and I didn't have a clue if I'd missed something important.

‘–and the other two boys, well I guess they just kind of panicked. They'd never been particularly close, I'm afraid, and they found places elsewhere as well. I'm sorry, I did try to contact your mother. Which reminds me – may I have your latest phone numbers please, Henry? None of the ones I have seem to be connected.'

I muttered something about the move and we walked the rest of the way to the front fence in silence.

My mum had a talent for cutting ties and moving on when things didn't work out. Jobs. Houses. Schools...

Over the years, we had worked our way up, down and across south-east Queensland, from Maleny down to the Tweed Coast, with a brief stint at Noosa, then half the suburbs of Brisbane. When each move failed to live up to its promise, she'd up stakes and move again, negotiating a new mobile phone along with the next new job. In the beginning it had been fun, but now her determination to start afresh every few months was beginning to wear on me.

Mr Paulson put a hand on my shoulder and turned me round, forcing me to meet his eyes.

‘I know it's not easy starting at a new school, Henry, and being the only boy in Year Seven – well, that makes it even more challenging. I just wanted you to know that if there's anything I can do to make things easier for you, I will.'

I looked away from his steady gaze. Over the past six or seven years I had learned to take just about anything a new school had to throw at me. But kindness, that undid me every time.

The loud clanging of the bell saved me answering. Mr Paulson's hand dropped and he passed me a giant letter T.

‘We'd better get a move on. Here, you're taller than me, start on the top row, slot the letters in and slide them into position. Don't forget to leave a gap between the words.'

We worked quickly, in complete silence, in the stinking heat of a Brisbane February, our message gradually taking shape.

The thousands of cars that roared along the six-lane arterial road bordering the school were about to give thanks for Perpetual Suckers' Thought for the Day.

I had to get out of this school. I really did. But first I had to make it through the day, then go home and kill my mother.

The relief teacher went into a flat spin when I walked back in with the principal in tow. Mr Paulson settled her down with a calming hand.

‘Sorry to interrupt, Ms Sanders. I've just been showing Henry around on his first day. Thought I'd take the opportunity to introduce him to the whole class, now that they're all together. Good morning, girls and boys.'

‘Good morning, Mr Paulson. May God smile on you.'

I blinked in surprise. Either I was seeing double or Perpetual Suckers' senior class had experienced a massive influx during first break. Not only that, there were a few boys clumped in the centre of the room. I turned to Mr Paulson, wondering if he had magicked them into existence after our talk.

He smiled and leaned closer, his voice pitched low, for my ear only. ‘It was the Grade Six boys' turn to set up for Assembly when you arrived this morning, and I take their class for Maths straight afterwards, so you wouldn't have had a chance to meet everyone. Come on, I'll introduce you to the other boys in the Six/Seven Composite.'

I nodded my way through the introductions and sat down, automatically sizing the situation up and analysing it for Strengths, Weaknesses, Opportunities and Threats.

I'd learned this SWOT technique from Mum's most boring friend ever. Weird Wally the Businessman. I could barely remember his face. Something squishy above a well-knotted tie. But he'd taught me the SWOT analysis and for that I would always be in his debt.

If it hadn't actually helped me fit in, at least it had helped explain why I didn't.

Strengths
: the other three boys in our Six/Seven composite class were all younger, and a grade below me. That made me top man on the totem pole. The concept was so novel, I was having trouble getting my head around it. To be honest, I wasn't sure if I was ready to have greatness foisted upon me.

Weaknesses
: none of that altered the fact that I was the only boy in Year Seven. I'd still have to run my own race – literally, at sports carnivals. And I'd have to find a way to contend with the pack of young lionesses twitching their tails in my peripheral vision. Add to that the fact that I was an abandoned son of a deadbeat dad, and the only offspring of a mum who was a little too in touch with her inner flibbertigibbet, and who was currently attempting to scramble up the corporate ladder in a skirt that was too short and way too tight for the job. That was the trouble with weaknesses – they really weighed down the old SWOT analysis.

Opportunities
: the upside of being a bit of a lonely bugger was that there was no competition at my level. Maybe, for once, I could attempt to hone my leadership skills; see if my social skills worked better in a vacuum.

Threats
: only one big one that I could foresee–

‘Now girls, if I could have your attention for a moment...'

Twenty-odd pigtailed, braided, cropped and headbanded heads turned towards their principal. He had these kids well trained, I had to give him that.

‘As you know, we have a new student in Year Seven. Henry was expecting to join a small cohort of senior boys at our school and unfortunately things haven't quite worked out as planned.'

Masterly understatement, Mr Paulson.

‘Henry could really use some friends and I can see that our Year Six boys are all eager to take on that role–' he smiled at the rabbit-toothed, mop-headed and bespectacled trio of boys in the room, ‘–and I expect nothing less from you girls as well.'

It was all I could do to stop myself slamming my head into the laminex top of my desk. This was even worse than I thought it was going to be. Mini-man Paulson had just killed any chance of me ever making friends in this class.

He should have just hung a big ‘Nigel-No-Friends' sign around my neck. Nothing puts other kids off quicker than thinking you're a bit of a lonely bugger. The best way to guarantee that you'll never make any friends is to advertise that you don't have any to start with – they'll stay away in droves, trust me.

Being a Nigel-No-Friends stinks. Hanging around a Nigel-No-Friends makes everyone think you stink too. Stink by association. Stink squared. Basic maths.

Don't believe me? Then answer me this. When was the last time you made friends with anyone your mum told you to be nice to?
Stanley seems a bit lonely – why don't you invite him over?

Bet you jacked up, soon as the words were out of her mouth. Bet you automatically came up with ten good reasons why you couldn't invite Stanley over. Even if you didn't mind him in the first place, the very fact that your mother was pushing the friendship as an act of charity would be enough to put you off, big time.

Kiss of death, coming from your mum. Imagine the turbo-charged back-pedalling involved when your
headmaster
orders you to buddy up with a Nigel-No-Friends. Stink squared, cubed and multiplied by infinity.

At this rate, I wasn't going to have any friends till I was thirty.