Flying Tips for Flightless Birds Page 13

  Instead, when I’ve calmed down enough to speak, I say, “When is your birthday?”

  “June.”

  “I’ll come to your next party.”

  He grins. “OK then.”

  “Invite the cousins too.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. We’ll kick the crap out of the present-stealing little jossers.”

  Thanks to Hector, I am now always early for school; it’s really annoying. This morning we’re sitting on the yard wall waiting for the bell to ring and he’s making us a study timetable. Well, he’s making me a study timetable. I doubt he needs one.

  “What’s with the felt tips?” I ask.

  “I’m colour-coding your subjects.”

  “Why?”

  “I thought making them brightly coloured would hold your attention better. You know, like they do with toys for three year olds.”

  “Ha ha. And frankly, it would have to be made of chocolate to hold my attention.”

  “You know, I don’t think drinking Coke for breakfast can be good for you. Your attention span is bad enough without adding sugar.”

  I take a large swill from my can. I didn’t even want Coke for breakfast but since Birdie’s accident Wren and Jay have taken over the grocery shopping so Mum and Dad can spend more time at the hospital, which means our fridge is full of tofu, kale smoothies, pizza and Coke, but not much else. “What are you, the breakfast police?”

  “You have a lot to get through. Have you done the geography homework about the earth’s core yet?”

  “I don’t give a flying diabolo about the earth’s core. Don’t you think teenagers have enough delving to do without taking it to planetary levels?”

  “Yup, but that’s not going to get you any marks from Mr Geography.” Hector has adopted my mum’s system of naming teachers.

  I’m about to complain that he’s not putting in enough blue (circus school) squares when I hear “Aww, such a cute couple” from behind us. I can’t see her face but I can tell from her voice that one pencilled eyebrow is right up in her hairline. “One of them could probably do better,” she adds as she passes. “I just don’t know if it’s him or her.”

  She’s gone before I can think of a good comeback. Because it’s one of those ones where there is no good comeback. What am I supposed to say? Eugh, gross, we are NOT a couple? Or, Sod off, Kitty, Hector would be a great boyfriend? Or, Yeah, right, he’d be lucky to have me? I wonder which one Hector would be the most offended by.

  Hector just sits there staring at his notebook, like he’s pretending he hasn’t heard. I wonder if he’s regretting ever hanging out with me. Train-track braces and Star Trek toys don’t make you popular but at least you grow out of them. By Year Twelve he might have actually achieved complete inconspicuousness. If he keeps hanging out with me though…

  When it’s quiet again, Hector says, “I have some stuff on the First World War. Do you want to look at that tonight?”

  “What?”

  “For the history assignment. It’s not in the textbook so you’d get brownie points.”

  “Oh. No, I think I’ve got enough for that, thanks anyway.”

  Usually when Kitty says mean things, Birdie and I laugh, not because she’s funny, just in disbelief that such a nightmare of a human being actually exists. It’s sort of interesting to hang around and see what she’ll come up with next, like watching nature documentaries about predators. I try not to take it personally, because I really can’t believe she means it personally. It’s more like she was assigned a job at the start of term, like Class Representative or Prefect, except her job is “Official Torturer of the Vulnerable”. She probably has a badge and everything. I imagine her getting up every morning, putting on her most intimidating outfit, practising her eyebrow-raise in the mirror, jotting down a few scathing remarks to use later, and then complaining to her mum because actually she’s bored with the whole thing and wishes she’d gone for the debating team instead.

  Birdie does a hilarious impression of the eyebrow that always sets me off. But Birdie’s not here; there’s just Hector, who won’t look me in the eye, and I don’t feel like laughing.

  I remember Hector’s parents talking in the attic and say, “Does your dad really think small-town kids are nicer? Did you move here because you were being bullied?”

  “Not exactly. My dad grew up around here. He never wanted me to grow up in the city; he thinks kids in small towns are more … I don’t know…”

  “Boring? Narrow-minded? Decades behind everyone else?”

  “Innocent.”

  I choke on my drink. “You should introduce him to Kitty.”

  “I know. I think you’re much safer in the city; you can get away with being different. In a big crowd, it’s like you’re invisible. This place gives me the feeling I’m being looked at all the time. Maybe that’s what my dad wants. To be honest, I don’t think he wants me to grow up at all.”

  We still have ten minutes before the bell rings, so I tell him about being friends with James, and Oklahoma Monday and the Ginghams.

  “And ever since I’ve been she and her, and the guys all avoid me, like I might try to snog them or something, and the Bond Girls act like I’m public enemy number one because I embarrassed Kitty’s boyfriend, or because I’m weird or an easy target, or because I don’t even know why. It’s so stupid; it was years ago! And it was nothing! But it’s like it’s just simpler for them to give you a label on day one, and then everyone knows exactly how to treat you for the rest of your life.”

  Hector’s just frowning at me; maybe I’m not explaining it well.

  “It’s like what happened with Chunk Magee,” I say.

  “Who’s Chunk Magee?”

  “Chris Magee? The guy who runs the newsagent’s?”

  “Oh yeah. Why do they call him Chunk?”

  “Because he’s fat.”

  “But he’s not—”

  “Exactly. He was fat when he was a kid so everyone called him Chunk. He was practically anorexic before anyone noticed he’d lost weight. He ended up in hospital. And they still call him Chunk. So what chance have I got?”

  He doesn’t say anything for a while and I’m starting to wonder if I should have told him any of this. Then he says, “So you were just friends with James? I mean, you don’t … like him?”

  “You’re as bad as Birdie! No! Of course not.”

  “OK. But you do talk about him a lot.”

  “Because I think he had something to do with Birdie’s accident!”

  “But the chances are he didn’t, so you should stop obsessing about him.”

  “I am not obsessing; I couldn’t care less about him.”

  “OK.” Hector shrugs like it doesn’t matter but he looks relieved, and I can’t help feeling disappointed that he’s no better than the rest of the guys. I half want to point out that he wouldn’t be in any danger anyway, but the bell rings and we both drop the subject.

  For someone who told me to stop obsessing about James Keane, Hector’s taking this undercover investigation stuff pretty seriously. He spent breaktime yesterday in the library with Sinead, passed her notes during history, and today I saw them walking home together.

  I text him a few times to see what he’s found out, but he doesn’t reply, and by bedtime I can’t stand it any more. I walk to his house and run straight into Sinead coming down his front path.

  “Oh, hi, Finch.”

  She seems embarrassed, which is understandable. If Kitty Bond knew she’d been hanging out at Hector’s, there’d be a public excommunication at the very least. Possibly a beheading for treason.

  “We were just doing homework,” she says.

  So that’s it; she’s sponging off Hector’s planetoid brain. Well, fine, so long as he got some information out of her.

  “Right… Well… See ya.”

  Sinead Adeyemi and I have never spoken a word to each other before, and apparently we haven’t been missing much. We nod awkwardly and I
carry on up the path.

  “Finch?” She’s stopped by the gate. “How’s Birdie? It’s so weird seeing you around school without her.”

  “Smaller target?” I say. She opens her mouth to reply and I brace myself, already planning the retaliation, but then she turns and walks away. I guess she’s not as tough without half a dozen Bond Girls flanking her.

  I knock on Hector’s front door.

  “Hello, Finchley.” Hector’s dad is one of those parents who call you by your full name, even though no one calls you by your full name, not even your own parents. “My goodness, Hector’s popular tonight. Late, isn’t it?” he says, glancing at his watch. I wonder if Hector’s ever had two friends over in one night. The Rev must have fallen through the floor when Sinead Adeyemi showed up in her designer skinny jeans, swishing her hair at Hector. Even his parents know he’s at the Special end of the Geek Spectrum.

  “Yeah, but I’ll be quick, it’s just a school thing; I’m stuck on one question of my maths homework and I totally won’t sleep unless I figure it out.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” He’s not buying it for a second. “Is that a bowler hat?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  Hector’s dad gives a tiny shake of his head and stands aside to let me in. He’s obviously decided there’s no point in talking to me because we will never understand each other; the bowler hat is just the final proof of this.

  I run upstairs and burst into Hector’s room. He’s juggling plastic rings and wearing Star Wars pyjamas. I think he’d rather I’d caught him naked.

  “Nice PJs, Hec.”

  He goes crimson. “They’re old, and… Can’t you knock?”

  “Can’t you answer a text message?”

  “I was going to but Sinead was here. She just left. I was about to go to bed.”

  “I know, I saw her. Why is it taking so long to get some answers out of her? You must be bored to death. I appreciate it, Hector, really. Sorry I laughed at your terrible PJs.”

  “Thanks,” he says drily.

  “So what did she say? What have you found out? Was James with her that night?”

  “Well, I wanted to lead up to that – I thought it would look weird if I just came out and asked, so I started by talking about some other stuff first.”

  “Like what?” What could they possibly have to talk about?

  He shrugs. “School, movies, books…”

  “She reads?”

  “She actually likes some really cool sci-fi, but you’re not allowed to tell anyone; Kitty doesn’t approve of sci-fi.”

  “That’s because all the slime-spewing monsters look tame compared with her.”

  “She likes poetry, too, and her taste in music isn’t bad. She’s making me a playlist.”

  Poor deluded boy. “Hector, I hate to tell you this, but she’s just saying all that.”

  “What?”

  “She knows you’re smart and she’s just saying what you want to hear so you’ll do her homework for her. It’s a classic and you fell for it. At least I’m trading you circus skills. What’s she teaching you, how to accessorize? I bet you spent all night doing her chemistry or something, didn’t you?”

  “Well, no.” He looks embarrassed. “She was helping me with my English.”

  “She was helping you?”

  “She’s good at English. And I’m not good with all that symbolism and ‘there’s no wrong answer’ stuff. I like there to be wrong answers; that’s how you know you’ve got the right one. Anyway, we’re going to work on our essays together.”

  “You’re seeing her again?”

  “Yeah, we thought she could come over in the evenings.”

  “Oh, I see. And what about circus skills? Five minutes’ practice in your most embarrassing PJs every night is not going to get you into Cirque du Soleil, you know.”

  “I’ll still have time to practise.”

  “You have to be dedicated. Like Py. You don’t see him wasting time on homework.”

  “I guess not; maybe I should stop doing yours then.”

  “Fine with me.” I slouch against the wall and start picking up random things from his dresser and setting them down again. A lot of them are made of Lego.

  “We’ll still have time to hang out, Finch,” he says. “And do your homework.”

  “I don’t care whether we hang out or not; I just think it’s pathetic you believing Sinead Adeyemi is your new bezzie. She’s not a nice person.”

  “Have you ever talked to her?”

  “I don’t need to. She’s a Bond Girl. A Gingham. At worst she’ll crush you like a bug and at best she’ll turn you into one of them. I told Birdie this would happen.”

  “Told her what would happen?”

  “And she’s going out with her best friend’s boyfriend, who, might I remind you, is potentially a cold-blooded killer who she’s covering for. Yeah, you’re right, she should be up for a Humanitarian of the Year award.”

  “You can’t prove any of that. She seems OK to me.”

  Suddenly I realize what’s happening. “Oh my God, you fancy her!”

  “What!”

  “Jeez, one pair of skinny jeans and you’re anybody’s! She probably knows you suspect James and she’s flirting with you to buy your silence.”

  “What? You’ve been watching too many movies, Finch. Bad movies.”

  “I bet you didn’t even ask her about that night, did you?”

  Hector looks uncomfortable. “Well … we just never got round to it.”

  “Un-fricking-believable.”

  “I was going to ask her next time. But honestly, Finch, I don’t think she knows anything. She doesn’t seem the type—” He stops when he sees me glaring at him.

  “You’re an idiot, Hector. You’re the smartest idiot I’ve ever met.”

  “Why, because I think a nice girl might want to spend time with me?”

  “A nice girl did. Birdie! And I wasn’t keen on you two… But I thought at least you cared about her. And now she needs your help and you’ve gone all puppy-eyed over the first girl to look at you.”

  Hector folds his arms over Darth Vader’s face grill and says, “I am not puppy-eyed over Sinead Adeyemi. You know I’m not.”

  “Could have fooled me,” I mutter.

  “Yeah, but then you’re not that bright.”

  “Ha ha.”

  He unfolds his arms again. “I’ll ask Sinead about James, I promise. We’re going to the cinema at the weekend – I can ask her then.”

  “You’re going to the cinema with her?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Good night, Finch.”

  “Whose idea was that?”

  “As in goodbye?”

  “Do you have to wear a paper bag over your head so Kitty doesn’t see you?”

  “As in sod off home, will you?”

  “Gladly. But when James Keane finds out you’re taking his secret girlfriend to the cinema, I’m not sticking around to put your face back together.”

  I try to storm out but run into Hector’s dad on the landing. I swerve past him and start down the stairs, but he follows and stops me in the hall.

  “Finchley, I’m glad Hector has made some new friends here,” he says. I wait for the “but”. “But I don’t want him to neglect his school work.”

  It doesn’t matter how annoying your mates are, when it comes to parents, you lie through your bowler for them. “Oh, he’s not, Mr H, he’s doing great at school. He’s even getting better at the circus skills, believe it or not; we’ll have him juggling chainsaws in no time.”

  He doesn’t look reassured. “After-school activities are all very well, but I’m not sure clowning around with beanbags is going to be beneficial for him in the long run.”

  I’m not sure if he means actual clowning or if “clowning around” is just a general term for spending time with me. Either way he’s probably right, but I reckon that’s up to Hector, not his dad.

  “Actually, I’ve read articles online that say circus ski
lls are good for personal development. Like problem-solving and fitness and social skills and stuff.” This is true; Mum’s always going on about it. She basically thinks that if all kids were allowed to drop maths and take acrobatics, the world would be a better place.

  “Be that as it may,” he says (which is adult for “whatever”), “I’d prefer it if Hector wasn’t distracted from his work. This is an important year for him. For both of you.”

  “Is it?” No one told me. “I suppose so.”

  “Good, good,” he says, like that’s all settled. He opens the front door and I have the distinct impression I’m being ushered towards it. “Oh, and, Finchley? I wanted to ask how Bridget is doing? It must be very hard on your parents.”

  To be fair, he does look genuine about this, but I can’t help myself. “Birdie’s doing great. Hec has been in most days reading to her.” He winces at the “Hec”. “When he’s not helping me with my homework, that is. Or tutoring Py at the warehouse. Or clowning around.” On the doorstep I turn back for a second. “Night, Mr H.” And I tip my inexplicable bowler hat at him before I go.

  The daring young man on the flying trapeze

  Posted by Birdie

  The man who invented the flying trapeze was in fact a solo act; Jules Léotard (he of the unflattering stretchy aerobics outfit) was a French acrobat who, in 1859, had the bright idea of hanging trapeze bars over a swimming pool. When he introduced his new act at the circus, he drew sell-out crowds; they even wrote a song about him – “The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze”. It’s quite catchy. (CATCH-y, geddit? Sorry. Trapeze joke.)

  Trapeze acts happen so fast, sometimes it’s hard to see what’s going on up there. There are hundreds of tricks, most of them with bizarre names like Shooting Star, Hocks Off, Straddle Whip, Bird’s Nest, Reverse Suicide and Angel. But actually, what we’re mainly doing is somersaults.

  Single and double somersaults are your basic bread-and-butter tricks, but the triple? That’s scary biccies. Italian flyers used to call it salto mortale – the deadly leap.