Louis Beside Himself (14 page)

She looked puzzled. I thought I'd better
C
LARIFY
the situation. ‘Algebra, actually, we've got five pages of exercises, ugh!'

‘Oh.'

‘Well, so, I better go and do it. You can come in and get supplies, or I'll bring out something . . .Dad shouldn't be home for a while.'

‘No, no I'm fine,' she said quickly, turning away. ‘See you later.'

I WENT
into my room and took out my English book. There was an essay due next week on prejudice, and you had to give a five-minute speech about it. I liked the English teacher. He'd let the discussion move all around, and when I mentioned Gus and how he was an orphan and people looked down on him just because he lived in a tent and had no money and left school at the age of nine, he said that was a good example of prejudice: judging someone by their appearance – the thing they couldn't help.

So I wrote that down, plus how lugubrious life was for Gus because of this terrible prejudice. But I couldn't seem to think of anything more. My stomach rumbled. I realised I was starving. I made a toasted sandwich and then wondered if Cordelia was just being polite and really she was starving just like me, so I made another one. I put it on a plate with a glass of milk and went out to the tent.

It was empty. I sniffed. A faint smell of smoke. I peered around, lifted a book, saw her jacket underneath. Sticking out of the pocket was a lone cigarette, wilted and bent in the middle. I was surprised. She'd never smelled of smoke. And her fingers weren't yellow with tobacco stains like Grandad's used to be. I remembered when I was little, catching him stub out his cigarette in a pot plant and pile it over with dirt so Grandma wouldn't see. Well, if Cordelia
did
smoke, she probably didn't do it much – her fingers weren't even a little bit yellow yet. I wondered if she'd seen that new ad on TV with the young guy coughing his life's blood into his hanky. Maybe I should tell her about it.

But she wasn't in the garden either. She wasn't weeding under a bush or picking aphids off the gardenias. I felt a bit relieved. As I stood there, holding the plate, I wished for a guilty moment that Cordelia had burgled Hassan's house instead of mine so that now she'd be staying there and I wouldn't have this dreadful mute problem, and Hassan might have been able to tell Mady about Cordelia, instead of having to hide her, because Mady would understand immediately and know just how to talk to her. Instead she'd come to my place where there was just me, who was useless, and my father, who only understood the value of wrestling and old vinyl records.

12
THE GATE FIX

At lunchtime on Tuesday, Singo went for the basketball try-outs. He was so nervous all morning he had to jump up from his seat four times in English to run to the toilet. But maybe that was because of the flu injection. Or maybe he didn't want to talk about prejudice. I told him it wasn't catching, but could be hereditary. He just stared at me.

Anyway, at lunchtime Elena came over to sit with Hassan and me. Normally she had lunch with her girlfriends, but why should anything be normal now? She and Hassan jabbered away about the Italian shop they'd been to yesterday, and the success of the
cannoli
, and Hassan said that Mady had invited her for early dinner that night at the restaurant.

‘Oh, that would be great,
thanks
!' Elena's eyes were glowing.

‘Great!' echoed Hassan, smiling all over his face. Then he glanced at me. ‘Oh, you can come too, Lou.'

I saw that I was only an afterthought, so I said no.

‘We'll come over to visit tomorrow, though,' Hassan said quickly. ‘To see Cordelia.'

‘And I'll bring some eggs and other stuff,' added Elena.

I went to get a drink at the bubblers, and found Singo there.

‘Guess what, I got in!' he cried, flicking water at me. ‘The
A
-team!' His eyes were so squinched by his huge grin, they almost disappeared. After I'd congratulated him and we'd spat water at each other for a bit, he said he was going for the A-team practice that afternoon.

It was hard to keep up the happy smile on my face. I was glad for Singo, but sad for me. Now there was double maths, and later there'd be another awkward conversation between Cordelia and my Dementor impersonation.

I walked home from the bus stop very slowly. Mrs Livid from Next Door waved at me with her hose. She looked as if she wanted to ask me something, which made me worry that she'd seen Cordelia living in our tent. I waved back enthusiastically and sped up, putting a look of determination on my face as if I was in an enormous hurry.

When I lifted the latch on our gate, it swung open smoothly for the first time ever. I went out and did it again. Perfect. Not even a creak. I did it again. And again. My god, it worked like a normal gate. A normal, efficient, well-functioning gate.

I started to rehearse what I'd say to Cordelia. Because who else would have made this miracle happen? I drooped down the path, kicking a pebble. I knew I had to cross the grass to the tent and thank her, but I stood there outside, hesitating. Somehow, I stirred myself and called out a cheery, ‘Knock, knock!', grazing the tent with my knuckles, as if it was a door.

No response. I tweaked open the flap. No one there. Just the sleeping bag, neatly rolled up, the torch lying on top. She's probably just out for a walk or something, I thought. You could go stir-crazy in a tent, ask anyone – ask Captain Scott of the Antarctic Explorers. I just hoped that when she came in, she wouldn't get spotted.

LATER
, as the kitchen filled with shadow, I went to the fridge, thinking about dinner. There was ham and pickles, fresh bread and two big peaches. Quickly I made a sandwich, wrapped it in foil, and put it in a plastic bag with the peaches and a bottle of water. Even if Cordelia wasn't back yet, this would be a nice snack for later. I could place it up high, on the stack of books, out of all
T
ERRESTRIAL
insect range.

I was making my own sandwich when Dad came rushing in. His eyes were wide and strangely bright. He threw down his briefcase on a chair. ‘Louis, you are brilliant!' he cried. ‘Working away all afternoon, were you? When you decide to do something, you do it well, no doubt about that!'

‘What?'

‘No need to be humble! The gate, Lou, you fixed that gate! It's beautiful, smooth, a great job!' He came over and took me by the shoulders, his smile practically splitting his face. All his attention was on me. It had been days since he'd looked me in the eye. He was laughing now, his face like the sun shining, shining on
me
!

It felt so good. I don't know what came over me. I just knew I wanted more of it.

‘So how did you find the right bit for the drill?'

I smiled and shrugged in what I hoped was a humble fashion.

‘I'm amazed you remembered how to follow all the steps I told you,' Dad was looking at me, his mouth open.

Unease prickled my skin. ‘One of Life's Great Mysteries,' I said wryly, tapping my nose. Damn, that still hurt.

‘Ha!' laughed Dad and cuffed me affectionately on the shoulder. He opened the fridge and took a dish from the freezer. As he walked to the sink I found myself standing in front of him. Somehow I was desperate to see that smile of his again.

‘And did you see the lawn, and the flowerbed, and the ivy?'

He rubbed a hand over his face. ‘Can't believe I didn't notice . . . oh well, been a bit busy.' And the shy proud look came again.

Quickly I said, ‘Do you want to come out and have a look?'

‘Okay, sure.'

Oh, but what an idiot, inviting him to examine carefully the very place occupied by our burglar! Maybe Cordelia would choose just this moment to return – maybe she was already back, with the torch shining in the tent and sounds of habitation wafting on the breeze. But it was too late. In his enthusiasm, Dad was already out the door.

I coughed loudly on the path and practically shouted, ‘HERE WE ARE OU TSIDE LOO KING AT THE GARDEN !' The tent said nothing.

Dad poured over the cropped ivy and tidy flowerbeds. ‘It looks terrific!' And although dusk was starting to blur sky and earth, he noticed the new flowers. ‘Begonias! And spending your own pocket money too! You even got rid of that wasp nest under the porch.'

‘What wasp nest?'

Dad grinned. ‘I know how scared of those suckers you are. They gave you a nasty sting once. So how did you do it? Damn nest sticks like superglue up there.'

I was about to refer to the Great Mysteries again when Dad shook his head, placing his hand on my shoulder. ‘You found your courage, that's how you did it. You're really growing up, Louis.' And the warmth of his hand suddenly felt too hot, too much, too undeserved.

We heard the gate click then – soft as butter – and Rosie trooped in. She didn't notice the new latch or the tidy garden or anything above her shoes. Her eyes were fixed on the ground, and she was scowling.

‘Hi there,' called Dad.

She said ‘hey', but her face didn't change. She swept past us, into the house, and we heard her bedroom door bang.

Dad sighed. ‘Oh well, better get that water on to boil for the pasta.'

AFTER
the news, Dad served up three steaming plates of spaghetti. Rosie flounced out of her room and slumped down on her chair. She sniffed her plate. ‘Spag bol.'

Hearing her dismissive words, I experienced an inward shudder like an earthquake. ‘That's so ugly,' I couldn't help saying. ‘
Spag bol
. Imagine what an Italian would make of that? You should hear the way Elena pronounces it –
spaghetti
bolognais-eh
. Italians take their time over the syllables, you know, draw them out, like music.
Spag bol
– ugh, it's so . . . lazy.'

Rosie flung down her fork. ‘Is that all you can do, criticise? Drives me mad! You always act so high and mighty with your famous vocabulary. Most people have more important things to worry about than bloody
words
. Like what me and Miles are going through at the moment . . . But you wouldn't know anything about it, stuck inside your head! You're the one who's lazy!'

‘Now, now,' Dad said. ‘Steady on, no one's lazy at this table. Look how much work Louis has done in the garden! Have you seen it, Rosie? And he's fixed that gate.' He kept winking at me, taking great forkfuls of spag bol, exclaiming about all my ‘wonderful' work every time he swallowed a mouthful.

My father's praise felt hollow, bouncing off the top of my head like light rays. I peeped at Rosie. She was glancing from me to Dad and back, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. I kept my head down. Luckily, then, like a change of subject, the phone rang.

Dad leapt up, even though he was only halfway through his dinner. ‘I'll take it in my bedroom,' he called as he raced up the hall.

I cleared my throat. ‘I didn't mean to criticise you,' I said to Rosie. ‘I've just got a thing about certain words. You know, like you used to hate Dad saying
nighty nighty, sleepy
tighty
when you were little.'