I have a love-hate relationship with school. Physics, chemistry, biology and maths are all good, most of the time. If only English didn’t exist. Why do I have to learn English? I know how to read. I know how to spell, most of the time. But ask me to read a boring-as-hell book and write an essay about it, are you kidding? How’s that going to help the rest of the world?
Our English teacher is Ms Ralph. She’s bendy-skinny like a pipe cleaner, with curly brown hair. The book she’s given us to read is called The Road. It’s about a boy and his father journeying through a wasteland. Every time I try to read it, the inside of my head turns black.
So I stopped reading it,
and now I’m way behind.
Bailey’s in my English class too. English four times a week and physics four times a week. That’s 50 x 8 = 400 minutes we’re in the same room. But we haven’t said a word to each other since judo yesterday, twenty-two hours and five minutes ago.
I’m sitting next to Molly Riordan at the front of the room. Bailey is sitting at the back of the room, next to Wiremu Wright. Molly wouldn’t have chosen to sit next to me naturally, but she was moved last week because she and her friend Ella were talking too much.
‘I want you all to think about the setting as you move through this novel, and how McCarthy uses it to effect,’
Ms Ralph says. ‘Molly, how do you think a writer can use setting to influence the mood in a story?’
Molly fiddles with the chain around her neck, and wrinkles her nose. She looks like the dolls my grandma collects, with her creamy, unblemished skin and perfectly straight blonde hair.
‘Sometimes you can use the weather,’ she says. ‘Like having thunderstorms when the characters are feeling angry, or black clouds when something scary is about to happen.’
Ms Ralph smiles. ‘That’s right. Can you give me an example of a book you’ve read like that? Felix?’
My heart is a trapped mouse skittering around my chest. Thunderstorms? There were no storms in my book about Turing. I try to cast my mind back to other books I’ve read, but all that comes to mind is a picture book Mum used to read me when I was little.
‘Um, Where the Wild Things Are?’ I blurt. Molly smirks and rolls her eyes past me to where Ella is sitting, by the window. Ella smirks back.
‘That’s a great book,’ Ms Ralph says. I can’t tell if she’s mocking me or if she really means it. ‘Tell us how the setting influences the mood in that book, Felix.’
Behind me, someone mutters, ‘Ooh, wild thing.’
Meaningful looks ping between Molly and Ella, grazing across my chest like poison arrows. All I can remember is how the boy and the wild things howled at the moon together. Hell, I can’t even remember the boy’s name.
‘The moon,’ I mumble. Ella laughs out loud.
Ms Ralph frowns at her, and turns back to me.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘The moon shining into the room at the start of the book creates a lonely feeling, that’s good.’ I can tell she’s just trying to rescue me, because how did she get that out of moon? ‘That book is about the power of imagination, about how a boy creates an alternative world in which he can control his own destiny.’ She gives me a thoughtful stare, as if she can see straight into the centre of me.
I wish I had an alternative world to escape to right now, preferably one containing Batman and a Tumbler. But all I have is the inside of my head. As soon as Ms Ralph’s eyes move away, I start thinking about numbers, sequences rolling behind my eyes like the credits on a movie.
Until I hear another snigger beside me.
‘Shut up,’ I growl at Molly. Her eyebrows shoot upward, surprise flitting across her china-doll face. That’s when I realise she’s not laughing at me, for once. Behind me, I hear Bailey’s tongue sliding around a syllable he can’t spit out.
Molly’s lip curls upward. ‘Don’t freak out on me, will you, Felix?’ she murmurs. I clench my fists on top of my thighs, my stomach acid simmering.
Don’t lose it, don’t lose it.
Bailey, flailing around like a fish on a hook, stops trying to say the word starting with ‘b’ and spits out ‘courageous’. I’m trying to figure out why he has so much trouble with some words and not others. Sometimes he’ll say a whole sentence without stuttering at all.
B-brave. At least, I think brave is the word Bailey was trying to say, instead of courageous.
‘Yes.’ Ms Ralph looks relieved. ‘Yes, that’s right.’ I’m not sure if she was asking Bailey to read aloud, or if she asked him a question, but I figure he’ll give up now, while the going’s good.
But to my surprise, he says, ‘They have no names. The man and the b—’ He barely hesitates before substituting ‘his son’ for ‘boy’. I turn slightly, watching the flare in Bailey’s cheeks as he carries on. ‘It’s like they don’t trust anyone enough to tell them their names.’
‘Yeah,’ Wiremu Wright says. ‘Because they’re living in a world where they can’t trust anyone.’
Bailey nods, his eyes straying briefly to mine, then away.
‘That’s one of the important themes of the book, isn’t it?’ Ms Ralph says. ‘Naming and memory.’ What she says after that starts to sound pretty interesting, but my brain is wandering again, trying to put together the pieces of the Bailey puzzle.
B-brave. B-boy. I wonder how many other words he can’t say. He must have a whole thesaurus of substitute words in his brain. Except for his own name, Bailey, how does he get around that?
That’s when I realise I’ve never heard him use his own name, not once.