The classroom was silent. Reece mooched around it aimlessly, swinging between the empty chairs. He wasn’t meant to be here without permission from the teacher. But there was no way he was going back out into the playground to be mocked and ambushed.
He got his reading book out of his drawer, in case Miss Lewis came in, but he didn’t read. Instead, he looked at the sheet lying on his table.
His drawing worked. The face had nearly disappeared into its camouflage, like a leopard concealed amidst sun-dappled leaves.
Why couldn’t Oliver give him credit for that? Why couldn’t he just say Hey, that’s good? Why did he have to be so snide?
Reece picked up the pencil and shaded in a bit more, to make the illusion work even better. Miss Lewis might put it up on the wall.
That would show Oliver: or it ought to. Oliver was proud enough of his own Highwayman story that Miss Lewis had put on the wall yesterday.
Reece limped over to the display and read Oliver’s story. It wasn’t that great. Oliver couldn’t spell murder, and he didn’t have a clue about speech marks. They were all over the place, as if someone had dowsed the paper in a bucket of tadpoles.
And his drawing of a highwayman astride a large black horse looked like Batman on a giant demented spider.
On impulse, Reece took up a pen and wrote under the picture in big letters:
BATMAN RIDES A SPIDER
The capital letters were to disguise his handwriting. Probably nobody would even notice it for days, anyway; but writing it made him feel better.
It made him feel better for at least three minutes, until the class came pouring in. Oliver glanced over at the wall and noticed it immediately.
“Miss Lewis!” he cried. “Someone’s written all over my story. In ink!”
Miss Lewis looked, and frowned. “How unkind,” she said severely. “Abby?”
“Not me,” said Abby.
“No,” said Miss Lewis, looking closer. “It is rather neat. Did anybody see who did this?”
Nobody had. So after Miss Lewis had stuck a strip of paper over the offending caption, she told everyone to sit back down, be quiet and prepare to draw and label eyeballs.
Oliver stared hard at Reece across the table. “It was you,” he growled. “Wasn’t it? You trashed my story.”
“I can’t have,” Reece retorted. “I’m not here.”
“It was you.”
“Who? Who are you talking to? I’m not here. You said so yourself.”
“You think you’re so clever,” hissed Oliver.
Well, that was the idea. Reece wanted to show Oliver’s group that he could come up with a witty answer just like they could; and that he wasn’t willing to be messed around. He thought he’d managed the whole lot in one go.
“It’s ruined now,” said Oliver. “And my dad hasn’t even seen it. I wanted to show it him on Open Day.”
“Prat,” snapped Joel to Reece. “What did you do that for? You know his dad’s away fighting in the army. He’s been away for months.”
“He’ll never see it now,” said Oliver dismally.
“Dumbo,” grunted Kai.
Reece had totally forgotten about Oliver’s dad. He could have kicked himself. Yet it had been one of the things that had first impressed him about Oliver – that he had a father on the frontline in Afghanistan.
His dad’s picture had been in the local paper, in uniform, with medals. He was a hero. Reece’s dad worked shifts in a bakery, and brought home stale doughnuts. Doughnuts didn’t compare with medals.
Joel said, “Your dad’s back next month, isn’t he, Oli? Isn’t that when his tour of duty finishes?”
“Yeah, but they might send him to GCHQ,” said Oliver. He sounded depressed.
“GCHQ?” said Reece, trying to show sympathy. “That’s the spy place, isn’t it?”
“Shut up,” said Oliver between clenched teeth. “I can’t hear you. I can’t see you. You’re not there.”
Reece shut up. He got on with drawing and labelling his eyeball, hoping that if he kept quiet, by lunchtime Oliver might just decide to drop the invisibility thing.
Oliver did not drop it. In any case, Kai and Joel would not have let him. So Reece continued to be invisible for the rest of the day.
By home time, he knew they were not going to let up any time soon; not since he’d written on Oliver’s Highwayman. He’d asked for it. He had it coming.
Reece slunk out of school hoping Dad wouldn’t be waiting for him. Although Mum was at work, Dad often came to meet him after his early shift at the bakery.
But Dad was too obviously not a hero. Reece did not want him to be there today.
As soon as he walked out of school, he saw Dad with his big daft grin almost as wide as the belly stretching his faded t-shirt.
“Doughnut?” Dad held out a paper bag.
“Not now,” said Reece, walking straight past him. He wanted to move on before Dad heard the others calling him.
Dad hurried after him. “Why the long face? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. You don’t have to come and meet me. I’m old enough to walk home by myself. Hardly any of the kids in my class get met.”
Oliver and Joel didn’t get met. They were walking down the other side of the road together, looking over at Reece and his Dad, and laughing. Reece felt his face grow hot, and turned away.
“I like coming to meet you,” Dad said. “So how was school?”
“All right.”
“What did you do at playtime?” Dad sounded anxious. Reece knew what he really meant: Have you made any friends yet?
“I played football,” he said.
“Oh, good!” Football equalled friends, in Dad’s eyes. “Did you win?”
Reece shook his head. “I hurt my ankle.” As he said it, his ankle immediately started throbbing. He began to limp.
“Poor you! We’ll put a cold flannel on it, as soon as we get home.” Dad sounded happier now that he knew why Reece was so long-faced. A bad ankle was a good excuse.
So Reece did not say anything to him about Oliver or being invisible.
There was no point; his father wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t get it. He’d just wear that worried look of his, and say, you need to tell the teacher.
As if that would help.
Chapter Three