I Can't See You

“How did that essay go?” asked Reece’s dad.

  “Essay?”

  “The thing about the army.”

  “Oh. That wasn’t an essay. That was an article.”

  Dad waited. He said after a while, “You put a lot of work into it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I read it after you’d finished, son.”

  “You what?”

  “You left it open on the computer. I saved it for you. Thought you might need it.”

  “Dad! That was private!” protested Reece, frantically racking his brains to think if he’d used Oliver’s name, or his father’s, anywhere. He didn’t think he had.

  “I thought it was very good,” said Dad. “You’ve got a way with words. Don’t know where you get it from. Not me, that’s for sure.”

  Reece shrugged.

  “Was it about a real person?” asked Dad.

  “It was just a story.”

  “I thought it was for a newsletter.”

  Reece realised that Dad might see the newsletter on Open Day. “Well, it was sort of about somebody else, because he didn’t want to write it himself.”

  “I hope he liked it.”

  “He should have,” said Reece shortly.

  “Didn’t he, then?”

  “He’s worried about his dad,” Reece blurted out. He didn’t know why.

  “Well, that’s understandable.”

  “No, his dad’s back in England now. He’s not fighting any more. But he’s still worried about him.”

  Reece’s father was silent for a moment. Then he said, “War can change people. They can get injured, obviously.”

  Reece hadn’t even thought about that. Obvious, though, wasn’t it? His mouth fell open slightly as images of blood and bandages swept through his head. But surely Oliver would have told his friends if his father had got injured?

  Meanwhile Dad went on,

  “Sometimes war can do things to people that you can’t see. Living through war can affect the way people think. The way they feel. They see some dreadful things happen. It can cause something called post-traumatic stress.”

  Reece hadn’t thought of that either. But he had heard of it. It meant crazy.

  “I’m not saying anything like that has happened to your friend’s father.”

  “He’s not my–” Reece shut up, just in time. Dad didn’t notice; he was looking serious.

  “And you might not want to ask him,” he went on. “It must be a difficult time for him. So the best thing is just be thoughtful, okay? Be supportive. Be there for him if he needs you.”

  Reece felt like pulling a sick-making face, but decided this would not be a good idea.

  “Sure,” he said.

  “Good lad.” Dad’s big hand rested on his shoulder. “I knew something was bugging you. It’s nice that you care so much about your friends.”

  If only you knew, thought Reece. But Dad knew nothing.

  Reece felt a wave of unexpected anger rush through him. Why did Dad know nothing? Why couldn’t he spot that Reece was being tormented? Why didn’t he understand what it was like? Why couldn’t he just stop harping on about him making friends?

  Dad didn’t have a clue, that was the trouble. He had no idea what really went on at school.

  “Spag bol for tea?” Dad asked.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “You going to come and help me make it?”

  Reece hesitated. If he went and chopped onions for Dad, he’d only end up being interrogated about Seth and Adam, and would he like them to come over? He didn’t need it.

  “I’ve got homework.” He pulled his spelling book out of his rucksack.

  But he didn’t do his spellings. Dad had given him a few ideas to think about. And the more he thought about them, the likelier it seemed.

  Crazy...

  Chapter Eight