Don't Call Me Ishmael (5 page)

I will not say as schoolboys do to bullies–Take someone of your own size; don't pommel me! No, ye've knocked me down, and I am up again; but ye have run and hidden.

Herman Melville,
Moby Dick

On the first day of the second term a new boy arrived at St Daniel's.

‘Thank you, everyone, if you could just stop what you're doing and listen here now. We have a new class member joining us today. This is James–James Scobie. Now I'm
sure
that you will all make him feel
very
welcome here at the college.' Miss Tarango's last words were spoken more like instructions than a statement of belief. “When we got a good look at James Scobie, it was pretty obvious why.

It's not that the new boy was the Elephant Man or anything. In fact, he wasn't that different from anyone else, but he was just different enough to put him right in the danger zone–not so different that he could expect sympathy, but different enough to make Barry Bagsley's eyes light up.

To begin with, James Scobie was small and a little too neat. His hair was parted perfectly on one side and swept back from his forehead like a wave poised to break. The lines left by the
comb's teeth were as clear as shoe prints on the moon. As for his clothes, it was as if his grandfather was his fashion guru. His socks were pulled all the way up and turned down at the top so that they matched
exactly.
His shirt was tucked tightly into his shorts, which rode high up over the little mound of his stomach. Apart from that, his skin was pale and looked as if it could be bruised by a strong breeze.

Yet all of mat was noted quickly by the class and passed over. The thing that really held our attention was James Scobie's face–or rather, what he did with it. The face itself was nothing special–a bit chubby maybe, a smallish nose, a little too pink around the cheeks perhaps, but otherwise everything was where it should be. It's just that every so often James Scobie would screw up his mouth and twist it to one side till his eyes were swallowed up in a wrinkled squint and a hooded brow. Then his mouth would straighten and his face would lengthen as his eyes popped open like that kid from
Home Alone.
Then the whole process would be repeated on the other side of his face. While this took place James Scobie's nose wiggled back and forth like he was trying out for the lead role in the remake of
Bewitched.

The first time it happened, the class was taken by surprise. The second time, a shiver of laughter rippled through the room, but was cut off before it could grow by the hard edge in Miss Tarango's voice. ‘As I was saying, I have no doubt that all of you will do your best to make James welcome, just as we would want to be welcomed if we were starting in a new school.'

Miss Tarango's eyes scanned the classroom and smiles dropped off faces like flies from a bug zapper. I glanced around at Barry Bagsley. He was staring at James Scobie like a kid who had just been given the Christmas present his parents had pretended they couldn't afford. I felt bad for James Scobie then. I knew what he was in for. Everything about him was a living, breathing ‘Kick Me' sign. He might as well have come to school with a target painted on his chest.

I still feel bad about this. As I sat there looking at James Scobie I thought my life might be better, that maybe James Scobie might take some of the heat off me. I know, not very nice, but you can't help what you think. The other thing I thought was that with all the attention he would get, James Scobie would be a dangerous person to be around.

‘Now, I've checked James' timetable, and Ishmael, you and James are doing mostly the same subjects, so I've appointed you James' official buddy.'

But …

‘See that James knows where he is going and make sure you introduce him to his teachers, all right?'

But, but …

‘I'm sure you'll be in good hands, James. Ishmael will be there to help you if you have any trouble.'

But, but, but …

‘And luckily there's a spare desk beside Ishmael, so you two can sit together during Homeroom and English lessons and get acquainted. How's that?'

But, but, but …
but it was too late.

James Scobie waddled down the aisle and sat in the seat next to me. We nodded at each other without speaking.

‘O?, everyone settle down and get yourselves organised and we'll read the notices shortly.'

James Scobie reached into his bag and took out a pencil case and his student diary. He placed the diary in the centre of the desk, studied it closely, twisted his mouth and then straightened the diary slightly. He then removed three pens and a pencil from his case and laid them down one at a time before adjusting them delicately with his spidery fingers until the tips were in perfect alignment. Next he drew out a ruler, and, after a number of attempts, placed it parallel to the pens and pencil. Finally he opened the first page of his diary and pressed it neatly back. The long fingers of his left hand moved for the pens. He selected a blue one, removed the cap and scrunched up his face. Then he replaced the cap with a click and returned the pen to its position on the desk.

The new boy sat back twitching his nose like a rabbit, then leant forward once more. His hand hovered over the red pen before settling on the black. He picked it up and slid off the cap. The pen lingered over the diary like a scalpel over a patient. James Scobie twisted his neck, stretched out his arms, straightened his shirt, made a minor realignment of his ruler, fiddled with his tie, patted down his hair gently, screwed up his face and poked the tip of his tongue between his lips. He tilted the diary to a minute angle. Then he tilted it back. Then he … left it where it was.

Finally he hunched forward on the desk and looped his
left arm around till it looked like it might dislocate and, with his hand rotated almost backwards, rested the point of the pen beside the word ‘Name' in his diary. With his face writhing and his tongue popping in and out like a moray eel, James Scobie began to write. When he'd finished, what was left on the page was a string of large, loopy letters that teetered backwards at an alarming angle and were virtually indecipherable.

When I looked up, I discovered that Miss Tarango and the rest of the class were also mesmerised by the new boy's behaviour. I shot a look at Barry Bagsley. His eyes were almost popping from their sockets. I half-expected to see a trickle of saliva running down his chin. There was no doubt that my ‘buddy' was a prime target. Barry Bagsley had already locked in the coordinates and slipped off the safety switch. Soon he would be launching his geek-seeking missiles. No chance of a smart bomb here.

As the class began to make its way from Homeroom, Barry Bagsley's big head, with its mop of blond hair, lurched in beside me.

‘Hey Piss-whale, got yourself a new girlfriend, I see. You make a
gorgeous
couple-Rat Boy and the Creature from Le Sewer.'

With that Barry Bagsley gave my shoulder a friendly shove that stopped just short of dislocation before striding off, confident in the belief that he was still the king of observational comedy.

James Scobie watched him leave the room and stared at the empty doorway for a few seconds before turning to face me. ‘Friend of yours?'

‘No.'

An expressionless face gazed back at me and two small, dark brown eyes drilled into me like … well … drills. After some uncomfortable seconds, James Scobie twisted his mouth
to the side till he looked like a plasticine figure that had been smudged by a thumb, then turned away and continued to pack up his books.

My first lesson after Homeroom was Study of Society with Mr Barker in Room 301. It was James Scobie's first lesson, too. And it was Barry Bagsley's first lesson. Not good. Because he took so long to pack up his gear, Scobie and I were the last to arrive. I glanced hurriedly around the room.

There was one spare seat in the back left-hand corner right in front of Barry Bagsley and Danny Wallace. Yes, I could sit there–if I had a brain the size of a pimple. There was an empty desk in the middle of the centre row. Getting better. And finally there was a space beside Bill Kingsley in the far row, right up the front near the teacher's desk. Perfect. After all, Miss Tarango didn't say I had to babysit James Scobie every lesson, did she? Of course, I wouldn't abandon him completely. I'd make sure he knew where he was going and help him out if he needed it, but after that it was every man for himself. I had enough trouble of my own with Barry Bagsley–I wasn't about to make things worse.

I took a few steps into the classroom. The prospect of sitting beside Bill Kingsley had never seemed so appealing. Not that there was anything much wrong with Bill Kingsley. I suppose he could be a bit … well … vague at times. (The resident class comedian, Orazio Zorzotto, once described him as ‘Still waters running shallow', but that was a bit hard.) There were probably only two things that struck you about Bill Kingsley. One was that he was a sci-fi/fantasy nut and the other one was his
size. Let me put it this way, if there's a tug-of-war competition and Bill's on your team, then you don't need to have a vote for who should be anchor.

I looked at Bill Kingsley's face. As usual he seemed lost in his own little world, probably deep within Middle Earth or the far reaches of the galaxy. The empty seat beside him had my name on it. I was about to make my move when I realised that James Scobie was saying something to me.

‘What … sorry?'

‘I said, you don't have to sit with me if you don't want to.'

Great, off the hook!

I watched as Scobie made his way to the spare desk in the middle row, where he began the excruciating routine of arranging his books and pens. Soon all eyes were drawn towards the centre of the room, where the small figure of the new boy sat fidgeting like a black dot in the middle of a target.

‘Are you waiting for a personal invitation to take a seat, Mr Leseur?'

The rumbling voice of Mr Barker jolted the class into a flurry of activity. You didn't muck around when it came to Mr Barker. As Deputy Principal he was a busy man. His motto was, ‘You waste my time, and I'll waste you,' and he lived by it.

I walked across the classroom. I looked at the seat next to Bill Kingsley. I looked at the seat next to James Scobie.

‘Any time before the next ice age would be fine, thank you, Mr Leseur.'

‘Sorry, sir.'

I sat down and quickly opened my book. Bill Kingsley was gazing dreamily out the window, probably fighting some desperate battle with ores or aliens. I stared numbly at the vacant seat beside him. Don't ask me why I wasn't sitting in it. I turned to look at James Scobie next to me. He stared back with unblinking eyes as if he could read every thought in my head, then he nodded slightly and smiled, showing a row of small neat teeth.

Oh well, I thought, if you're stuck on the
Titanic
, you might as well have the seat with the best view of the iceberg.

It was around twenty minutes into the lesson when the intercom buzzed and Mr Barker had one of his usual in-depth conversations.

‘Yep. Right. Right. Yep. Righto. Right. I'm on my way.'

Mr Barker was the school's ‘go to' guy. If ever a water or food fight broke out in the yard or someone had money stolen or accidentally swallowed the lid of his pen (Bill Kingsley) or put his fist through a window because he didn't realise it was shut (Bill Kingsley again) or got his head stuck between the railings of the stairwell (yes, you guessed it) or if ever anyone had to be found, patched up, talked to, yelled at, disciplined, restrained or revived, then the inevitable cries would go up, ‘Get Mr Barker. Find Mr Barker. Go see Mr Barker. Try Mr Barker. Ask Mr Barker.'

It seemed to me that Mr Barker was so busy dealing with everyone else's problems that he couldn't afford the luxury of having problems of his own. Therefore, whenever he was
called away from class, which was often, his instructions came thudding down like a club.

‘Right, listen up, you lot. I have to leave for a moment. While I'm gone read pages thirty-eight to forty-five and start working through the exercises at the end of the chapter. Leave your seat only if it is on fire. Don't speak unless it is to reveal your dying wish. Breathe only if it is absolutely necessary. I
will
return. I
will
check your work. I
will
be seeing you at lunchtime if I am not satisfied with both quantity and quality. Are we clear?'

We were very clear. Yes, you always knew exactly where you stood with Mr Barker–and that was anywhere he told you to. The class settled down to work as Mr Barker looked quickly around the room.

‘Mr Kingsley, if you don't begin showing signs of productive life immediately, I will switch my laser from stun to destroy. Thank you.'

Without further comment Mr Barker strode from the room. A few minutes later the first missile arrived. It shot over James Scobie's head, bounced across the desk and disappeared among legs and feet. The next one struck James Scobie on the back of the head, ricocheted into the air and lobbed on to his workbook. Scobie picked up the tight wad of paper and turned it over like a piece of forensic evidence.

Barry Bagsley's voice spilled across the room like a stain. ‘Hey, E.T., isn't it time you phoned home?'

OK, listen to me now. I'm an expert in this field. This is what you do. Just pretend nothing happened. Mr Barker will be back soon.
Forget about it. Just ignore it. And, whatever you do, don't turn around.

James Scobie turned around.

Oh. All right then, just take a quick peek, but don't make eye contact and definitely do not stare.

James Scobie stared.

Oh my god.

‘What are you looking at, ya spazoid alien freak?'

OK, now this is a bit like what Miss Tarango would call a rhetorical question. It doesn't require an answer. So don't answer it!

‘I'm not sure,' answered James Scobie thoughtfully, as if he were a contestant on
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.
‘As you point out, I'm new to your planet, but on the data available I'd say I was looking at some kind of rudimentary life form.'

What!

‘Sorry,' said Barry Bagsley with exaggerated concern, ‘I didn't mean to be rude.'

What?

Somehow I think the difference between ‘rudimentary' and ‘rude' might have escaped Barry Bagsley.

‘Definitely rudimentary,' James Scobie said to himself.

By now everyone in the class was looking up from his book or twisting around in his seat to see what would happen next. Even Bill Kingsley had responded, but probably only to the mention of E.T. Scobie and Barry Bagsley faced off against each other. It was like one of those old “Western showdowns: Bad Barry versus Twitchy James. You could almost feel the street emptying.

‘What's your problem, Ferret Face? Something crawl up ya nose?'

James Scobie pushed his glasses up and frowned slightly.

‘I suggest you turn around now, ya mutant, unless you'd like ya head smacked in. ‘Cause I can smack it in for ya if that's what ya want.'

James Scobie held Barry Bagsley's glare for a few seconds and then turned around and went back to work as if nothing had happened. Almost immediately a ball of paper the size of a small planet flashed into the side of James Scobie's head and left his glasses hanging from one ear. Cheers and whoops shot up from the back of the class.

‘Hey, what's that stink? Is that you, Le Sewer, or has Rat Boy there just shat in his pants?'

James Scobie unhooked his glasses slowly and held them in his hand. His eyes rolled towards the ceiling as his mouth stretched first to the left then to the right. When he replaced his glasses, he leant to the side of the desk, picked up the ball of paper, carried it slowly to the front of the class and dropped it in the bin. Every boy in the class followed James Scobie's movements like iron filings drawn to a magnet. He walked quietly back down the aisle. When he reached his seat, he kept going, and didn't stop until he was standing right in front of Barry Bagsley. Then he spoke calmly.

‘When you said you could smack my head in, you were right, of course. I'd have little or no chance of stopping you. However, I should warn you that if you did take that course of action, I would immediately inform the appropriate authorities–Miss
Tarango, Mr Barker, Brother Jerome–and my father. I would also have to insist that the police be contacted, since a ‘smacked-in' head would certainly come under the banner of ‘aggravated assault'. Naturally my father and I would be consulting a lawyer. By the way, I would suggest you do the same as soon as possible. I would also be checking myself in for a thorough medical examination in case compensation had to be calculated–medical bills, emotional and psychological damage, that sort of thing. At this stage, I don't think the media need be involved over an isolated incident. After all, I wouldn't want the school's reputation to suffer unnecessarily. But, if it happened again or there was evidence of other victims beside myself or indications of a history of violence and intimidation on your part-well, you know how the newspapers and current affairs programs love that kind of hardhitting investigative reporting.' James Scobie stopped and pushed out his bottom lip. ‘So what I am saying is that
technically
, yes, you were right about being able to smack my head in, but I must say, for all the reasons I have just outlined, I would strongly advise against it. Now, as for me having “shat” in my pants–by the way, do you think that's an acceptable form of the past tense? I'd like to see what the experts say on that. Anyway, I assume that you are implying by your comment
not
that I am incontinent, but rather that you believe your very presence has filled my body with such a volume of fear and trepidation that the only way I could accommodate it was by the involuntary emptying of my bowels. On this point I have to inform you, you are mistaken.'

The class stared at James Scobie. Something wasn't right here. This wasn't the way things went. When Barry Bagsley threatened you, you backed down. That's just the way it was; the way it had always been. You couldn't just go changing things–just doing what you want. The whole room was one big furrowed brow. Something was happening here–we just weren't quite sure what it was. Perhaps that's what it felt like all those years ago during that soccer game at Rugby College in England when that Webb Ellis kid picked up the soccer ball and started to run with it for the first time. Perhaps everyone just stood there, blanked out by the shock realisation that there might be a whole other set of rules you could play by.

‘You're mad, Turd Brain. Why don't you just run along before you wet your pants?'

Luckily, as far as Barry Bagsley was concerned, there was no situation for which an insult wasn't an acceptable response.

James Scobie gave Barry's comment due consideration before replying. ‘Well, of course, the individual is not the most reliable judge of his or her own sanity: only a psychiatrist could accurately rule on that. However, I don't
think
I'm mad. But there's one thing I
am
sure of: whether I'm sane or insane, I know I'm not afraid of you.'

Barry Bagsley sneered, shook his head and pulled himself forward on the desk. Even though he was seated, his eyes still came level with Scobie's and his big-boned face hovered as menacingly as a death star. ‘Are you
sure
you're not afraid of me?'

‘I'm sure.'

‘And exactly
why
is that?'

James Scobie squeezed his eyes shut, smudged his mouth around in a full circle, picked his glasses from his face and gave three wide-eyed blinks before settling them delicately back in position. He waited till his face fell still like the sea after a passing wave.

‘Because I'm not afraid of anything,' he said blandly.