Jack Mutant - Which Way is Down? (part 4)

Chris and Jack remained good friends, sticking together like buoyancy aids for each as they chartered new depths. Another boy called Tristan Nail had attached himself to them. Tristan was quite immature and kept toy soldiers in his pencil case, sometimes he’d have to remove them in order to locate his protractor or some other essential mathematical equipment. He was careful to stand them up on the desk and had no shame in doing so. Emily Central noticed and pulled a disgusted face, nudging her friends and rolling her eyes.

I suggest we three call ourselves the brethren, said Tristan loudly one day during a chemistry practical.

Chris frowned a little then shrugged. ‘Okay,’ he squeaked.

Other kids were staring at them. Jack cringed, he didn’t like the sound of this, didn’t like the word brethren, it made him shudder. A light sniggering spread around the lab which was hushed down by the teacher. ‘Why do we need to have a name?’ he whispered.

‘It will make us more powerful Jack, the brethren of Sandpools year seven. Don’t mess with ...the brethren, the brethren three….there to defeat thy enemy.’

‘Sshshshsh Tristan!’ said Jack.

Chris frowned. ‘But we don’t have any enemies.’

Tristan raised his chin and made some elaborate and unnecessary hand movements. ‘Not yet,’ he said, ‘but they will come.’  

It seemed to Jack that Tristan existed inside his own state of shameless oblivion. On leaving the classroom at the end of school he placed a cap back to front on his head, he spoke earnestly of his disparate hobbies, his love of gangster rap, his Syrian hamsters and Warhammer. He talked candidly of the three years during primary school when the first thing he did when he got home was put on his sister’s Little Mermaid nightdress because it was so light and comfortable to wear. How gutted he was that his mother had now banned this practise on account of him being ‘a big boy now’ and how nightdresses for boys should be a thing.

Any hopeful plans Jack had harboured about mixing it up with the cool kids or even just blending in at his new school disappeared out of sight the moment Tristan latched onto him. Chris would often go off somewhere at lunchtimes for music lessons leaving the two of them alone together. Cromwell Spruce had made a habit of whacking Tristan on the back whenever he saw him but Tristan only responded with an enthusiastic fist bump, ‘Cromwellllll!;’ he would shout out.

‘Look at it this way,’ said Mrs Massey, ‘Tristan might be making you look more like one of the regular kids Jack...and that’s what you wanted isn’t it, to blend in, to not stand out.’

It was true in a sense, although Jack was angry at his mother for putting it in such a way. He’d noticed very quickly that, as far as the teachers were concerned, blending in was very easy indeed. During primary school all the teachers had known his name and been familiar with some of the stickier elements of his character; his reluctance to speak, his obsessional counting and aversion to loud noises, unexpected events and general fuss. In some respects it had made these characteristics more deeply ingrained, he had been labelled and now he had that label to live up to. He could see the expectation in the teachers eyes when they announced something exciting, a surprise in the school hall: Father Christmas, Mr Tumble, a man with a python, they would glance around at the eager faces, then at Jack and await tears and panic, he had felt that he must deliver to keep them satisfied.

At Sandpools the teachers didn’t even know their pupils names let alone their personalities. Only the children who continually misbehaved were known by their names. Their first misdemeanor would be met by an instant request for their full name, possibly the second too, then after that they were known. The only way to become a real person at Sandpools was to cause trouble, rebel, wreak havoc.

Jack didn’t mind too much about being nameless, blending in. It gave him a bit of breathing space, allowed him to flex other elements of his personality which had previously been suppressed by other people’s expectations. He’d even managed to ask a question in a geography lesson, “What is a cash crop?” He kind of knew the answer already having read it in his text book, this made it seem like a safe question to ask. Just like his odd habit of pretending he didn’t know the answer when a teacher asked him a question which he knew the answer to perfectly well.

At home his mother was giving him more freedom too. No longer was she rushing home from work at three every afternoon to look after him; a couple of times a week she was staying on until five, leaving him home alone to do as he wished.

Once home he was driven by a primal urge for screen time and sugar. Television, computer, phone, these were all available to him but sweet food was sometimes difficult to find, especially if Chloe was home. He just had to have it, a sugar high that would obliterate his short term memory, erase all the useless information he had absorbed during the day. If no biscuits, chocolate or cakes could be found he had on occasions resorted to a handful of Dr Oetker pink crystal sprinkles.

If he sat and thought about the endlessness of the school days ahead of him he would have gone insane so he counted down. One hundred and ninety three school days in the year, seventeen down, one hundred and seventy six to go.

Memories of holidays in Wales with his grandad drifted into his head, they kept him going, gave him hope. He thought of his father, he seemed so distant, was he real?