“Seriously, it was crazy!” said Mo as they weaved their way through the crowds towards school. “These lions, there were, like, eight of them or something, well, lionesses actually, lions don’t really hunt, and they were eating this buffalo, or a bison or whatever, but it was still alive, and it was just, like, standing there and eating grass while they were eating it, and—”
Will jabbed Mo in the ribs with his elbow.
“What was that for?” said Mo, rubbing his side.
Will nodded at the three scruffy boys approaching from across the yard. They were taller and older than Will and Mo, and they swaggered like they knew it. Their shirts were untucked and their ties were loose like a trio of overworked detectives, but if Mark and his goons were spotted near a crime then they probably weren’t trying to solve it. Mark was the shortest member of his posse by a good few inches, but the boy made up for his lack of stature, and looks, and intelligence, with his reputation as Richmond High’s most notorious terrorist. You didn’t have to do anything wrong to find yourself on his bad side (otherwise known as his only side). Simply existing was enough to have your name involuntarily entered into the Markus Robson lottery of pain, and for reasons that Will had never been able to fathom, his name seemed to come up at least twice as often as anybody else’s.
“Come on,” said Mo. They picked up the pace, suddenly eager to get to class. The older boys also sped up, scurrying through the crowd like three ferrets after the same trouser leg.
“Look who it is, lads,” said Mark as he blocked the main entrance. “Dumb and dumber. Or should that be deaf and dumber?”
“I told you already, I’m not deaf,” said Mo. “I have—”
“What?” asked Mark, cupping his hand behind his bigger ear. “I can’t hear you, mate.”
“I said I’m not deaf, I just—”
“What?”
“I said I’m—”
“Can’t hear you, Mo, speak up,” said Mark.
Mo sighed, the joke finally sinking in. “Idiot,” he muttered as he fiddled with his hearing aid.
“What was that?” said Mark.
“I thought you couldn’t hear me?” said Mo sarcastically.
“Best watch that mouth of yours, Mo,” said Mark. He yanked Mo’s tie with a violent tug that turned the knot into a peanut. “Learn a trick from your boyfriend here.”
Mark turned on Will while Mo struggled to loosen his tie.
“What you looking at?” he said.
Will shrugged and stared at his shoes.
“You fancy me?” said Mark. “Is that it?”
Will shook his head.
“So you’re saying I’m ugly?”
Another shake of the head.
“So you fancy me, then?” said Mark.
“Leave him alone,” said Mo.
“Shut it, Mo-by dick-head,” said Mark.
“Moby dickhead,” said Tony, the taller of Mark’s two goons. “Good one.”
“I don’t get it,” said Gavin, who had so many zits that his head contained more pus than brains.
“Moby Dick,” said Tony. “You know, like the book. With the whale and the one-legged Arab and whatever.”
“Arab?” said Gavin. “Like Mo?”
“It’s Ahab,” said Mo. “Captain Ahab. And I’m not Arab, I’m Punjabi.”
“Same thing,” said Gavin.
“Teri maa ka lora,” muttered Mo.
“How’s your arm?” said Mark, pointing at Will’s bicep.
Will shrugged with as much false bravado as he could muster under the circumstances, which wasn’t very much at all.
“Won’t mind if I deck you again, then, will you?” said Mark. He feigned a punch, and Will’s hand instinctively moved to shield his arm. Mark grinned. “Thought as much,” he said. The school bell rang and they turned to leave. “See you at lunch, losers.”
Mo rubbed his neck and quietly cussed them again in Punjabi. Will nodded, sure that whatever Mo had said was bad.
They joined the other students who were filtering into the building and made their way to class. Taking a seat at his desk beside Will’s, Mo nudged his friend and pointed at the thin-haired, Brillo-bearded man in glasses who was standing with his back to the whiteboard. He looked like he’d dressed in the dark and he wore an expression like he didn’t particularly care.
“Where did this guy escape from?” said Mo. Will shrugged.
“Okay, everybody, settle down,” said the man, his voice imbued with the weariness of someone who spent his entire life being ignored. “You’re probably wondering who I am and why I’m here. And, to be honest with you, I sometimes ask myself those same questions, as will each and every one of you in this room one day when you realize that life is nothing but one long series of disappointments. But just to clarify, my name is Mr. Coleman and I am your substitute teacher.”
He scribbled his name across the whiteboard and underlined it.
“Not Cullman. Not Collman. Not Cool Man, although feel free to call me that. Otherwise it’s Mr. Coleman. Got that?”
A murmur of acknowledgment rose from the class.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Now, before any of you make the grave mistake of thinking I’m an easy target because I’m new, think again. I have seen and heard just about everything that can be seen and heard in a classroom, so whatever you did to scare off Mr. Hale, rest assured that it won’t work with me. Do I make myself absolutely clear?”
Mr. Coleman eyeballed the class, extinguishing every smile he came across.
“Great. Now, let’s start with the attendance, shall we? It’s a simple enough process. I call your name and you shout, ‘Present.’ ”
Mr. Coleman opened the register and briefly flicked through the pages.
“Atkins?” he said, his pen hovering above the page.
“Present,” said a girl with braces who sat in front of Will.
“Well done, Sandra,” said Mr. Coleman as he dashed off a tick beside the girl’s name. “You’ve clearly done this before. Cartwright?”
“Here,” said a boy with a squiffy tie who sat at the back of the class.
“Unlike Cartwright, it seems,” said Mr. Coleman. Everybody laughed but Cartwright. “Jindal?”
“Present,” said Jindal.
“Take note, Cartwright,” said Mr. Coleman.
“Present,” said Cartwright to the sound of more laughter.
“No, Cartwright, I’ve already… forget it. Kabiga?”
“Present,” said Kabiga.
“Malooley?”
Silence.
“Malooley?”
A few sniggers punctuated the quiet as Mr. Coleman scanned the room. All the desks were occupied. Will sat with his hand in the air. Mr. Coleman frowned.
“Yes?” he said.
“He’s Malooley, sir,” said Mo.
“Is he?” said Mr. Coleman. He looked at Will. “Then why didn’t you say ‘Present’?”
“He doesn’t speak, sir,” said Mo.
“He… doesn’t speak?”
“No, sir.”
“And you’re, like… what? His representative?”