Read Online The Art of Being Normal by Lisa Williamson - Free Book Online
Authors: Lisa Williamson
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still around me. I trace Harry’s eye line. Standing over him is Leo, the kid from Cloverdale School, staring at his fist like it doesn’t belong to him.
13
Mr Toolan’s office is different to how I remember it – smaller and darker. In the centre there is a large and messy desk covered with paperwork and coffee cups. Framed photographs of his wife and grown-up kids, tanned and good-looking, on skiing holidays and at graduation ceremonies sit to the left of his computer screen. A half-eaten sandwich sits to the right. Behind the desk, Mr Toolan is looking at my file and frowning.
My left leg is jiggling up and down. Most of the time I can disguise how I feel, rearranging my face and body to throw people off the scent. But my left leg manages to override my brain every time.
Mr Toolan puts my file down on his desk and sighs. ‘I’m not going to sugar-coat this, Leo. This is not a good start.’
I flex my hands. My knuckles are red and tingly.
‘I hoped
never
to see you in this office and yet barely two weeks into your first term, here you are. And for hitting another pupil no less,’ Mr Toolan continues.
I look down at my shoes. I’m still wearing last year’s pair. They’re scuffed at the toes and the laces are starting to fray.
There’s a knock at the door. It’s Miss Hannah, Head of Pastoral Support.
‘I came as soon as I heard,’ she says, slipping into the seat beside me.
‘Are you going to kick me out?’ I ask. They’re the first words I’ve spoken since I arrived.
Mr Toolan and Miss Hannah exchange looks.
‘How about you tell us what happened first?’ Mr Toolan asks.
I clear my throat and lean forward in my chair.
‘This kid was getting picked on you see, really getting laid into. And no one was standing up for him, not properly anyway. Like, there were loads of kids standing around watching but none of them did anything, they all just let it happen.’
‘So at this point why didn’t you alert a teacher? Why did you take it upon yourself to sort it out with your fists?’ Mr Toolan asks.
I close my eyes. But it’s still a blur. All I can see are flashing images; the kid’s face, the one who came over to me in the canteen last week, all hurt and humiliated, on the verge of tears, then the other kid, the one I punched, looking all smug and proud. The next thing I remember is me standing over him as he lay on the floor, blood pouring from his nose, and a couple of teachers grabbing one arm each and marching me out of the canteen. Everything in between is hazy.
‘Well?’ Mr Toolan says.
I open my eyes.
‘I dunno, sir. I just … lost it, I suppose.’
‘Well “losing it”, as you put it, is simply not acceptable behaviour.’
I look at my feet again.
Mr Toolan takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. He has red marks either side of his nose. I glance at Miss Hannah, trying to work out exactly how much trouble I’m in, but she refuses to meet my eye.
Mr Toolan puts his glasses back on and props his elbows on the desk, his chin resting on his clasped hands.
‘Do you know why I accepted you as a pupil here, Leo? When several other schools had been reluctant?’
‘No, sir,’ I say.
‘It was not just your clear aptitude in mathematics that secured you a place here, I saw something special, something worth taking a chance on. I saw a young person who wanted to work hard and keep his head down.’
‘And I do! Look, sir, you weren’t there, you didn’t see what really happened. He was asking for it!’
Mr Toolan holds up his hand to silence me. I grip on hard to the wooden arms of the chair, so hard my knuckles turn from red to bright white.
‘Leo, I don’t think you’re comprehending the seriousness of the situation. You’re fortunate Harry’s nose wasn’t broken.’
He’s the fortunate one, I want to say. But I’m skating on thin ice already. I take a deep breath before speaking.
‘Look, sir, I get that I maybe shouldn’t have hit him. And if I could
13
Mr Toolan’s office is different to how I remember it – smaller and darker. In the centre there is a large and messy desk covered with paperwork and coffee cups. Framed photographs of his wife and grown-up kids, tanned and good-looking, on skiing holidays and at graduation ceremonies sit to the left of his computer screen. A half-eaten sandwich sits to the right. Behind the desk, Mr Toolan is looking at my file and frowning.
My left leg is jiggling up and down. Most of the time I can disguise how I feel, rearranging my face and body to throw people off the scent. But my left leg manages to override my brain every time.
Mr Toolan puts my file down on his desk and sighs. ‘I’m not going to sugar-coat this, Leo. This is not a good start.’
I flex my hands. My knuckles are red and tingly.
‘I hoped
never
to see you in this office and yet barely two weeks into your first term, here you are. And for hitting another pupil no less,’ Mr Toolan continues.
I look down at my shoes. I’m still wearing last year’s pair. They’re scuffed at the toes and the laces are starting to fray.
There’s a knock at the door. It’s Miss Hannah, Head of Pastoral Support.
‘I came as soon as I heard,’ she says, slipping into the seat beside me.
‘Are you going to kick me out?’ I ask. They’re the first words I’ve spoken since I arrived.
Mr Toolan and Miss Hannah exchange looks.
‘How about you tell us what happened first?’ Mr Toolan asks.
I clear my throat and lean forward in my chair.
‘This kid was getting picked on you see, really getting laid into. And no one was standing up for him, not properly anyway. Like, there were loads of kids standing around watching but none of them did anything, they all just let it happen.’
‘So at this point why didn’t you alert a teacher? Why did you take it upon yourself to sort it out with your fists?’ Mr Toolan asks.
I close my eyes. But it’s still a blur. All I can see are flashing images; the kid’s face, the one who came over to me in the canteen last week, all hurt and humiliated, on the verge of tears, then the other kid, the one I punched, looking all smug and proud. The next thing I remember is me standing over him as he lay on the floor, blood pouring from his nose, and a couple of teachers grabbing one arm each and marching me out of the canteen. Everything in between is hazy.
‘Well?’ Mr Toolan says.
I open my eyes.
‘I dunno, sir. I just … lost it, I suppose.’
‘Well “losing it”, as you put it, is simply not acceptable behaviour.’
I look at my feet again.
Mr Toolan takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. He has red marks either side of his nose. I glance at Miss Hannah, trying to work out exactly how much trouble I’m in, but she refuses to meet my eye.
Mr Toolan puts his glasses back on and props his elbows on the desk, his chin resting on his clasped hands.
‘Do you know why I accepted you as a pupil here, Leo? When several other schools had been reluctant?’
‘No, sir,’ I say.
‘It was not just your clear aptitude in mathematics that secured you a place here, I saw something special, something worth taking a chance on. I saw a young person who wanted to work hard and keep his head down.’
‘And I do! Look, sir, you weren’t there, you didn’t see what really happened. He was asking for it!’
Mr Toolan holds up his hand to silence me. I grip on hard to the wooden arms of the chair, so hard my knuckles turn from red to bright white.
‘Leo, I don’t think you’re comprehending the seriousness of the situation. You’re fortunate Harry’s nose wasn’t broken.’
He’s the fortunate one, I want to say. But I’m skating on thin ice already. I take a deep breath before speaking.
‘Look, sir, I get that I maybe shouldn’t have hit him. And if I could
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