Chapter 8

We split up at the school gates and I headed to my locker. There I found the Vice Principal, Mrs Hinterberry, trying to clean something off, watched by a gaggle of pupils. Despite her efforts, the words ‘PURVERT’, ‘DEVIENT’ and ‘AIDS’ were still clearly visible in bright red paint.

“Ah, Mr Randell, I’m sorry you had to see this,” said Mrs Hinterbury. “The school has a robust policy against this sort of thing and we will do everything possible to track down the culprit. I’m personally trying to clean this filth from your locker to demonstrate the school’s resolve.”

The crowd slowly drifted away and Mrs Hinterbury indicated for Mr Peters, the head janitor, to come and take over.

“I’m afraid I didn’t get much of the paint off,” she said, “but I felt it was important for me to make the gesture. Can you think of anyone who might have a grudge against you?”

Two names immediately sprang to mind: Daisy Wilkins and Corwin Baylee. However I didn’t feel comfortable naming either because it didn’t feel like their work. “I’ll have a think and let you know if any names come to mind,” I said.

I’d hoped the unsettling glances and whispers would have died down but, inflamed by the vandalism of my locker, they increased if anything. At least the whisperers had some new words for their vocabularies.

After the first lesson, I ran into Corwin Baylee in the corridor.

“I heard what happened to your locker,” he said. “I guess you think it might have been me.”

“No,” I replied.

“Look, I was a bit of an ass last night and I owe you an apology. I’ve been in and out of the team all year but I’ve been training hard recently and I thought I deserved to be selected. Coach Budd read me the riot act and showed me our comparative results in all the races we’ve competed in together. You’ve always beaten me. And he also said that your extra stamina will be vital on Sunday because it’s a very tough course. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” I said, shaking the proffered hand.

“I’m still the travelling reserve so don’t forget your kit or twist your ankle in the warm-up,” Corwin smiled.

I had to hurry to my next class but now I was completely confident Corwin Baylee wasn’t the graffiti painter because his apology seemed sincere.

At lunchtime I returned to my locker to drop off some books. The graffitti was still legible, despite the janitor’s efforts. I wondered whether it would be possible for me to switch lockers.

I sat away from my nerd group again to eat my food, and was soon joined by Melinda Sturge and Cheryl Winters. Then, a couple of minutes later, Maria D’Angelou approached the table.

“This seat reserved for anyone?” Maria asked, indicating the place next to me.

My response was to pull out the chair for her and she accepted my offer.

“Have you come to join our clique?” asked Melinda.

“I didn’t know you had a clique,” replied Maria.

“It’s for girls who are individuals rather than conformists,” said Cheryl.

“Actually I’m already in a clique,” said Maria. “I’m a member of the Drama Club and that’s about as cliquey as you can get. No, I’m here to apologise to Kevin.”

“What a coincidence,” said Cheryl. “I sat here originally so I could apologise to Kevin.”

“Me too,” said Melinda.