Big and Clever Read Free Page A

the urge to start clearing up, but I don’t want to offend Dad. I don’t want him to think I’m implying that if I don’t do the tidying, it’ll never get done. That’s not too far from the truth though. Cooking, cleaning, generally sorting things out. I seem to do most of it.
    It’s almost quarter past. Dad and I still haven’t said anything. It’s like we both want to have a conversation, but neither of us knows how to start. The adverts end and the GMTV logo comes back on screen. I stand up.
    â€œI’d better be making a move.”
    Dad nods. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, then closes it again.
    Fifteen minutes later, I’ve showered, got my school gear on and I’m standing in front of the bathroom mirror trying to sort my hair out. Since I’ve been at Parkway it’s becoming a bit of a preoccupation. Everyone seems to have hairstyling off to a fine art.
    I’ve been having the same haircut every couple of months since the age of four or five. The women at Talking Heads do it on autopilot. Number four round the sides, a bit longer on top. In damp weather it goes fuzzy, like an old tennis ball. I’m coming to the conclusion that I need to be moving on now though. I need to develop a bit of a look . The thing is, I’m not quite sure what the look should be. A couple of minutes of poking and prodding with a comb, teasing up a few strands here and there with gel, and I’m still no better off.
    I click off the bathroom light and cross the landing to my bedroom. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I look around. Blue and white quilt cover, matching striped wallpaper, a few posters dotted about. Oasis. Kasabian. An Airfix Lancaster on a piece of fishing line is slowly twirling by the window. My stereo’s on the bedside table and my knackered old TV and video are on top of the chest of drawers on the far side, jostling for space with my PS2 and stacks of books, videos, DVDs and CDs.
    I look down at the shoes piled up at the bottom of my wardrobe. My new Nikes, the ones I saved my paper round money for, blue and white with a red swoosh, are sitting next to my school shoes – big, black and clumpy. I know which ones I’d rather be wearing today. The question is, would I get out of the house without Dad seeing?
    I weigh up the options for a few seconds. Dad’s settled down in front of the TV. It’s not a Friday. He won’t be going up to Costcutter to get the week’s shopping in. He probably won’t be getting up off the sofa for hours. He’ll probably still be there when I get back this evening, fast asleep or watching some crap film on Channel Four. A true story starring Brian Dennehy, something like that. I should make it through to the front door this morning without getting collared.
    I get my Nikes out, lace them up, grab some folders off my desk and cram them into my bag. Then I make my way out onto the landing and look out of the window. Through the gloom I can see Raks coming down the road.
    Back downstairs, I poke my head into the living room. Dad’s hardly moved a muscle since I last left him. He’s eaten his toast and drunk his coffee, but that’s it. It’s another ad break on TV. A fat bloke in a shiny grey suit is explaining how easy it is to claim compensation for injuries when they’re not your fault. Trip over a loose kerbstone, and you’re sorted.
    â€œI’ll be off in a minute,” I tell him.
    Dad looks across and then down. I pull my foot back further into the hallway, but it’s too late. He’s seen my trainers.
    â€œTom,” he says. “School shoes.”
    My heart sinks.
    â€œDo I have to? Nobody else wears school shoes.” People do wear school shoes, but in general they’re not the A-List of the student population.
    â€œWell, Rakesh wears proper shoes,” Dad says. “And you know, I’m not bothered what other people