up. Looking back, I feel bad about that now. He was a pretty decent guy and he wasn’t all that old himself. Maybe he was very shy with girls, or he’d had his heart broken or whatever. I mean, you just never know. And when it comes to stuff like that, then being smart doesn’t help all that much. I’ve learnt that. But at the time I just said: ‘Come on, Marty. I bet you got a lot of girls hot for you… I bet back home you’re the beta-carotene love machine.’
Martin looked across at me. Even when they’re angry, smart people are impressed if you know stuff they don’t expect you to know.
*
Another reason why I get apprehensive at Happy Lives is that it can be pretty hard to know who’s got special needs and who’s a supervisor or a carer or whatever. Now I know that sounds pretty mean, but it’s true. A lot of the special needs kids can seem pretty normal. They’re friendly and competent with tending the barbecue and stuff like that, and a lot of them look pretty normal too. The supervisors can look pretty musty, but they’re also friendly and competent with the barbecue, so it really is hard to tell who’s who. I like to case it out a bit first, before talking to anyone; at least that way you get an idea of what’s going on. That’s what I suggested to Martin and he agreed, so we made for the food tent and avoidedcatching anyone’s eye as we crossed the garden.
I was removing the walnuts from my Waldorf salad when a dowdy looking lady started speaking to me:
‘You must be Charlie,’ she said.
This surprised me. I was pretty sure I had never seen the lady before, so I said: ‘Yes ma’am, I am. How did you know?’
‘You look like Charlie,’ she replied, peering intently at me. Her eyes looked very big through her glasses.
‘I do?’
‘Izzy has told us all so much about you.’
‘She has?’ I wasn’t feeling so talkative; like I say, I like to case it out a bit first.
The lady continued: ‘Oh yes. All about how good you are at raising an eyebrow, and how you hate nuts and…’
As it happens I only really dislike walnuts, and especially in salad. But the old lady looked pretty pleased with herself, so I didn’t want to set her right. I just said: ‘Wow ma’am, I guess you know me pretty well.’ I actually meant it to sound friendly, but it came out kind of mocking. I hate it when that happens, and it happens quite a lot. The worst thing is, there’s just nothing you can do about it. I mean, you shouldn’t apologize for something you never did in the first place. In fact, you shouldn’t even talk about it because it confirms the suspicion in their minds. But I guess maybe I’m over-sensitive about this stuff; although it came out sounding kind of mocking to me, the old lady kept chatting away.
‘Have you seen Izzy yet? No? Come, I’ll show you where she is. I’m Ma Petri, by the way. I supervise on weekends.’
She was pretty good, old Ma Petri was. She led us out ofthe big tent, between the tables in the garden towards another, smaller tent. A couple of times some freaky-looking kid that was following us tried to grab my hand, but Ma Petri said, ‘Not now my love, the young gentlemen are here to see Izzy,’ and just kept on walking, so we did too. I felt a bit impolite doing that, but I figured Ma Petri knew what she was doing. She led us around to the back of the smaller tent where Izzy and three of her friends were making a pile of records for the DJ to play. I’d like to say that Izzy leapt into my arms when she saw me, but that wouldn’t be true. It’s funny – she can be pretty shy when she hasn’t seen me for a while. Like I said, I’m not much of an extrovert either, so I kissed her on the cheek and introduced her to Martin. At that moment
Cotton Eyed Joe
started to play. Izzy loves that song but I’ve got to say, it really bugs me. It’s just kind of fake. I mean, originally it was a sad old song about a blind slave, then it got rerecorded as a dance
Martin looked across at me. Even when they’re angry, smart people are impressed if you know stuff they don’t expect you to know.
*
Another reason why I get apprehensive at Happy Lives is that it can be pretty hard to know who’s got special needs and who’s a supervisor or a carer or whatever. Now I know that sounds pretty mean, but it’s true. A lot of the special needs kids can seem pretty normal. They’re friendly and competent with tending the barbecue and stuff like that, and a lot of them look pretty normal too. The supervisors can look pretty musty, but they’re also friendly and competent with the barbecue, so it really is hard to tell who’s who. I like to case it out a bit first, before talking to anyone; at least that way you get an idea of what’s going on. That’s what I suggested to Martin and he agreed, so we made for the food tent and avoidedcatching anyone’s eye as we crossed the garden.
I was removing the walnuts from my Waldorf salad when a dowdy looking lady started speaking to me:
‘You must be Charlie,’ she said.
This surprised me. I was pretty sure I had never seen the lady before, so I said: ‘Yes ma’am, I am. How did you know?’
‘You look like Charlie,’ she replied, peering intently at me. Her eyes looked very big through her glasses.
‘I do?’
‘Izzy has told us all so much about you.’
‘She has?’ I wasn’t feeling so talkative; like I say, I like to case it out a bit first.
The lady continued: ‘Oh yes. All about how good you are at raising an eyebrow, and how you hate nuts and…’
As it happens I only really dislike walnuts, and especially in salad. But the old lady looked pretty pleased with herself, so I didn’t want to set her right. I just said: ‘Wow ma’am, I guess you know me pretty well.’ I actually meant it to sound friendly, but it came out kind of mocking. I hate it when that happens, and it happens quite a lot. The worst thing is, there’s just nothing you can do about it. I mean, you shouldn’t apologize for something you never did in the first place. In fact, you shouldn’t even talk about it because it confirms the suspicion in their minds. But I guess maybe I’m over-sensitive about this stuff; although it came out sounding kind of mocking to me, the old lady kept chatting away.
‘Have you seen Izzy yet? No? Come, I’ll show you where she is. I’m Ma Petri, by the way. I supervise on weekends.’
She was pretty good, old Ma Petri was. She led us out ofthe big tent, between the tables in the garden towards another, smaller tent. A couple of times some freaky-looking kid that was following us tried to grab my hand, but Ma Petri said, ‘Not now my love, the young gentlemen are here to see Izzy,’ and just kept on walking, so we did too. I felt a bit impolite doing that, but I figured Ma Petri knew what she was doing. She led us around to the back of the smaller tent where Izzy and three of her friends were making a pile of records for the DJ to play. I’d like to say that Izzy leapt into my arms when she saw me, but that wouldn’t be true. It’s funny – she can be pretty shy when she hasn’t seen me for a while. Like I said, I’m not much of an extrovert either, so I kissed her on the cheek and introduced her to Martin. At that moment
Cotton Eyed Joe
started to play. Izzy loves that song but I’ve got to say, it really bugs me. It’s just kind of fake. I mean, originally it was a sad old song about a blind slave, then it got rerecorded as a dance
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