Twilight in the Land of Nowhen Page 2

  There was no one in the room who knew about my problem. This was going to be horrible. I could feel it in my bones. It was going to be hideous beyond words.

  The teacher squinted with a scowl at the card I’d discreetly slipped onto her desk.

  I listened as some of the children exchanged names, while others sat quietly—like me.

  The fat boy next to me introduced himself as John. The boy in front of us turned around and told me I should call the guy Poison Cloud like everyone else did.

  ‘Shut up,’ my neighbour said. ‘My name’s John.’

  I ignored him and looked at my hands.

  Uh oh! Here was an extra problem. I could see right through my left hand. One of my fingers was completely transparent. The other three had gone sort of watery and my palm was fuzzy. Only my thumb was still completely solid. As if I didn’t have enough to worry about!

  I laid my hand flat on the desk and read the words that someone had scratched on the wood: Carrie luvs Sam 4eva.

  I was worried, but I didn’t panic. This was the fourth or fifth time something like this had happened in the past three months. It was just another depressing thing to add to the long, long list of things which made my life difficult. When parts of your body are see-through, it’s got to be a sign of something or other. But what? I was sure it would be something really, really bad. Because that’s my life: an endless list of bad things. Bad, weird things.

  Only the day before, I had picked up my mother’s hand-mirror and looked in it only to discover that my face was barely there. I was practically headless. At first, I thought it might be some sort of dream or something, so I pinched myself. I was definitely awake.

  There I was, staring into the mirror, but my face wasn’t staring out of it. Perhaps I was finally going completely mad. That was the only explanation I could think of.

  Fortunately, my head came back an hour later, just as my fingers always did—or had done so far.

  I heard a low and scratchy voice from the front of the room.

  ‘Which one is Simon Poopoo?’ the teacher rasped, peering at both sides of my dad’s business card. According to the sign on the door, her name was Mrs Stoep. That must have been a spelling mistake. Her name clearly should have been Mrs Stupid.

  ‘Poopoo?’ someone at the front parroted. The kid next to him laughed. Then another one joined in.

  I could hear the news going around the class in stage whispers. ‘Some kid’s name is Poopoo.’

  Soon everyone in the class was laughing, including the teacher. I guess I should have joined in too, but I didn’t feel like it.

  Eventually the teacher noticed I wasn’t laughing, and aimed her thick bifocals at me.

  ‘Are you Simon Poopoo?’

  I blinked at her. ‘Yes it is,’ I blurted out.

  ‘Is this card from your dad?’

  ‘I am, I guess. That’s what it says, doesn’t it?’

  She glared at me. The wrinkle-lines in her forehead expanded in that irritated way that happens when people talk to me. ‘Apparently you are very shy. Is that right?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly what he means.’

  ‘It indicates that you will say some strange things. What does he mean by that?’

  ‘Yes. And Chinese.’

  Her forehead turned into an angry grid. ‘Do you understand English?’

  ‘No, no, no. Not at all. Really!’

  Her eyes narrowed viciously. ‘Are you trying to be funny?’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’

  She drew in her breath, straightened her body and slapped a ruler against the edge of the desk, making a violent crack. The class was instantly dead silent.

  ‘I will not stand for insolent behaviour. Go and wait outside the principal’s office.’

  I got up and walked out the door. Since it was my first day, I didn’t know where the principal’s office was. I sat in the playground instead.

  Care and Maintenance of the Fabric of Time, first edition

  6.1: Displacement

  Displacement is the common name for a disease formerly classified by medical physicists as fourth-dimensional synchronitis, or ‘time-sickness’.

  Main symptoms

  In mild cases, the sufferer feels displaced in times of stress. Typically, the mind goes blank, speech becomes difficult and the heart beats faster. This is often accompanied by a perception that time is slowing down, speeding up, or both at the same time.

  History

  For centuries, this condition was known as ‘shyness’ or ‘social phobia’. In 2015, scientists discovered that it was caused by problems in a part of the brain called the amygdala. An inflamed or oversensitive amygdala can lead to feelings of extreme displacement. A small degree of displacement is normal, but severe cases have been reported.

  Cause

  The origins of the disease are unknown. Experiments carried out in the summer of 2014 on astronauts revealed that some individuals appeared to be significantly ‘out of sync’ with their immediate environment. Their symptoms matched those of a small number of individuals with extreme shyness who had never travelled in space.

  Extreme cases

  Scientists have theorised that in acute cases of displacement, the sufferer could live a second or two ahead of other people. This could cause the sufferer to answer questions before they are asked, leading to severe difficulty in conducting conversations. Such individuals would also be seen as clumsy or accident-prone, as they would try to exit doors before they are opened, take hold of things before they are handed to them, and so on.

  Worst recorded case

  An astronaut who regularly did cargo trips between Earth and the moon has been suspected of having a displacement factor of 1.01 seconds.

  Cure

  There is no cure.

  3

  The bell rang.

  Kids poured out of the classrooms and down the stairs to the chilly, bleak playground.

  I hate playtime. But I hate it slightly less than class. You see, during class I’m always in grave danger of embarrassment and humiliation. The teacher could point to me and ask me to speak at any time. And I know that opening my mouth always leads to misery. Whatever I say is out of step with everyone else, because I see and hear them say things before they actually do.

  Whereas during playtime, I don’t need to talk to anyone. I can sit in an utterly miserable, hostile way in a corner by myself. People might think that I’m one of those kids who like to sit in an utterly miserable, hostile way in a corner by themselves. That suits me just fine.

  I found a quiet spot on a battered green bench, one of a line of old benches that ran down one side of the playground. A few other shy kids sat there, including a couple of kids who didn’t speak much English. There was also a girl from my class who had braces and red glasses.

  For several minutes I sat there and watched the brats in the playground doing the usual stupid playground-brat stuff—running and shouting and talking and pushing each other around and so on. It was cold. The kids running around weren’t cold, but those of us sitting were soon shivering.

  No one was bothering me, so I was relatively happy. Or as near to the concept of being happy as I ever get, which I suppose is not really particularly near.

  Time passed.

  I sat.

  I watched.

  Time passed.

  I would have got through that first break time just fine . . . if it wasn’t for Trudie Stig. She was the sort of person I hated most; the sort I always avoided. Sadly for me, there seems to be no end of people who have the same sickening quality: friendliness.

  I grunted and nodded in a not-very-friendly way as she approached. Two other girls followed behind her. They were loud and pretty and ultra-confident in a really scary way. You know the sort of girls I mean—just too perfect, like pictures on the covers of glossy magazines. I focused on my feet.

  ‘Hi,’ she said.

  Without looking up, I mumbled, ‘Simon.’

  ‘You
’re the new boy, aren’t you? What’s your name?’

  I sighed. This was going to be difficult. ‘Art.’

  The three girls looked at each other. Two giggled.

  ‘Really?’ said Trudie, still trying to be friendly. ‘Like short for Arthur? What’s your favourite subject?’

  ‘Easterpark Road. The north side.’

  The three girls flashed their eyes at each other again. The one with blonde ringlets put her hand to her mouth and laughed. ‘That’s a place, not a lesson, Dork-brain,’ she sneered. ‘So you’re from Easterpark North? Which road?’

  ‘I hate this school,’ I said.

  The blonde girl, whose name was Eliza Marshmallow, made a he’s-crazy-so-let’s-get-out-of-here sign, spinning her index finger at the side of her head and tugging at her friend’s sleeve.

  ‘His name’s Poopoo,’ she whispered to the girl next to her.

  But Trudie was still trying to be friendly. She had brown hair and brown eyes, and she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘So are you,’ I shouted to her friend.

  Eliza grabbed Trudie’s arm and pulled her away.

  ‘You’re a weirdo,’ Eliza shouted at me as the three girls ran off laughing.

  Yep. Exactly as I expected. Life at this school was going to be the same as it had been at all the others: a total disaster.

  Another four or five painful minutes passed. Playtime finally came to an end with a jangling bell.

  I started walking towards the building.

  ‘Ouch,’ I yelped.

  Then somebody kicked my leg from behind and I fell into the dust. I turned my head to see Eliza Marshmallow walking away with her sniggering group. I lay on the ground, lacking the willpower to get up again.

  Then I felt long, thin fingers gripping my upper arms. A grown-up took my weight and hoisted me to my feet. I turned to see who it was. She was a slim woman with very short hair. She held out my school bus identification card, which I had dropped. She stared at the name on the card, but she didn’t laugh.

  ‘Is this the correct spelling of your name?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, astonished. ‘That would be good. Thanks.’ ‘Perhaps we’ll just go by first names,’ she said, and winked. ‘Simon’s a lovely name. See you around, Simon.’ And then she was gone.

  I stood with my mouth open as she strolled away. Who was she? How come she didn’t make fun of my name? How come she didn’t laugh?

  I followed her with my eyes, fixing her in my memory. She wore grey overalls under a long white coat that billowed like a cloud. She walked in a floaty sort of way, as if she barely touched the ground, and she was holding a mop.

  She looked more like a cleaner than a teacher. I watched until she disappeared into some sort of utility block.

  Care and Maintenance of the Fabric of Time, first edition

  6.2: Forms of Displacement

  There are fears that the number of displacement sufferers could grow as long-distance space travel becomes more common. Medical researchers have been working to better understand the disease.

  Doctors have classified sufferers into three categories.

  I Mild displacement leaves sufferers feeling ‘shy’. They can communicate with others, but stress can cause their minds to go blank and their heart rates to speed up.

  II Medium displacement sufferers often find any form of communication difficult. They are often assumed to be inarticulate, but they often have a highly detailed and intelligent ‘commentary track’ running in their minds. Almost as if they are rehearsing conversations before they happen.

  III Acute displacement, which is rare, causes sufferers to have difficulty leading normal lives. They are isolated and live in a constant state of ‘déjà vu’, where everything appears to happen twice. Usually the first layer of sensation—sights, sounds, smells, touch —is far more vivid than the second, which fades in and out of view. IMPORTANTLY it is this fuzzy ‘repeat’ layer of occurrences (sufferers often perceive it as an echo) which is the real event. The first layer is a vivid foreshadowing of events in the near future. Sufferers often respond to comments which have not yet been uttered. This makes conversation so difficult that sufferers of acute displacement often avoid human contact as much as possible.

  4

  Back in class, Poison Cloud greeted me again. I pretended I hadn’t heard him and kept my eyes averted. The last thing I wanted was to sit next to someone who made the mistake of thinking I was going to be a friend and who would make conversation all the time.

  When he busied himself writing his name on his exercise books, I stole a glance at his face. His cheeks were heavy and he kept rubbing his eyes. I think he was crying.

  Most people were chatting to the person sitting next to them. The glossy girls were sitting at the front, laughing loudly behind cupped hands.

  I sat and stared at my left hand, which had become solid again. Luckily, no one had spotted my transparency. Poison Cloud might have felt tempted to start a conversation about it.

  The next lesson passed without too much trouble. It was one of those periods where you had to watch the teacher prattle on and on, and then take notes in an exercise book. No human interaction was needed until the end, when we had to do a twenty-word spelling test and then mark each other’s papers.

  I managed to mark Poison Cloud’s paper without speaking to him. He spoke to me a bit, but I just ignored him.

  Then Mrs Stupid announced that we were going to have a quiz. My mood went black again. I hate quizzes more than any other school activity. I know all the answers (as I said, I am extremely clever) but I never get any points. My timing is always out. I can never make my answers fit the questions.

  ‘It will be boys versus girls. Each person will get one question,’ she said. ‘And if you get it wrong, I pass it over to someone on the other team. No consulting.’

  She looked through her thick glasses at the wad of questions in her hand. ‘We’ll start with the boys at the back. The first question goes to . . .’

  She glanced up and focused on Poison Cloud and me. No, please. Not me. Please-please-please-please.

  ‘Master Poopoo,’ she said.

  I froze.

  The other kids giggled and repeated my name in whispers.

  The teacher looked down at the list of questions. I closed my eyes. Saved.

  There was a knock on the door.

  Mrs Stupid peered through the little square window in the door. Then she gestured to the people outside to enter.

  Four adults came in.

  I gaped. One of them was the woman who had picked me up and dusted me down in the playground.

  A lady with helmet-hair made all the noise. She introduced herself as Deputy Principal Mrs McBale and announced that she was touring the classrooms with three ‘key school service-providers’.

  The first was the school librarian, Mrs Brice. The second said he was the tuck-shop coordinator Mr Chung. And the third introduced herself as the school janitor Ms Blit. I bit my lip. Ms Blit was the woman who had called me Simon. I wished she were my teacher.

  ‘Every student has to do twenty hours of community service each term,’ Mrs McBale announced. ‘You will each sign up as a helper to one of these three adults.’

  The visitors gave a brief description of the duties that their helpers would do, as if we were too stupid to work out that a librarian handles books, a tuck-shop coordinator runs a shop, and the janitor keeps the place clean.

  Everyone volunteered to sign up with the librarian or the tuck-shop man. I was the only person who put up a hand to help the janitor.

  ‘Eww,’ Eliza Marshmallow said. ‘Kid Poopoo wants to spend his community service time in the toilets. That makes sense.’

  Everybody laughed, including Mrs Stupid.

  Ms Blit smiled at me.

  And winked.

  5

  That afternoon, after an even longer, more miserab
le playtime, we were called into the hall for an assembly.

  Hooray.

  No, really. Assemblies are the one thing I really like in school. Unlike during class time, individual kids don’t have to speak to teachers. And unlike during playtime, kids are actively discouraged from speaking to each other. I can sit in grim silence like everyone else. I like grim silences. Grim silences are my thing.

  The principal, a tall bald man named Mr Fowles, launched into an extremely long speech about the school. It was way too boring to listen to. I daydreamed about flying over the rooftops in my dad’s car, a modified Scala-Poynter X31. (Hovercar fans refer to this model as a Breaker, since it is the only non-military vehicle of its type that can go fast enough to break the sound barrier.)

  After twenty sleep-inducing minutes, Mr Fowles finished droning. Then some students played the violin and the piano. Then the drama teacher made a speech asking for people to audition for the school play. Then a teacher talked about the chess club.

  Yawn yawn yawn.

  After all this dull stuff, Mr Fowles announced that he had ‘exciting news’.

  ‘Normally, Friday afternoons are Whole School Special Project sessions,’ he said. ‘But in view of the fact that this is the first week of the new term, I have asked the students’ representative on the school council to organise something a little different. Eliza, can you come up and explain what it is, please?’

  I watched suspiciously as Eliza Marshmallow strutted up the stage and bent the microphone down to her level. ‘Thanks Mr Fowles,’ she said, tossing her blonde ringlets from her forehead. I had already noticed that when speaking to adults she used a high-pitched, girly voice, but her voice was more of a nasty cackle with kids. ‘Me and the students’ committee have decided to hold a contest to find out who is the most popular person in the school,’ she chirruped. ‘Anyone is allowed to stand. Students, teachers and non-teaching staff can be chosen. So, write your nominations on the sheets of paper that have been stuck on the noticeboards outside. People who have been nominated can start campaigning right away. We’ll have a final vote, in this hall, at assembly on Friday afternoon. The winner will get the title School Superstar.’