‘Expecting a high of seventy-six degrees in the Bywater Regis area, clear skies and light winds …’ says the weatherman on the radio. Grandma looks at me over her specs. ‘Still OK there, Tom? Managing to stay in school every day?’ ‘Yes,’ I reply, my voice strangled by the lie. I race to school on my bike. Jacob’s taken the first shift. ‘He’s not well, the poor little mite,’ says Mr Bell. ‘Let’s spare a moment to send him good thoughts.’ I imagine Jacob sitting on the beach eating ice cream and think dark thoughts. I only hope he’s taking the job seriously. We limp through to lunchtime, gazing into each other’s eyes and imagining each other’s feelings. ‘Tom looks really weird, sir,’ says Petra Boyle. Which is a bit much coming from someone wearing dental braces obviously designed by a concrete engineer. At lunch, Eric and I hang out at the bins waiting for Jacob.
