Free The Art of Being Normal by Lisa Williamson Page A

us paid particular attention back in DT in Year 7, far too busy messing about with the glue gun when Mr Hampton wasn’t looking. Felix takes out his phone and after a few seconds of tapping, passes it over to me and Essie. We peer at the picture on the screen.
    ‘
That’s
a junior hacksaw?’ I say. The saw on the screen is a flimsy little thing, nothing like the massive weapon I’d envisaged Leo swinging about the corridors of Cloverdale School.
    ‘It looks like it could barely saw a Kit Kat in half, never mind a finger,’ Essie scoffs.
    ‘Exactly, my friends,’ Felix says, folding his arms, sitting back in his chair and looking rather proud of himself. ‘Exactly.’

15
    The next day, the air fizzes with gossip. Harry’s nose has swollen to almost twice its normal size and has turned a deep purple. Even more brilliant is the fact that, so far anyway, the revelations in my notebook appear to have been overshadowed by the news that someone finally punched Harry Beaumont. The fact that this someone is the alleged maniac from Cloverdale School is just the cherry on top. Not that the contents of my notebook have been entirely forgotten. As I walk between lessons I notice a load of kids making weird shapes with their hands. It takes me a few seconds to work out they’re indicating roughly six and a half centimetres between their thumbs and index fingers. And even though I’m not exactly thrilled by this, I’m mainly just grateful no one has worked out why I was writing all this stuff down in the first place.
    I tell Mum I’m helping out with the costumes for the school musical for a week to cover my detention. Essie, awizard at forgery, agrees to sign my planner. I pay Livvy ten pounds not to tell Mum. She frowns but takes the cash, and I’m thankful yesterday’s events do not appear to have registered on the lower school gossip mill yet.
    As we eat lunch, Essie declares it, ‘the best day at school since that time in Year 9 when Mrs Clarey let off the loudest fart in the history of farting during our English SAT and the whole exam room completely lost it.’
    I look for Leo in the canteen, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
     
    After school I head to detention. I haven’t had one since I was in Year 8, when Essie, Felix and I tied ourselves together for Children in Need and caused a mass pile-up at the bottom of the stairs in the art block. This is my first solo offence and I can’t help but feel a little bit badass as I sign in with ancient Mr Wilton.
    Two sullen Year 9 girls are sitting in opposite corners of the classroom with matching tear-stained faces. I slide into a seat in the front row and take out my maths homework and pencil case. A few seconds later Harry walks in, his nose looking even more purple than it did a few hours ago. He glares at me before making his way to the back of the room. A few seconds later Leo enters. His eyes sort of float over me as he walks past and chooses a seat by the window. He slumps down deep in his seat, so low his chin is almost level with the desk.
    ‘Welcome, everyone,’ Mr Wilton growls. ‘Your one hour detention starts now.’
    He starts a stopwatch, sits down behind his desk and promptly falls asleep.
    I try to do my homework, but I can’t concentrate. Harry is listening to music through his headphones and must have it turned up to the maximum because I can clearly hear the lyrics and tinny bass line. To my left Leo has a copy of
Twelfth Night
propped open. I don’t think he’s reading it properly though. I can just tell by the way his eyes are staring at the same spot on the page, like they’re about to burn right through the book. He must notice me watching because he looks over sharply. Quickly I pretend to scowl at a maths problem in my book. I try not to look again.
    The rest of the hour creeps by, the hands of the clock dragging their way round the face. Finally Mr Wilton’s stopwatch starts beeping. I begin to pack away my things. As he passes, Harry