Free Feather Boy by Nicky Singer

souls?”
    “Wesley Parr,” says Miss Raynham, “you are a buffoon.”
    “High praise,” says Niker.
    I go with the flow. I smile, put my hand up, take notes, whatever’s required. I simply don’t have the time to think about anything else. Or anyone else. Certainly not David Sorrel.
    At lunch I’m really normal. Chatting and grinning. Even though it’s sausage casserole, which I hate.
    “Are you auditioning for the wide-mouth frog joke?” Niker asks.
    Which just leaves Friday afternoon games. I’m looking forward to it. Not, you understand, because I’m any good at football. I’m not. In fact, I’m completely hopeless at football. The only time I touch the ball is when someone mis-hits it and it ricochets off me by mistake. I did save a goal once though. But only, I think, because Niker deliberately aimed the ball at my head. And, as we know, he’s good with his aim, Niker.
    Anyway, the reason I’m looking forward to games is because I really have to concentrate when I’m on the pitch; firstly, to keep my glasses on my nose and, secondly, not to fall over Niker’s feet. He likes to trip me. He even does it when we’re on the same side. I think histheory is that it doesn’t much matter to the flow of play whether I’m standing upright or lying flat on my face. Anyhow, it’s a bit of a blow when Miss Raynham comes into the cloakroom after lunch and announces: “No need to change, children. Games is off.”
    “What!”
    “Mr Burke has been taken ill and, in view of the rain…”
    There are wails and moans. I’m one of the wailers. Wesley looks out of the window.
    “It’s only spitting. Mr Burke makes us play when it’s torrential.”
    “Nil desperandum, Mr Parr,” says Miss Raynham. “We are, despite everything, going to have a most entrancing afternoon. Follow me, please.”
    We follow her. I hope we are making for the gymnasium. Basketball is as much of a trial for me as football, and therefore requires as much concentration. And the floor is harder, if you fall on it. Which I do. But no – Miss Raynham leads us to the Art Room.
    “Find your places everyone. Now – as you know, some children have been attending the Mayfield Rest Home. And some very interesting art works are beginning to emerge from the project, so…”
    “No.”
    “What did you say, Robert?”
    “No. No.”
    “You don’t even know what I’m going to ask, Robert.”
    But I do. She’s going to ask us to do Show and Tell. Miss Raynham is going to ask us to “share” our experiences of Mayfield. She’s going to make me speak about Edith Sorrel. And if I speak about Edith I’m going to speak about Chance House and then…
    “I feel sick.”
    Weasel bangs his fist on the art bench. “Fleas.” He makes a show of picking something up between finger and thumb. “Do you think the fleas have got him, Miss Raynham?”
    “Wesley Parr. Stand out.”
    “But Miss Raynham, look at him.” Weasel points at me. “He doesn’t look too good, does he?”
    “He always looks like that,” says Niker.
    “No, seriously. Pasty face. Boils. Sick. It could be the Black Death, couldn’t it? I mean who’s to say?”
    “Wesley Parr – stand out!”
    Weasel stands up.
    “Over there.”
    Weasel moves slowly if jauntily towards the basins. Miss Raynham waits.
    “Right. Thank you, Wesley.”
    “Miss Raynham…” Kate has her hand up.
    “What is it now?”
    “I don’t think Robert does look very well.”
    “Thank you, Miss Nightingale.” Miss Raynham moves swiftly to my side and sticks a nail under my chin. “Florence is concerned about you,” she says.
    “I don’t want to talk about Chance House,” I say.
    “That’s lucky,” says Miss Raynham, removing her finger so fast my head falls on the desk. “Because, no-one’s asking you to.” She beams. “Now, if we could proceed…” She makes her way to the back of the classroom and fingers some pieces of paper on the map drawers. “What have we here?” She turns a