Free Boys Don't Knit by T. S. Easton Page B

then?’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Serious about knitting. You’re not just doing it because you have to?’
    I stiffened. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked. ‘Why would I have to?’
    She looked a little embarrassed.
    â€˜Sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it. It’s because of the probation thing  … ’
    â€˜You know about that?’
    Now she was bright red.
    â€˜Um  …  my friend Veronica does the admissions,’ she said.
    â€˜Great. So does everyone know?’
    â€˜No,’ she said quickly, but still the colour of a ripe tomato. ‘Just me and Amelia.’
    â€˜Great,’ I repeated.
    Part of me was really cross about the lack of confidentiality, but another part of me was quite pleased that Natasha and her friend had been whispering about my shady past.
    â€˜Sorry,’ she said again. ‘If it’s any consolation Amelia and I think it’s quite cool.’
    â€˜Don’t worry about it,’ I said casually, forcing myself to avoid calling her Doll face.
    â€˜See you on Thursday,’ she called as I left.
    â€˜See you Thursday,’ I replied as the bell tinkled.
    19 th September
    No news yet from Ms Gunter about a new date to start Giving Something Back. I’m hoping the Mrs Frensham gig falls through and they send me somewhere else, where I’m less likely to be maimed. Until then, my Mondays are my own. I’ve started on the tank top using the navy Merino. I’m going quite slowly for now; I don’t want to drop any stitches and there’s no hurry. I’ve been doing just six or seven rows after I’ve finished my homework or just before bed. It’s brilliant for helping me to de-stress.
    Murder on my back, though. If I keep this up I’ll be a hunchback by the time I’m 21. Maybe I should take up yoga. I’m halfway to Loserville anyway, may as well take the train to the end of the line.
    20 th September
    There’s definitely something wrong with the plumbing in the house. Taps cough and splutter, then spew out milky white stuff. The kettle doesn’t work properly and last night Mum couldn’t get the SodaStream to work. Of course, this has prompted my parents to ramp up the innuendos again.
    â€˜There’s no fizz coming out of the nozzle,’ Mum shouted through to Dad.
    â€˜That’s not what you said last night,’ Dad called back.
    â€˜No!’ I screamed, putting my hands over my ears. ‘Just. No.’ Dad wiped away a tear and said he’d check the pipes.
    â€˜I’ll check your pipes,’ Mum said and it all kicked off again.
    I went up to my room at that point and unfortunately missed the rest of the double-act.
    21 st September
    Natasha has this totally infectious laugh and had a fit of the giggles when I was telling her about the Siege of Frensham at Knitting last night.
    â€˜You’re funny, Ben,’ she said. ‘You do make me laugh.’
    I’ll take it. Given that enrolling in Knitting 101 is a sure-fire repellent to most of the opposite sex I can’t afford to be fussy when it comes to these random compliments.
    â€˜Thanks,’ I said, trying not to look too pleased.
    I was still on a high as I was walking down the hall afterwards and Miss Swallow popped out of her classroom and asked me how the ziggurat was coming along.
    â€˜Really well,’ I lied effortlessly. ‘I’m working on the sacrificial victims at the moment. It’s a total bloodbath.’
    â€˜Do you need more clay?’
    â€˜Er, yes?’ As it happened, I had some in my pocket. I’ve been keeping a few lumps in wet newspaper under the bed, along with my needles and yarn in a cardboard box I’d begun thinking of as the ‘Box of Shame’. But I could hardly tell her that.
    She popped back inside the class and came back a moment later with another lump, wrapped in