It’s bœuf bourguignon…”
She started crying uncontrollably again.
“You complete &**%$£%!”
Oops, sorry. I know even though real children do swear, you mustn’t have swearing in a children’s book. Please forgive me, I really am %$£©$*& sorry.
“You shouldn’t swear, Lisa,” said Dennis.
“Why not?” Lisa asked angrily.
“Because a teacher might hear you.”
“I don’t care who hears me,” said Lisa. “How could you do that to poor Miss Windsor?”
“I know… I feel so bad…”
“She’s probably weeping into her bœuf bourguignon now,” said Lisa as they stepped out into the busy playground. It was lunchtime, and people stood in groups, chatting and laughing, enjoying their hour of partial freedom. Football games were breaking out everywhere–games that Dennis would normally have joined in with, had he not been wearing a wig, make-up and an orange sequined dress.
And high heels.
“Maybe I should go and apologise,” said Dennis.
“Maybe?” said Lisa. “You have to. Let’s go and find her in the dining hall. She should be there, unless she’s jumped in the River Seine.”
“Oh, don’t make me feel any worse.”
As they made their way across the playground, a football rolled past them. “Kick it back, love,” shouted Darvesh.
Dennis couldn’t help it–the urge to kick the ball was too strong.
“Don’t be too flash,” said Lisa as he ran after the ball. But Dennis couldn’t help himself, and chased it aggressively. He stopped it neatly, then took a run up to kick it back to his friend.
But as he kicked the ball his high-heeled shoe flew off, and he toppled backwards.
At that moment his wig slipped back off his head and on to the ground.
Denise became Dennis again.
Time seemed to slow down. There Dennis was, standing in the middle of the playground, in a girl’s dress and make-up with one shoe on. Silence spread across the playground like snow. Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to look at him.
“Dennis…?” asked Darvesh incredulously.
“No, it’s Denise,” replied Dennis. But the game was up.
Dennis felt like he’d looked at Medusa, that Greek mythological monster who turned people to stone. He couldn’t move. He looked at Lisa. Her face was dark with worry. Dennis tried to smile.
Then out of the silence came a laugh.
Then another.
Then another.
Not the kind of laughter that greets something funny, but that cruel, mocking laugh, meant to hurt and humiliate. The laughter became louder and louder and louder, and Dennis felt as if the whole world was laughing at him.
For all eternity.
“You, boy,” boomed a voice from the school building. The laughter stopped in an instant, as the school looked up. It was Mr Hawtrey, the headmaster with the heart of darkness.
“Me, Sir?” asked Dennis, with a misguided tone of innocence.
“Yes, you. The boy in the dress.”
Dennis looked around the playground. But he was the only boy wearing a dress. “Yes, Sir?”
“Come to my office. NOW.”
Dennis started to walk slowly towards the school building. Everyone watched him take each uncertain, wobbling step.
Lisa picked up the other shoe. “Dennis…” she called after him.
He turned round.
“I’ve got your other shoe.”
Dennis turned back.
“There’s no time for that, boy,” bellowed Mr Hawtrey, his little moustache twitching with rage.
Dennis sighed and click-clacked his way to the headmaster’s office.
Everything in the office was black, or very dark brown. Leather volumes of school records lined the shelves, along with some old black and white photographs of previous headmasters, whose stern expressions made Mr Hawtrey look almost human. Dennis had never been in this room before. But then it wasn’t a room you ever wanted to visit. Seeing inside meant only one thing.
YOU WERE IN DEEP POO.
“Are you deranged, boy?”
“No, Sir.”
“Then why are you wearing an orange sequined dress?”
“I don’t know, Sir.”
“You don’t know?”
“No, Sir.”
Mr Hawtrey leaned forwards. “Is that lipstick?”
Dennis wanted to cry. But even though Mr Hawtrey could see a tear welling up in Dennis’s eye, he continued his assault.
“Dressing up like that in make-up and high heels. It’s disgusting.”
“Sorry, Sir.”
A tear rolled down Dennis’s cheek. He caught it with his tongue. That bitter taste again. He hated that taste.
“I hope you are utterly ashamed of yourself,” continued Mr Hawtrey. “Are you ashamed of yourself?”
Dennis hadn’t felt ashamed of himself before. But he did now.
“Yes, Sir.”
“I can’t hear you, boy.”
“YES, SIR.” Dennis looked down for a moment. Mr Hawtrey had black fire in his eyes and it was hard to keep looking at him. “I am really sorry.”
“It’s too late for that, boy. You’ve been skiving off your lessons, upsetting teachers. You’re a disgrace. I am not having a degenerate like you in my school.”
“But, Sir…”
“You are expelled.”
“But what about the cup final on Saturday, Sir? I have to play!”
“There will be no more football for you, boy.”
“Please Sir! I’m begging you…”
“I said, ‘YOU ARE EXPELLED!’ You must leave the school premises immediately.”
15 There Was Nothing More to Say
“Expelled?”