said Dennis, gulping.
At that moment the headmaster’s face peered out of the window. “SCHOOL!” he bellowed. The playground fell silent. “Who kicked this ball?” He held the tennis ball between his fingers with the same sense of disgust that dog owners do when they are forced to pick up their dog’s doo-doo.
Dennis was too scared to say anything.
“I asked a question. WHO KICKED IT?”
Dennis gulped. “I didn’t kick it, Sir,” he offered tentatively. “But I did header it.”
“Detention today, boy. Four o’clock.”
“Thank you, Sir,” said Dennis, not sure what else to say.
“Because of your behaviour all ball games in the playground are banned for today,” added Mr Hawtrey before disappearing back into his study. A sigh of angry disappointment echoed around the playground. Dennis hated it when teachers did that, when they made everyone suffer to make you unpopular with your classmates. It was a cheap trick.
“Don’t worry, Dennis,” said Darvesh. “Everyone knows Mr Hawtrey’s a total…”
“Yeah, I know.”
They sat on their bags by the wall of the science block and opened their lunch boxes, devouring the sandwiches that were meant for lunch.
Dennis hadn’t told Darvesh about buying Vogue–but he wanted to find out what his friend thought about it–in a roundabout way.
Darvesh was Sikh. As he was in the same year as Dennis and only twelve he didn’t wear a turban yet. He wore a patka, a bobble-hat-type thing that kept his hair out of his face. That’s because Sikh men aren’t supposed to cut their hair. There were lots of different types of kids at the school, but Darvesh was the only one who wore a patka.
“Do you feel different Darvesh?” asked Dennis.
“In what way?”
“Well, just, you know, you’re the only boy in school who has to wear one of those things on your head.”
“Oh, that, yeah. Well, with my family of course I don’t. And when mum took me to India at Christmas to visit Grandma I didn’t at all. All the Sikh boys were wearing them.”
“But at school?”
“At first I did, yes. I felt a bit embarrassed ’cos I knew I looked different to everyone.”
“Yeah.”
“And then I suppose as people got to know me they realised I wasn’t really that different. I just wear this funny thing on my head!” He laughed.
Dennis laughed too.
“Yeah, you’re just my mate, Darvesh. I don’t really think about the thing on your head at all. In fact, I’d quite like one.”
“No, you wouldn’t. It itches like hell! But you know, it would be boring if we were all the same wouldn’t it?”
“It certainly would.” Dennis smiled.
Dennis had never had a detention before, so in a way he was quite looking forward to it. When he turned up at classroom 4C to report to the French teacher Miss Windsor, he noticed there was only one other person who had been sentenced to an hour’s incarceration. It was Lisa.
Lisa James.
Only the most beautiful girl in the school.
She was super-cool too, and somehow she always made her school uniform look like it was a costume in a pop video. Even though they had never spoken Dennis had a really big crush on Lisa.
Not that anything would ever happen though–her being two years older and six inches taller made her literally out of reach.
“Hi,” Lisa said. She had a gorgeous voice, rough round the edges but soft inside.
“Oh, hi, um…” Dennis pretended not to remember her name.
“Lisa. What’s your name?”
Dennis thought for a moment about changing his name to something cooler like “Brad” or “Dirk” to try and impress her, but realised that would be insane.
“Dennis.”
“Hi, Dennis,” said Lisa. “What are you in for?”
“I headed a ball into Hawtrey’s office.”
“Cool!” said Lisa, laughing.
Dennis laughed a little too. She obviously assumed that he had headed the ball into the headmaster’s office on purpose and he wasn’t about to correct her.
“What about you?” asked Dennis.
“I wasn’t ‘wearing the correct school uniform’. This time Hawtrey said my skirt was too short.”
Dennis looked down at Lisa’s skirt. It was quite short.
“I don’t care really,” she continued. “I’d rather wear what I want and get the odd detention now and again.”
“Sorry,” interrupted Miss Windsor. “There’s not really meant to be any talking in detention.”
Miss Windsor was one of the nice teachers who didn’t really enjoy telling pupils off. She would usually say “excuse me” or “sorry” before she did. She was probably in her late forties. Miss Windsor didn’t wear a wedding ring or seem to have any kids. She liked to exude a little French sophistication, throwing colourful silk scarves over her shoulder with mock nonchalance, and devouring four-packs of croissants from the Tesco Metro at breaktime.
“Sorry, Miss Windsor,” said Lisa.
Dennis and Lisa smiled at each other. Dennis got back to his lines.
I most not header balls into the headmaster’s window.
I most not header balls into the headmaster’s window.
I most not header balls into the headmaster’s window.
He looked over at what Lisa was doing. Instead of her lines, she was idly sketching some dress designs. A ball-gown with a plunging back looked like it wouldn’t be out of place in Vogue. She turned over the page and started sketching a strapless top and pencil skirt. Next to that she drew a long flowing white suit that went in and out in all the right places. Lisa clearly had a real flair for fashion.
“Excuse me,” said Miss Windsor. “But you should really concentrate on your own work, Dennis.”
“Sorry, Miss,” said Dennis. He started his lines again.
I most not header balls into the headmaster’s window.
I most not header vogue into the headmaster’s window.
I most not read vogue into the headmaster’s…
Dennis sighed and rubbed out the last few lines. He was getting distracted.
After about forty-five minutes, Miss Windsor looked at her watch anxiously and addressed the class of two.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but would either of you mind if we finished this detention fifteen minutes early? Only I would quite like to get home in time for Neighbours. Lassiter’s coffee shop is re-opening today after the dramatic fire.”
“No problem, Miss,” said Lisa smiling. “Don’t