Ellen grinned at me. ‘Believe me, I’ve tried. Please, knock yourself out.’
* * *
The last Wednesday of term, I helped Maddie learn her spellings, set up a track for the boys’ animal-versus-alien Olympics, and knocked on Dawson’s door. Choosing to interpret the faint grunt as an invitation, I went in, moving his giant beanbag to beside the desk where he sat, pencil in hand, and plopping myself down.
‘How was your day?’ I asked, for want of anything better to say.
He shrugged.
‘Things still the same?’
‘Why wouldn’t they be?’
‘Have you said anything to your mum or dad yet?’
‘No.’ He scribbled furiously at the paper.
I sat there, mentally treading water while Dawson went back to his picture. ‘I’m working on getting a car so we can go to Hatherstone sometimes after school. But it’s going to be a few weeks, yet.’
‘Whatever.’
‘Can I see your drawing?’
After rolling his eyes so hard I was surprised they came back again, he sat back and folded his arms. I heaved myself up off the beanbag and positioned myself close enough to see while still giving Dawson space. One glance, and I had to step closer.
‘Dawson.’ I goggled at the paper. ‘This is incredible.’
‘They’re not like what you can buy.’
I turned it over, read the double-page spread pencilled in on the other side.
‘They’re different,’ I said. They were. I didn’t know much about comics, but these were like a novel and a work of art all in one. The characters – a genius schoolboy inventor, a clueless teacher, a gang of bullies, a quiet girl who was kind, brave, funny – were perfect.
‘Did you create these yourself?’
He nodded. ‘That’s only a few of them. And I’m still working on Foul Face. His hair isn’t right yet.’
I laughed. ‘Dawson, these arefunny. Not ha-ha how cute, a ten-year-old boy made a joke. More like, this sums up my whole school life in one hilarious, genius-speech-bubble funny. I would buy this comic based on this one page.’ I looked at him. ‘And send it to everyone I went to school with.’
He stared back, uncertainty mixed with a shred of hope and pride in his eyes.
‘You know these are awesome, don’t you?’
He looked away. ‘Well, Lucas and Erik like them.’
‘How many do you have?’
He pulled open a drawer. Crammed full of finished, coloured-in comics.Squash Harris.
‘Can I read one?’
‘Promise you won’t laugh?’ His voice cracked.
‘I promise Iwilllaugh, if it’s as funny as this page.’ I held out one hand, gravely. ‘But I promise I won’t mock.’
We shook on it. I didn’t know whose hand was sweatier, but Dawson insisted I wipe mine on his duvet before touching his artwork.
I read all of episode one before Ellen came home, Dawson agreeing to lend me another if I kept his secret. I could understand why. The first edition made me want to weep. How he summed up the loneliness, the casual cruelty. The pain and the fear before the schoolboy became Squash Harris the genius.
