The Latterson List

Chapter Eight - The Messages

Persistent rain eased toward the afternoon and had disappeared entirely by the time our final lesson had finished. The brooding grey of the sky was replaced with a pale blue, and sheer cold winds accompanied. I'd wasted my afternoon Music theory lesson staring out the window and fantasising about Monday's storm brewing again, but with such ferocity that it would blow Hamset away. Daydreams of my Latterson List invite shredding up in the wind occupied my mind. Maybe the storm would blow Katie's house away. Maybe the storm would gale Miss Isla's abuser into the sea. Maybe it would suck Jackson and Mary up into a vortex and deposit them in a field of manure.

Depressingly, the bitter wind remained just that, and not a biblical storm. The lesson end came suddenly, and Tom had to nudge me from my daydream (I was just at the bit where Mary landed head first in cow pat).

"You okay, P?" Tom asked, packing away his music history worksheet. "You seem distracted. Is it because that Rhys hasn't messaged back?"

To be honest, I hadn't thought about the mysterious texter that Bish had set me up with. And the fact that he hadn't replied didn't bother me at all.

"Yeah, I guess." I lied.

"Boys," Mr Barnette had appeared at our desk. "My favourite duet."

Now. I knew something was immediately afoot. Mr Barnette's tone was easily understood: he wanted something. I was immediately equipped with hundreds of get-out phrases and invisibilities that would have enabled me to escape whatever request Mr Barnette had. But Tom, oh, Tom. So easily persuaded by flattery.

"Oh, well, you don't have to say that!" Tom almost blushed. "What can we do for you?" He slung his arm around my shoulders, all companiony.

"I couldn't help but notice that neither of you have signed up for this year's cabaret!" Mr Barnette's fake shock was very convincing.

"Haven't they been rehearsing for the cabaret for weeks?" I asked. The school's cabaret was a variety performance that the music, drama and dance kids put on once a year. I actually liked going to watch it, but I'd never volunteered myself. One doesn't tend to have great stage presence when one is invisible.

"The rehearsals are well underway...which is why it's a shame that you're not performing!" Mr Barnette perched on the edge of our desk. Weird.

"Well," Tom said, just short of fanning himself. "We didn't realise we were good enough to be considered..."

Excellent compliment fishing, Tom.

"Of course you are!" Mr Barnette's fake-shock was Oscar-worthy. He placed his hand on his chest in mock offence. Between the two of them, they were a dame short of a pantomime. "And it just so happens that one of the acts has dropped out due to other-"

"Oh right," I rolled my eyes and resumed packing away my things.

Mr Barnette leaped up from the desk and crossed his hands together in a plead. "Please, boys. We're desperate!"

"Charming," I scoffed.

"P, let him speak!" Tom scolded, absolutely swept up in the excitement of being a second thought. "What do you need of us, Mr B?"

"The performer who dropped out, not naming any names Belinda, was a singing and piano act." Mr Barnette explained, launching his pleading hands into a sort of shakey up-and-down motion. "I know you guys aren't really into the whole stage thing, but I'd really appreciate it if you'd help me out just this one occasion."

Mr Barnette was right. I was not into the whole stage thing. I was half a second away from categorically declining the offer when I turned to see Tom's face.