‘The vape that you’ve just been smoking.’
‘What vape?’ he says as something drops from the window, clangs on the conservatory roof and clatters down to the patio below. He holds out his hands. ‘There. No vape.’
‘You’ve just dropped it! Honestly, Leo, you must think I was born yesterday,’ I say, my voice rising.
‘I have NO IDEA what you’re talking about,’ he protests, marching to the door and holding it open for me. ‘Now will you just get out!’
He has red cheeks and the guilty, cornered air of someone who’s farted in a lift, but the only available tactic to him is to brazen this out. Unfortunately, he is no Talented Mr Ripley.
‘I’m talking about you vaping. But that wasn’t even why I came here.’
‘This is MY ROOM.’
‘And this is MY HOUSE,’ I say, realising as the words come out of my mouth that all I’d need is a batwing jumper and a Lady Di haircut to turn into my mother, circa 1989.
‘Look, don’t yell at me,’ I say, feeling my temperature rise and my temples throb. ‘We will get onto the vaping later. That’s quite bad enough, but I wasn’t even here to talk about that.’
‘I know,’ he huffs. ‘You were here to have a go about your AWFUL DELINQUENT CHILD leaving a bit of cheese on the counter.’
‘Well, yes, there was that too. But the main thing I was here to discuss with you was ... THIS.’
I thrust the phone at him, showing him the notification about the detention.
He peers in. ‘That’s me and Jacob in Disney World.’
I glance back and realise my screensaver has flipped on. ‘Not that.’ I try again. ‘THIS.’
Only now, the bloody thing is refusing to unlock – presumably because my facial recognition can’t cope with the steam coming out of my ears. I hit a few numbers in a bid to type in the code and, when that doesn’t work, abandon the phone and just come out with it.
‘Leo. You have aPrincipal’s detention. . .’
He releases a long sigh and rolls his eyes. ‘Is that all? You’d think I was wanted by the FBI.’
‘. . . and the reason you have that is that you’d been given a different detention and didn’t show up. And the reason for that – apparently – is that you haven’t submitted your coursework for the Art GCSE.’
‘I mean . . . it’s only Art.’
Stay. Calm.
‘It is a GCSE. If you’re going to do A Levels, you need to get enough points right across the board to stay in your school’s exceptionally good, highly oversubscribed sixth form.’
He’s not looking at me now. Instead, he’s sitting on the bed, putting on one of his trainers. Once he’s got that on, he starts looking for the other. Unfortunately, it’s concealed somewhere under the rubble of his life, buried probably for eternity like the lost Ark of the Covenant.
He starts throwing bits of paraphernalia around to try and find it.
‘Have you got nothing to say for yourself?’ I ask.
‘Nope.’
Then, having failed to find the shoe, he stands up and pushes past me.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Out.’
‘Oh no you’re not, young man. We need to talk about this. You’ve only got one shoe on for a start.’
‘UHMIGODDD! WOULD YOU JUST STOP MICROMANAGING ME.’
