I know. You’re wondering why I’m doing this. Poodle’s my friend (well, almost). And you and I know that I don’t have a particular problem with being queer. The thing is, I can’t help myself. I think it must be the drama. Poking the wasp’s nest with a stick until they fly out like lottery balls. Who will they sting? Not me, for sure. No one knows about me at Church. No one knows about me at school. Except for Poodle and Goldie, of course, and they’re not going to talk. Not now. Both of them are in this too deep. There’s no way they’re telling anyone.

Meanwhile, back in school, Harry’s directing the School Play. Antigone, by Sophocles. (Last year was The Frogs. I guess that’s what happens when the Head of School is also the Head of Classics.) Anyway, what it means is that Harry’s busy most lunchtimes; supervising rehearsals and helping with the production. Not that it matters. Thanks to horrible Mr. Scoones, I’m spending my lunchtimes practicing French essay techniques. Mr. Scoones sits by, eating his lunch, listening to old French songs on his portable cassette player. People like Edith Piaf and Jacques Brel. Sometimes he puts on a French film. He seems to think it’s a great treat for me, which makes it all even worse. Mr. Scoones is the kind of teacher who gives out detentions when he’s in a rage, and doesn’t dare go back on them. So now he’s being really friendly, as if I’d chosen to be with him, instead of being with Harry.

Harry’s lent me some more books, though; a book of poems called Crow, and a big book of prints by Escher. There are notes in both of them. It’s nice. It keeps me in touch with him. And of course, there’s Diamond Dogs, hidden behind my bookcase. I have to keep it hidden, because if my parents found it, they might guess about Harry and me. But I hardly see him now, except sometimes in the mornings, or when he’s on duty in the yard, or on the Upper Corridor. He always smiles when he sees me. I think perhaps he misses me too.

Everyone else is excited about the stupid school play. Mostly because Mulberry girls are in it. One of them is Becky Price, the red Flamingo girl from Church. Goldie told me that. (I think he’s got a crush on her.) Not that I care about the play, or the red Flamingo girl. But the end of term’s coming up. One more week till the Christmas break. Not that I care much for Christmas either. Bad TV, and fruitcake, and presents that well-meaning relatives think will appeal to a boy of fourteen. But at least I’ll be free of Mr. Scoones. For a couple of weeks, anyway.