Hero. Sarah Lean

hear the men and gods and monsters cheer.

      “Leo!” George said. “The helmet’s good, but do I have to do everything else myself?”

      “All right, grumpy,” I said.

      I fell back on his bed and crossed out my three lines of notes and tried to write them again. Something weird happens between your imagination and your pencil. I tried hard, really I did, to describe what it was like to be a gladiator. It all felt real and bold and brilliant inside my helmet – and when I was in Clarendon Road with a cosmic crowd to cheer me on – but it was dull and lifeless on paper.

      “George, I think I need your help or I might end up letting us down.”

      “Give it to me,” he said.

      He typed out some of the information from his book. George had enough words for the both of us. He printed out a few pages and handed me two sheets. Lines and lines of words and paragraphs.

      “You can read that out in class,” he said. “It’s lots of facts about gladiators.”

      “Do you think we should have some pictures in our presentation?” I asked.

      He sniffed. “I’m not doing any more. I don’t feel well and I’ve got a headache. Anyway, it’ll be good.”

      I wasn’t so sure. This presentation was like a battle all on its own and I needed backup, even for George’s excellent words. I fell on his bed, let the papers float to the ground. I needed to do something so that Dad, Mum, Mr Patterson and the kids at school would know I had a good imagination, that I was good at something, not just relying on George.

      “What if I acted out a gladiator battle? Maybe with a tiger or something?”

      George did his you-are-kidding face. George is good at knowing when you need to be invisible. “In front of the whole class?” he said. “In front of Warren Miller?”

      It was a warning, not a question, and we both knew I wouldn’t do it.

      Kirsty said there’s a Warren Miller in every year at school. Ours was the new boy. He walked into our class in September with his chin in the air like he was looking way ahead of us. Some people just have it, whatever ‘it’ is. Everyone tried to impress him, until he gave them a soft punch in the arm and sealed their popularity fate. Or not.

      Warren ignored me and George. Everybody usually ignored me and George. Except Beatrix Jones, but then she’s kind of unusual. George and me sat together in class on the far-side desk of the middle row. It’s like a blind spot, which is good for not answering too many questions, but bad if you do want to get noticed. For something. Just once maybe.

      “Anyway, we won’t need any of that,” George said. “You’ve got your helmet and I’ve made this.”

      From under his desk he pulled out a cut-out-and-build-your-own-amphitheatre, made from white card.

      “Nobody else will have anything like this. What do you think?”

      George has a different sort of imagination to me. I didn’t say what I was thinking, that perhaps he should have coloured it in before he built it, or drawn people in it.

      “Impressive,” I said because he isn’t usually good at arty things, and because he’s my best mate. But I had a horrible feeling that nobody was going to be impressed by either of us.

      Not in the real world.

      

      George was off sick from school.

      I was daydreaming out of the window, reliving the battle with the gladiator of Rome and making it turn out differently, with me winning. Then I was thinking about Jack Pepper and that he didn’t know how small he was, when Mr Patterson called my name.

      “George isn’t here,” I said, which I thought was a good enough excuse to get me out of doing the presentation.

      “You can do your part,” Mr Patterson said.

      But I’d left the papers at George’s house, and, for some stupid reason, all I could remember about our presentation was the gladiator’s battle with the tiger, which I’d already sensibly decided I wasn’t going to do in front of our class. Especially Warren Miller.

      So there I was in front of everyone, wearing my helmet, trying to explain about gladiators, but I wasn’t good with words like George.

      “There’s sand on the floor, like a beach, but obviously it’s not a beach, and there’s trap doors. So then the tiger comes out …” I wasn’t sure how to show that so I snarled instead, “Grrrr,” and swung my coat. “This is a net and …” but I couldn’t be the tiger and the gladiator, so I said, “Mr Patterson will you pretend to be the tiger?”

      Mr Patterson nodded and kind of hunched his shoulders and made his hands like claws, frowning like Warren Miller was.

      “And this is supposed to be a sword … or it can be a trident, which is like a garden fork …” I had Mr Patterson’s metre stick and chopped it in the air a few times. I thought about describing the different types of gladiators but it was easier just to make slashing noises and let the class imagine what I was.

      Then, just when I was getting even more anxious about how to end the presentation, I swept the stick around low but hadn’t seen that Mr Patterson was going to pounce and accidentally tripped him over. He fell, sprawling across his desk, knocking books, pens and papers all over the floor.

      Everyone burst out laughing and Warren Miller started chanting, “Le-o! Le-o! Le-o!” Then all his mates joined in. My cheeks burned and I couldn’t say sorry to Mr Patterson because my throat was dry and squashed shut, but he just smiled and said, “That was a very enthusiastic presentation, Leo. Perhaps we’ve learned that gladiator helmets may have restricted their view somewhat.” He told the class to be quiet.

      I’d really let George down but I was hoping I could rescue things.

      “George made an amphitheatre,” I blurted out. I wanted Mr Patterson to know that we’d done some good things for the presentation, I just didn’t have them.

      “I’d like to see that,” Mr Patterson said. “You can sit down now, Leo.”

      He crawled behind his desk to pick up everything and I ducked my head and went back towards the empty space where George should have been. How was I going to tell him later that I’d really messed up?

      “Nice one, Leo,” Warren said from the back of the class. He grinned, showing his sharp crooked tooth. “Who’d have thought, you of all people.”

      “I didn’t mean to do it,” I said.

      “Even better,” Warren laughed.

      I was rigid, humiliated and waiting for more sarcasm.

      “Come and sit with us,” he said. Laughter rippled through the back row. “No, I mean it. Move up, Josh. Come on, Leo. We could do with someone like you. I like your style.”

      He beckoned me over.

      I couldn’t believe what was happening. Not only was it totally unexpected, it was pretty awesome too. I didn’t know what to say or do so I sat next to Warren, and he put his arm across the back of my chair. Warren’s big. Not big and lumpy like Josh, but as if he’s somehow more than a boy. More than me anyway.

      He leaned across and whispered, “See what I can do for you?”

      I think what he meant was that he was like one of those Roman senators who had a say in what happened to you. Thumbs down: nobody cares. Thumbs up: you’re in. So just like that, Warren Miller made me a kind of hero, even if it was only in front of our class.