Look at the sky

Look at the sky. Loads of it. Blue. All blue. And the only thing. Between me. And it. Is air. Millions of it. Tons. I only need. A lungful. Or two. Right now. I’d settle. For one. I’m getting. None. But it’s. The stupid. Whistling. Sound. In my. Throat. That’s going. To. Kill me. First.

Above me. Comes Miller. Panting. Actually. Panting. Try. To be. A bit. More subtle. Please.

“Sir,” he shouts. “Fitzpatrick’s dying again, sir.”

Mr Hall’s head, his whistle dangling, down towards me, appears.

“Where is your inhaler, Fitzpatrick? Have you left it back in the dressing room again?”

He bends further, nearer.

“Where. Is. Your. Inhaler?”

He talks, like Dad, on holiday, ordering food. And I just think: if I could answer, I wouldn’t need, the inhaler.

Other boys now. Nudging. Giggling. Imitating. Hands round throat. Choking. Whistling, through their teeth.

“Give us another tune,” says one.

At my side, where Mr Hall can’t see, I extend, my middle finger.

Hall turns, to Miller.

“See if you can find his inhaler. And hurry.” Miller sprints. “But no running in the school building.” His voice rises, filling the space, the air, between Miller, and him.

“You’re supposed to carry your inhaler at all times, Fitzpatrick,” says Mr Hall, giving me a row, for dying. But he’s right. I have special shorts. Mother-bought. With pockets. Marks. And Sparks. And gay. Ouch. Air rushes into my cramped lungs expanding them and stretching them to a size much bigger than they should be somehow giving me some relief but painful and I wonder for a moment if it’ll ever leave me. Then a wheezy whistly whoosh a cough a gasp and it’s gone again. But not for long. It comes back a second time. Less painful and less long and it slowly gets back to a normal rhythm.

I sit up just as Miller returns, running. He’s holding my inhaler with one hand, but keeping the other hand behind his back. He slows when he sees me, and sees I’m breathing again. His face scrunches with disappointment and wasted effort. He lowers his hand holding the inhaler and produces the other hand from behind his back. Ignoring Mr Hall, he shakes loose a ball of heavy white cotton.

“Look what I found in Spastic Fitzpatrick’s kit,” he spits.

Using two fingers of both hands he stretches the elastic of my Marks and Spencer shorts, holding them up for everyone to see. He is careful to show off the waistband too with it’s neatly stitched “Alistair Fitzpatrick” label.

I flop back onto the grass again and try to block out the laughter. Wheezy, breathless laughter. Stomach cramping, side-holding laughter. Bastards.