Different Class by Joanne Harris Page B

.

9

    Michaelmas Term, 1981
    Dear Mousey,
    Goldie thinks David Bowie is gay. He said so today at lunchtime, in Harry’s room. Goldie’s dad sometimes preaches in Church; he thinks the Homosexual Stranglehold on the Arts is what’s holding Britain back.
    I said: ‘ I don’t think he’s gay.’
    Poodle said: ‘It’s a persona. In real life, he’s married and everything. Besides, it’s the eighties. What do you care?’ Goldie looked disgusted. But Poodle was defiant. ‘I know it’s a sin in the Bible,’ he said. ‘But so is eating shellfish.’
    Harry was marking books at his desk. I was sure he was listening. His head was at an angle, you know, as if he was paying attention. And there was a look on his face. Not quite a smile, but nearly.
    ‘What do you think, sir?’ I said.
    Harry looked up. ‘About what?’
    ‘You know. Sin .’
    Harry smiled. For a moment I was almost sure I’d gone too far. Then he said: ‘I don’t believe God really cares what you eat, or what you wear, or whom you love. I think that if God made the stars, He must have a greater perspective.’
    We didn’t say anything more after that. But I thought about it, Mousey. What Harry meant is that God’s too big to care about who you have sex with. After all, why would He care? Why does He care about anything? And then that started me thinking about My Condition, Mousey, and how much God would really care if He found out I was different—
    Of course, my parents think He would. But then, my parents go to Church. They believe in all that stuff. My dad even preaches there sometimes. After Bunny and Netherton Green, they started making me go, too, to help with My Condition. But although I got better at hiding it, My Condition never changed. I guessed either God wasn’t listening, or He wanted me this way. I got pretty good at pretending, though; speaking in tongues and fainting. That’s what you do in our Church – at least, if you know what’s good for you. It’s even kind of fun sometimes. Like scoring at a football match, with everyone shouting and hugging you. No one hugs me, generally. I’m not very huggable.
    At Netherton Green, everyone thought I was a freak and a weirdo. But this time, Mousey, it’s different. St Oswald’s has turned out OK for me. I even have a nickname. Didn’t I tell you that, Mousey? Yes, they call me Ziggy now. Because of my favourite album. Ziggy and the Spiders from Mars . Nicknames are important when you’re trying to be cool and fit in. And Ziggy’s such a cool name. Even my dad seems to think so.
    ‘Your chums look very sound,’ he said over the dinner table last night. ( Sound is the highest praise from Dad.) Chum . That’s a kind of dog food. How appropriate, I thought. But I didn’t say it aloud. I’ve learnt that with Dad, my jokes don’t always go down very well.
    ‘Yeah, they’re pretty cool,’ I said.
    ‘It isn’t yeah , it’s yes ,’ said Mum. ‘Or do you think you’re American?’
    I grinned inside. Americans are almost as bad as gays, in her world. Except for those Americans who run charismatic churches, and preach against the gays, and the blacks, and the Jews that are ruining the country.
    The fact is, my two almost-friends are anything but sound. Goldie’s a stuck-up hypocrite, and Poodle is a little freak who doodles over everything. It’s compulsive, he tells me. So are his other habits, he says; his tapping, jigging and twitching. In the old days, they’d have called him possessed. Those Church folk love their demons.
    Dad enjoys his demons too, being such a big churchgoer. And Poodle’s mum makes puppydog eyes at the visiting preacher. It’s funny, how certain preachers attract so many female fans. Our Church has plenty of those, being a charismatic church with lots of audience participation. Sometimes a girl from Mulberry House comes in to play the guitar and sing. Bright red hair and a long neck, like maybe a flamingo. One of those Churchy voices, clear,