Becoming P.T. Lyfantod - 48
A serial fantasy novel
What follows is Part 48 of Becoming P.T. Lyfantod
If you missed Part 1, start there:
Chapter Fifteen:
Dafydd Roberts
“Wh—what? Where am I…?” I stared around, briefly flummoxed by the cramped cell I found myself in and the sour-faced children I shared it with.
“Finally!” said the girl. “We were starting to think you’d never wake up.”
I shook myself, remembering. “Rudy? Coira? What happened? Just a moment ago, I was—and the two of you…” Recognition dawned. “Oh.”
“I don’t know why it took you and your friends so long to master that song.” said Rudy. “If you can even call it a song. It’s easy.”
“Indeed… You can attribute it to having an excellent teacher.” I rubbed my head. “Now. Where was I?”
The following afternoon, Iain, Stuart and I met up outside Iain’s music shop. Tom and Merry were still keeping weekends to themselves, leaving us to our own devices. When Iain emerged, sticky with dust and sweat, he was in a surprisingly pleasant mood. He was so cheery, in fact, he offered to treat Stuart and I to donuts at Parc Tawe. They weren’t exactly fresh, but we didn’t mind. And wandering the shops with our unanticipated treats, he told us of his plan.
“I’m in there for hours by myself,” Iain explained. “It gives me time to think. Honestly, I spend a fair amount of it thinking about Merry.” Stuart and I paused in our chewing to share a worried look. Iain’s good mood suddenly made me nervous.
“None of that,” Iain said sternly, reading our faces. “I’m not going to hatch some harebrained scheme to win her away from Tom.”
“Oh,” I said. “Good.” Somehow I wasn’t relieved.
“I was thinking,” Iain went on, “and I realized, I can’t go around acting like I like Merry. Right? I’ve got to be… aloof. It’s like you said. I don’t want her to think I’m trying to break up her and Tom.”
“Did I say that?”
“Because if I pressure her, and they break up, in her eyes, it’ll be my fault. At least partially. I’ll ruin my chances of ever changing her mind.”
“Yeah, that seems like what I said.”
“I was also thinking about how she’s always angry with him for starting trouble with us.”
“Because she doesn’t want to have to choose between her friends and her boyfriend.”
“Right. So my plan is, I’m going to do is be so nice to Tom that when he acts like himself, Merry can’t help but see him for the arse that he really is.”
“That’s brilliant,” said Stuart. “With you being so nice, he’ll look even worse by comparison.”
“Exactly.”
“And even if it doesn’t work out, you know, between you and Merry… It’s still a great idea for getting rid of Tom.”
“Ye of little faith.”
“Maybe we should all be nice to him,” said Stuart, chewing thoughtfully.
Iain smiled, pleased with our support. “We’ll kill him with kindness.”
The holidays rapidly approaching, mam-gu asked if there was anything I wanted for Christmas. When I told her I wanted a trumpet, she was more than a little surprised, given that I’d always played tuba, and had just given up band in favor of choir. She said she’d see what she could do, but couldn’t make any promises, musical instruments being expensive, and we not rich by any means. Meanwhile, Iain’s plan to destroy Tom by being nice to him went unobtrusively into action.
The shadowy denizens of Mynydd Pwll lost their particular affinity for Garish. He was no longer so frequent a victim of natural disasters and other acts of God. Hurlin and Eremin fought beside him, guarding his back as well as they did each other’s, and wen Tom violated the rules—which was often—Iain affably showed him the relevant passage in the Player’s Guide, rather than throwing it at him. We started calling him Tom, instead of Firth, and made suggestions to improve his gameplay. At school, we were pleasant, but not so much that his friends would make trouble.
Merry didn’t appear at all suspicious, only pleased everyone was getting along. Tom being Tom, it was hard to say whether our efforts were having any effect. Until one day, just a week before Christmas, he surprised us all by standing up to his own best mate, Dafydd Roberts.
It happened on a Thursday.
Stuart was walking back from the toilets during lunch, when who should appear around the corner but Dafydd and a few members of the football team. If Iain or I’d been with him, they probably would have left off, but Stuart on his own was a veritable magnet for bullying.
They launched in the moment they saw him, with taunts and jeers. Normally, Stuart would’ve made a quick about-face and found somewhere to hide till they were gone. This time he kept right on coming. Inconceivably, from the perspective Roberts and his gang. Stuart had a new trick up his sleeve, but they had no way of knowing that.
Stuart marched right up into Dafydd Robert’s face. Close enough to get a real good look at his nose hairs, which, along with the rest of Dafydd, were far along in development for his age. Shock of all shocks—Stuart smiled. And then he verily bellowed Lightfoot’s Disarming Lilt. Roberts was so stunned he almost fell over.
Unfortunately, magic had nothing to do with it.
He stared for a couple of seconds, then turned to his mates. “Jenkins has lost his bloody mind!” he cackled.
The song had failed.
They lifted Stuart up by his armpits and started carrying him backwards towards the toilets, laughing and cheering as they went. But whatever they’d had in mind, Stuart never found out—because just then a new voice called out behind him.
“Put him down.”
The procession halted. “What’s the matter, Tom?” called Dafydd Roberts, not far from Stuart’s ear. “Just having a bit of fun.”
“That’s finished now. Leave him be and go on back to lunch.”
“Wha—Why would we do that?”
“Because I’m telling you.” Suddenly, Tom sounded a lot closer than a moment before. And a good deal more menacing as well.
“What’s got into you, Firth?” Roberts demanded. “Why are you standing up for this nutter? He just tried to sing at me!”
“And I’m sure you lot were just minding your own business. Put him down and move along.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll make you, that’s what.”
“Make me? I’d like to see you tr—!”
Something heavy barreled into Dafydd Roberts, and Stuart’s world went topsy-turvy. Stuart found himself in a pile of bodies, and by the time he figured out which way was up and scooted away to safety, Tom and Dafydd were on top of one another, red-faced and struggling. As with all fights, a crowd materialized, pouring from doorways, seeping through cracks in the walls to egg on the participants. Then Mr. Jones, the burly, bearded science teacher was parting the throng. “Whoa! Break it up! I said break—it… up!” He hauled Tom and Dafydd to their feet. “What’s gotten into you boys?” He glowered at the two of them while they scowled at each other, their uniforms twisted out of place, their shirts untucked. Dafydd was missing a shoe. Neither of them answered.
“Have it your way,” said Mr. Jones. “You can be sure coach Gwilliam will be hearing of this. With me. The rest of you, back to lunch.” He stalked off, Tom and Dafydd trailing after, and Stuart realized he’d better get back before Dafydd’s friends got any ideas. Iain and I scarcely believed his account till we heard Tom and Dafydd both had detention. Tom himself seemed surprised he’d done it. When Stuart thanked him later, he went all mumbly and said not to mention it.
Afterwards, when they weren’t off snogging or whatever it was they did together, Tom and Merry sat with us during lunch, instead of the footballers. Iain’s plan was working, but not in the way he’d intended. We realized that Tom might not be exactly the villain we’d thought he was. That Merry might have slightly better judgment than we’d given her credit for. And that possibly—just possibly—we might one day come to see Tom Firth… as a friend.
Don't you just hate it when someone is nicer than you give him credit for?