#round him out..take sandpaper to his edges and make him soft shaped

[irradiatedsnakes]

(makes your triangle man into a circles man)

[littlekatleaf]

The shape that I'm in now

(It's 1 am, I must be posting Roadrat snz fic. This takes place in the same 'verse as 'Buried in a burning flame' and 'My heart as spent as ashes, but takes place before them. Not that it's necessary for the story, just to orient.)

Whatever here that’s left of me Is yours just as it was ~ Hozier, As It Was

Junkrat rolled over, trying to ease the ache in his hip, but it didn’t help. Sheets scratchy on oversensitive skin. Eyes hot, dryer than the fuckin’ desert, nose running like to make up for it. Flipped the pillow, but both sides were already too warm. Everything hurt, from toenails to eyelids. Even his fucking missing limbs hurt, however the hell that worked. What sucked the most, though was the silence. It pulsed against his eardrums, buzzed in his head.

Had told Roadhog to go. No choice about it. Bones’d been aching with impending fever, head felt packed with sand. Knew what was coming and didn’t want Roadhog to see. Didn’t want to be seen. Not when felt like his skin was peeled back, leaving all of his quivering insides bare. Being sick was being vulnerable. In Junkertown being vulnerable meant you was good as dead.

Felt Roadhog watching him from the first handful of sneezes. “Nobody fuckin’ cleans this shithole,” Junkrat had grumbled, trying to play it off. Roadhog said nothing.

Didn’t say a word when Junkrat blamed the spices in the stir fry for the second fit.

Unfortunately the third handful of sneezes seemed to have blown all thoughts from his brain and he was still trying to recover when Roadhog asked, “All right, Rat?”

“‘M fine. If you want to get in my pants just say so.” Might have intended it to sound flirty but it came off pissy.

Roadhog crossed his arms over his chest. “Ain’t like that. You just look…” “Ain’t neither of us winning a beauty pageant, Hog. Mind your business.” Least that time sounded like maybe he could be joking, even with the edge in his voice.

Tried to bite the sneezes back after that. Pinch them off. Smother them in his sleeve. But every single time he felt Roadhog’s eyes on him, watching. Made the hairs raise at his nape and finally he snapped, shouting at Roadhog to get the fuck out and leave him alone.

Roadie had, and he was fine with it. Just perfectly fuckin’ apples, mate. Went to bed, tried to sleep it off. But couldn’t. Now he tossed back the sheets, pushed himself up, buckled on his prosthetics. Make himself tea. Caffeine might dull the headache. Heat’d feel good on his throat.

You wanted to be by yourself... teasing whisper of her voice through the buzzing. You told him to go. You should be happy - here all alone with your disease. Could practically feel her breath at his ear and he swayed for a minute, dizzy. He doesn’t want to be anywhere near you.

“Shows what you know. Roadhog likes it when I sneeze.” Hated how defensive it sounded. Proof that he was only good for one thing.

Perhaps, but this is beyond even his depravity. Look at yourself, Jamison.

Without really meaning to, his gaze flicked over to the mirror that hung above the washbasin, then away again. Not before he’d seen himself though - scarecrow hair, singed in more places than he’d realized, skin and bones, dark circles around his eyes, nose red, lips cracked from breathing through his mouth. Expression going blank as the need to sneeze came over him. “Huh-R’iiishh! Isshew! R’iishew!” Managed to catch them in a tissue at the last minute, but it was a close thing.

Disgusting. And weak. I absolutely cannot fathom why he has not left you behind yet. Ill so often. Missing half your limbs. In need of protection. What kind of man are you?

“Shut it,” he said. Much as hated to admit it, she was right. Knew full well all the ways he was lacking. Rubbed his dripping nose on a handful of tissues.

Perhaps he just enjoys toying with you. Drawing things out before he takes your treasure and returns to the Queen. Her tone is a purr. A predator does love to tease its prey.

“Roadhog ain’t the Queen’s. Not anymore.”

No? He told you that, did he?

“Yes.” Sort of. What had Roadhog said when they met? Freelance? What did that mean? He wouldn’t… would he? If he got pissed off enough? If Junkrat was enough of a pain in the ass? A sudden chill whipped through him and he shivered. Grabbed a windcheater off the hook on the back of the door and yanked it over his head. Roadie’s, he realized as the soft cotton engulfed him. At least he was warm. Tugged the hood up over his head. Maybe that would block out her voice.

Pathetic… The whisper echoed in his ears, then faded - taking his energy with it. Giving up on the tea plan he curled up in a corner of the couch. Pulled in his knees, tugged the windcheater down over him and tried to disappear. Just needed to get smaller. Smaller.

A sneeze jag shook him awake. Took him a second to catch his breath and open his eyes. There was Roadie, holding out a tissue. Didn’t want to take it, but the alternative was worse. And messier. “Thanks,” he said, stuffiness blurring the consonants. Blowing his nose helped, but only a little.

Roadhog didn’t say anything, just turned on his heel and disappeared into the kitchen. Kettle rattled, water hit the basin. Click snap of the flame catching on the stove. Clink of spoon against mug.

Apologize, Jamison. Unless you want to test his patience even further.

Don’t need your input, he said, but only in his head. Always weirded Roadhog out when he answered aloud. Cleared his throat, attempted to pitch his voice loud enough to carry, even though felt like he’d been swallowing sandpaper in his sleep. “Oi, Roadie?”

Nothing. Sighing to himself, Junkrat untangled his limbs, ignoring the shivering. Maybe Roadhog wouldn’t notice. Managed to reach the kitchen this time. Roadhog’s back was turned, head slightly bent over whatever he was doing.

Rat hesitated in the doorway. While his mouth usually moved faster than his brain, at the moment neither seemed to be online. He leaned against the jamb, waiting for inspiration to strike. Instead he sneezed, catching them in his sleeve, then coughing after. “Ugh, fuck. I’ll wash this I swear.”

“...” The skepticism was clear even without words.

“Ain’t gonna forget this time.”

“...”

Junkrat coughed a laugh. “Yeah, you’re right I probably will.” Rubbed the back of his neck where it ached. “Roadie, I’m…” sorry he was going to say but Roadhog turned, offering a steaming mug.

“I know. Drink.”

Couldn’t smell anything through his clogged nose so he sipped warily. Then sighed, relief and gratitude. “Where the hell’d you find Lemsip?”

“Bobby had some.”

“An’ he just gave it to you?” Meds were hard to come by, even stupid shit like cold medicine.

Roadhog shrugged. “He owed me somewhat.”

The steam made his nose run and tickle and he sniffled a little. Which only served to trigger another round of sneezes and he slopped hot liquid over his hand. “Ow, god fucking dammit.”

“Here, let me…” Roadhog reached for his hand, but he stepped back.

“No, it’s fine.”

“Rat. I said let me.”

The darkness of his tone sent a shiver down Rat’s spine. The command in it was as unmistakable as the warmth. Junkrat stopped, pinned, barely breathing. Roadhog wiped his hand, carefully, like the burn could have been serious. Then he laid a palm over Rat’s forehead, fingers pleasantly cool. Junkrat leaned into the touch.

“Really got a fever, don’t you.”

It wasn’t a question, exactly but Junkrat nodded anyway. “Feelin’ shit, to be honest.” A hot flush chased the chills. Had to tell Roadie the truth, but didn’t make it any easier.

“You hurting?”

Rat shrugged, nodded again.

“Come on,” Roadhog put an arm around him, led him back into the bedroom. “Lie down.”

“Ain’t tired,” he tried. Not quite enough energy to be a proper brat.

“Not planning on sleep. Lie down.”

Junkrat did as he was told, but closed his eyes as the bed dipped and Roadhog sat down beside him. With gentle fingers he disconnected Junkrat’s prosthetics and set them aside. Even though he’d only been wearing them a short time, they’d already rubbed sore spots on his skin. Roadhog knew to avoid those places as he began to massage the muscles in Rat’s forearm, kneading until the knots loosened, then moved on to Rat’s thigh.

As the tension drained away, Rat sighed so deep was almost a groan. “God, that’s good.” Roadhog let go of him, but didn’t move away. There was the soft sound of a jar being opened and a teasing scent of menthol that Rat could smell even through the congestion. Vicks, of course. “For the cough,” he asked, smirking.

“It’ll help,” Roadhog said, but this time Rat knew it was a question. Making sure he was okay with it.

“It will,” Rat agreed. Put him back on easier footing. Hog gave him a little care, he’d get Hog off. Fair and square.

Roadie slid his hands up under the windcheater and goosebumps rose in the wake of his touch. Junkrat’s back arched, “Oh,” he breathed. “It’s so… Itchew! Huh-Itchh! Itchhuh!” Luckily he’d pulled the sleeves over his hand because he covered just with his hand before realizing.

“Bless you,” Roadhog said, without pausing from the massage.

“Th...thank y-Ihchuuh! Ah’tchh! Chh!” The sensations together were almost overwhelming. Felt like he was tingling along every nerve, shivering with both chills and desire, surprised to find himself going hard, even as he kept sneezing.

“You blushing, or is that the fever?” Roadhog’s voice a rumble in his ear and even that made a shudder run through him.

“Both,” he sighed. Nothing he could do about it, body betraying him with every sneeze.

Roadie chuckles. “You do that so well.”

“Wh… Huhitch!... Itch! Ishhew! … what?"

“Lose control.” An answer but also a command as he tugged Rat’s boxers down and slid inside, surprisingly gently.

“Oh…” Words gone. Thoughts gone. Only feeling left. Heat, fever, want, like fire in his blood. Waves of trembling over him. Hog deep inside, moving with a gentle but implacable rhythm, driving him higher, stoking the flames. He clenched his mech hand in the sheets, clung to Hog with his flesh hand, fingers tightening convulsively. And as the flames built so, too, did the need to sneeze. Little panting breath, interrupted by sniffles and teasing hitches.

“Lose it, Rat,” Roadhog said.

“Ah’Rrrishhah! Ushhew! Isshah!” The flames engulfed him, he shook with release. For a long, long moment he could only blink blearily at the ceiling, utterly spent. “Holy shit,” he managed, finally.

At some point Roadie’d gotten a cool washcloth and he wiped it carefully over Rat, washing away sweat and the vaporub. Just when the cold was about to set him shivering, Roadhog pulled a blanket over him, then leaned down and kissed his forehead. “You did good, Rat.”

A burst of warmth flowered in his chest and tears sprang up. Rat blinked them back, scrubbed his face with his hand. “‘M a fucking mess,” he said.

“...”

“I mean, sure we have fun. But look at me.” Waved a hand over himself. “Missing a piece or two. Fuckin’ sick all the time. Maybe we should just… go our own ways.”

“...”

“Got enough of a haul to make up for the fight in the bar. Enough to make this bodyguard gig thing worthwhile. We should maybe quit while we’re ahead.” Before you get tired of me, he didn’t say, but it was there on his tongue.

“Rat.” Clink of buckles as Roadhog took off his mask.

Junkrat resisted the urge to look at him. Didn’t want to read the truth of his feelings in his eyes.

“Look at me.”

He does, for a second, then away again.

“You see the scars. All of them. You think they make me ugly?”

“No!” Surprise had him actually meeting Roadhog’s gaze. Caught, he couldn't look away. “Just part of who ya are.” He reached up and traced one from the corner of Roadie’s eye, curving down and along his jaw. No, the scars had surprised him at first, but never bothered him.

“Need the hogdrogen. The mask. So I’m weak?”

“Course not.” First person to mistake Hog for weak wouldn’t live to regret it.

“This place tried to kill us. In so many ways. But it fucking hasn’t. Don’t let it win, Jamie. Don’t let it.”

Junkrat swallowed hard. Nobody called him that, not for years and years. “I won’t,” he said.

Roadhog lay next to him and Junkrat curled into him. Roadhog pulled him closer, carded his fingers through Rat’s hair. “Sleep, Jamie.”

I’m yours, he thought as he drifted away. Whatever’s left of me.

[thenovelartist]

An Impromptu Proposal, 24-25

<<Previous Next>>

24. Giving up

Hospitals were soul-sucking voids. True pits of despair. It held a weighty air of hopelessness, and the smell of antiseptics was a reminder of just how many illnesses were floating around the place. Adrien was thankful that the miraculous cure always fixed everything because he never wanted to end up here.

Marinette was clinging to his hand, pulling strength from him as well as giving him the strength to be here. He clung to her tighter, needing everything she so willingly gave him to be able to get through this visit.

He knew the way to Nathalie’s room all too well. No one could figure out her ailment despite every single person in this wretched hospital knowing she was growing worse. They’d told him before that the best they could do was make her comfortable as possible. It was one of the worst things Adrien could imagine being told. That his family member was suffering and the doctors, even with all their advanced medicine and medical practices of this day and age, couldn’t do anything.

When he opened the door to Nathalie’s room, he was greeted with the typical yet no less heartbreaking sight of an all too white room that housed Nathalie: a once strong woman who was now frail in a thin hospital bed. Tubes were everywhere, in her arms and connected to the air mask on her face. The soft beeping of a heart monitor was in the background, only adding to the eeriness of this place.

“Hey Nathalie,” Adrien softly greeted, immediately pulling the only chair in the room up to her bedside.

She grunted then glanced over at Marinette.

Oh yeah. I hadn’t told her. “Ah, yes.” Adrien reached out to grab Marinette’s hand again, pulling her to sit on his knees. She was small enough to fit, and unfortunately, there wasn’t much of a choice.

“Nathalie, meet Marinette. She’s a designer’s assistant at the company, but she’s a friend of Nino’s. You remember Nino, right?”

Nathalie gave a weak nod.

“So, Marinette and I have known each other a while, and when Nino and his girlfriend started pushing us together, we found we really fit. And recently… we just got married.”

Nathalie’s eyes widened in surprise.

“I know,” Adrien said, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s surprising, but we fit together really well and I’m really happy with her.”

“It’s really nice meeting you, Nathalie,” Marinette said. “I wish it would have been under better circumstances.

Nathalie gave what looked to be a shrug before she reached up to grab her mask, pulling it away from her face. “On the table,” she said, pointing a shaky finger towards the table next to her bed. “A pin.”

Adrien glanced over at the bedside table, seeing a blue and gold pin laying on it. He reached over to grab it, looking over the oddly shaped pin.

“Needed… to tell you,” Nathalie said, her voice shockingly weak compared to the once strong and authoritative tone she carried. “That… that pin… I need you to give it… to Ladybug and Chat Noir.”

His gut positively dropped. No. “W-why?” he asked, trying and failing to keep his voice steady.

“Its… miraculous,” she said, before holding that air mask over her face for a moment. She took a deep breath before pulling it away. “Tell them… I’m sorry.”

No no no Adrien thought. No way. His mouth was dry, his tongue feeling like sandpaper. “You… were Mayura?”

The words almost couldn’t come out, yet he forced them. And a pang hurt his heart when he saw the guilt on Nathalie’s face. “I was,” she answered. “I… I only did it for Hawkmoth.”

“The original Hawkmoth,” Adrien clarified.

She nodded. “Your father.”

The words were so blunt, they almost went over Adrien’s head, yet they still hit Adrien in the chest, making it shockingly hard to breathe. “My father?”

Nathalie nodded. “Wanted… to bring your mother back.”

His world was going blurry around him, dark spots encroaching into his vision.

Marinette’s hand wrapped around the back of his neck, her fingers slowly stroking the hair at his nape. The gesture, something akin to what Ladybug would do for Chat to keep him calm, kept him still in reality when all Adrien wanted was to fade away.

“Adrien’s father was Hawkmoth to bring back his mother,” Marinette repeated, clearly seeking clarification. “And you were Mayura in order to help him.”

Nathalie nodded. “But… Lila Rossi… Backfired on us.”

Adrien couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“I’m sorry, Adrien,” she said, wheezing. “For everything.”

Numbly, Adrien reached out to guide the mask back over Nathalie’s face. “Take it easy, Nathalie,” he said. “You’ve spoken a lot. I don’t want you to have a coughing fit.”

Her next words were muffled, but Adrien could still hear them. I’m sorry.

After Adrien removed his hand from her mask, Nathalie pulled it off again. “Forgive me,” she said. “And forgive your fa—”

Just as Adrien knew she would, she broke into a heaving coughing fit.

“Nathalie!”

Her heartrate had skyrocketed as she heaved, gasping and clinging to her mask.

Nurses came rushing in, asking him to leave, and ultimately, it was Marinette who pulled him out of the room.

“Adrien,” Marinette called, clinging to his arm. “Adrien?”

He barely heard her, sparing her a glance before looking down at the peacock miraculous in his hand that Nathalie had given up.

“Let’s go home,” she whispered, coaxing him out of the hospital and towards the car.

He barely registered the fact she slipped his keys out of his pocket so she could be the one to drive home. Probably for the better. Adrien couldn’t take his eyes off the miraculous in his hands most of the drive home.

 ...

25. Hawkmoth’s defeat

Nathalie was stable for now, but Adrien knew what the doctors meant by “it could be any day.” She’d looked paler than he had ever seen her, but it was her words more than her condition that had taken his whole world and tilted it on its axis.

She was Mayura, And his father had been Hawkmoth.

It was a lot to accept, and two days was hardly enough time.

When he’d gone home that night, Marinette had held him all night long as he cried, and then he called out sick that next day because he was in bad shape and he knew it.

But he couldn’t call out today. Today, Lila was meeting him in his office for a “lunch”, and he was hell-bent to get that miraculous off her no matter what it took. He didn’t care if that meant pinning her to the floor and taking if from her screaming.

He’d get that brooch, and he would end this.

His phone buzzed. He quickly checked it, only to see a message from his lady. You’ve got this. XOXO <3 You have all my ladybug luck, mon chaton.

He felt tension leave his body as he smiled at his phone. He was still anxious, but just knowing his lady was there wishing him luck…

It made him determined to succeed. For her and their future.

A knock sounded on his office door, and a quick glance at his phone proved that Lila was here for lunch. She’s here he texted back.

Got it. On my way up to back you up.

Thanks, bugaboo. He put his phone down and called out, “Enter.”

Lila opened the door, flashing him a smile. “Hey, I brought you something from my favorite place.”

“Perfect,” Adrien said, staring at the brooch attached to the ribbon on her neck. He just had to get close to her and snatch it. That was all.

She sat down on the other end of his desk and unloaded the food from the bag. Throughout the lunch, they chatted, Adrien doing everything he could to make Lila as comfortable as he could.

“You know,” Lila said, their meals nearly gone. “I… I’ve been meaning to say this for a while, but now that we’re alone, I feel like I can finally come clean. I… I’ve been in love with you for the longest time.”

The smile that Adrien gave her was about seventy-five percent real. The only reason it wasn’t more was because he was trying to withhold that predatory smirk that wanted to surface. This is my chance. “I feel like you’ve alluded to as much.”

She giggled shyly. “I suppose I did. I just… it was hard to come out and say it. I’m not as direct as you,” Lila said, giving him a shy smile and even a blush. She’s a good actress. “But…I’ve had these feelings for a while now. And… I just had to tell you, I couldn’t hold back much longer.”

“Well… I’m really flattered,” Adrien said, glancing away and rubbing the back of his neck as though he was embarrassed. The thought of Marinette teasing him over her noticing that habit and teasing him about how cute it was was surely enough to put a blush on his cheeks. “I… I can’t say if I return the feelings or not, considering I don’t feel like I know you well enough to say.”

“That’s okay,” Lila assured, suddenly standing from her seat to round the desk. “I think that that’s fair of you to say. So, what about we take some time to get to know each other?”

With her new spot perched on the edge of his desk, she began rubbing her foot against his leg, sending him a sultry sort of smile.

He returned it, his opportunity becoming clearer. “I think we could work something out,” he said, standing from his seat and placing his hands on either side of her hips, allowing him to lean close to her. Please don’t kiss me he mentally begged. He would flirt that miraculous right off her neck, but he drew the line at a kiss.

She giggled, her shoulders shaking playfully. “How about this?” she said, placing a hand on his chest and causing his heart to pound uncomfortably. “I take you out to this fancy club I know. It’s a perfect chance to mix and mingle with people with connections.”

He hummed, leaning forward in a way that pushed against her hand, coaxing her to lean back. He hadn’t expected to get her all the way down on his desk, but he supposed she was more vulnerable that way. “That sounds good to me.”

“Why, Mr. Agreste,” she purred, a new gleam in her eyes that he hadn’t expected to appear. “Quite forward, aren’t we?”

“I prefer to get straight to the point.”

She chuckled, a dangerous kind of chuckle that he wasn’t comfortable with. “Do you do this to all the girls you meet with?”

“Only the ones I find interesting.” Which was actually not a lie. He was very interested in Marinette, and he was very interested in the broach on Lila’s neck.

“I didn’t know you had this in you,” she purred, shifting in such a way that brought attention to her breasts.

Not that he cared about her body. But he played up this ruse anyway. “You’re just a vixen, aren’t you?” he said, reaching to tuck her hair behind her ear.

“You’re not so innocent yourself. You seem like you’ve done this before.”

“Once or twice,” he dismissed, as he slowly moved his hand from where he tucked her hair behind her ear to cradle the back of her neck. From there, he could feel the button on the back that was holding the ribbon on her neck. His smirk widened. That would be easy to pull off.

Problem was she reached up to grab his tie, slowly pulling him down. “Well, want to make it a third?”

He looked at that broach, a rash plan snapping to his mind. “Sure.”

He leaned down the rest of the way, shocking Lila into gasping. But in a flash, he grabbed the brooch with his teeth causing her to shutter and her grip to loosen, giving him just enough time to undo the button and pull away from her.

“Thanks for the gift, Butterlie,” he said, her eyes widening in shock as she propped herself up on her elbows. “I’ll treasure it.”

She was stunned speechless. “W-what?”

But he was already making his way towards the door, slinging it open to reveal Marinette standing there.

“Seems like I didn’t need to intrude,” she said with a smirk.

“Of course not, bugaboo,” he said, glancing over at Lila. “I had it all under control.”

“I knew I could trust you, kitty,” she returned, also looking at Lila with a wickedly victorious grin on her face.

“W-what’s going on?” Lila said, her voice shaky with betrayal as she stood from the desk.

“Poor butterfly looks a little stunned,” Adrien purred out.

“Then let me explain,” Marinette said. “After you caused us so much trouble with all these akumas and all our failed attempts to steal your miraculous and your wonderful little ‘Anti-Superhero Fanclub’, we knew we had to try a different approach. Lucky for us, you couldn’t keep your sights off my husband, so we decided to use it against you.”

“You… you’re…” Suddenly, her expression went from stunned to furious.

“You’ve lost,” Marinette firmly iterated. “Go home, and we’ll let you off the hook. Otherwise, you’re gonna have five superheroes shamelessly haunting you. It will be easy enough to show off what the butterfly miraculous looks like and prove you were the one who wore it.”

Lila’s face grew red, but she was still speechless.

Adrien pointed to the door. “You better go, or I can call security to take you away?”

She growled, stamping her foot like a child. “You’re disgusting! I hope you both live miserable lives for tormenting me like this! Stealing that thing I worked so hard to get. Do you know who the original Hawkmoth was?”

“My father,” Adrien coldly answered, shocking Lila once again. “Go home, Lila. You’ll never torment Paris again.”

In a flash, she shoved Adrien, slamming him against the wall and reaching for the miraculous in his hand. But Marinette was quicker, yanking her off of him and tackling her to the ground.

A green figure and yellow one suddenly appeared, each grabbing Lila and holding her securely against the ground. “Whoa there, girl,” Carapace said. “I think Chat Noir and Ladybug here gave you a pretty good deal. But if you don’t want to take it, we’re happy to make you public, aren’t we, Rena?”

“Very much,” Rena said, appearing in the doorway, phone in hand. “I’m sure the Ladyblogger will love to see this.”

“I’m sure everyone in Paris will,” Queen Bee agreed, helping Carapace pull a restrained Lila off the ground. “After all, the Police are waiting outside and they’ll love to know just who makes their lives so miserable by causing chaos around the city on a weekly basis. Akuma attacks take up a lot of resources, don’t you know.”

“No!” Lila cried, resisting every step that Queen Bee and Carapace forced her to take. “You can’t do this!”

“We already did,” Marinette said. “It’s your fault, really. Had you not used the moth miraculous for evil, it wouldn’t have come to this. But when it comes to villains, anything is fair game.”

With one last cry, Lila was forced to march toward the elevator.

Marinette walked over to Rena to pat her shoulder. “You should go with them. Thanks for catching that.”

“No prob,” Rena said with a grin. “This is headline gold.”

Marinette chuckled as Rena quickly ran to the elevator and slipped inside right as the doors closed, leaving Marinette and Adrien standing with the butterfly miraculous.

The last one that had been corrupted.

“Well,” Tikki said, peeking out of Marinette’s jacket. “I think that went pretty well.”

“Well?” Plagg challenged, appearing from his spot in the desk drawer. “He was flirting with the enemy. And I thought it was bad when he and Ladybug are all googly eyes at each other.”

“That’s enough, Plagg,” Adrien chastised. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to get this thing to Master Fu as quickly as I can.”

Marinette nodded her agreement. “I think that sounds like a really good idea.”

[chipsanddespair]

{Go to Part II} {Go to Part III}

The balsa wood dream

The classroom door opened and the short, stout, bald-headed figure of Mr Kempson leaned in. The class fell instantly silent, well aware by now of Kempsons volcanic temper.

This time, however, the demeanour was not punitive, not even mildly threatening, but, Chris noted, puzzled. Then he realised that two other adults were standing behind Kempson, outside the room, almost hidden from sight. As he identified his Mum and Dad, Chriss heart started to race.

Kempson was asking a question of the class, Does anyone not have something in the exhibition?

Chris dropped his head so as not to catch his teachers eye and willed his arm to stay down. Nobody else raised theirs. After a minute, during which Chris could feel Kempsons gaze sweeping over the classroom, the teacher turned to the two figures, shook his head, reinforcing the gesture with some words that were inaudible inside the room, and left, closing the door behind him.

A cold sweat had broken out all over Chriss head and body. His head was swimming and his eyes wouldnt focus. A watery sensation filled his mouth warning him that he might be sick. If he had been untruthful before, to a teacher, or to any other adult, he couldnt recall it. Other children, he knew, lied easily and almost constantly but he did not. He was proud, and protective, of the appreciation he received from the grown-ups around him for his manners, his respect and his semblance of precocious maturity, and he had taken great care not to jeopardise their willingness to embrace him. That privilege, he understood, had a price tag: he had to maintain their trust. Now, he felt as if he had fallen in an instant through into another world where everything was familiar but nothing could be relied on, including himself. It scared him. He wanted not to be there, wanted the old order to reach down and save him. And if that could not happen, then he wanted them to come back and confront him so that he could confess the truth, be forgiven and, hopefully, be rehabilitated in their eyes.

But they didnt come back. All day nothing was said. He thought, they must have known, gone back to check again among the paintings and models on the table in the hall, found no label bearing his name. At any moment, Kempson would come bearing down on him, drag him from the room, as he had seen him do with others, roaring his disgust into his face. It had never happened to him. The dread of it, of the humiliation of it, like the thought of being hauled in front of the class and slippered, was enough to keep him well-behaved, dutiful.

When that didnt happen, he expected to go home to be told of his mothers disappointment, a punishment felt far more keenly than his fathers angry hand. But no, there was just a faint chill edge of forced normality, and even that had gone by the next morning.

The hanging silence brought no relief, however, still less any pleasure; no internal voice crowing that he had got away with it. Instead, the feeling grew in him that they had quarantined him, that they had sealed the tear through which he had slipped, leaving him now forever trapped in this strange back-to-front world: a world where deception had ousted honesty as the common language, where trust had given way to wariness where they would always be watching him and where he would never again be at ease.

It should not have been like this. At the start of the summer term, Mr Kempson had announced to the class that there would be a display of work at the end of it and that parents would be invited. Everyone was to make something to put on show. It could be a piece of art or a poem or yes, Janice, it can be crochet dont be foolish, Dobson This is your last term before you head off to big school next year. This is your chance to show your parents how well you have progressed here at Christchurch.

Chris had known at once what he wanted to do. At Easter, he had been taken to the Motor Museum at Beaulieu where he had fallen for a gleaming, green liveried Renault AG from 1910. He had bought a postcard of it and fixed it in his scrapbook. Now, he would make a model of it. Out of balsa wood. Yes, he would need balsa wood, a Junior hacksaw, a modelling knife, sandpaper and glue. And a pot of Humbrol paint, British racing green. Paintbrushes. And maybe a pot of gold for the coach lines, if Dad could be persuaded to fork out the money. It would be perfect and Mum would give him one of those misty-eyed smiles of approval and even Dad might nod his head at a job well done. In his mind, he saw Kempson, too, beaming for the first and only time, and the rest of the class looking on, uncomfortably aware of how their own meagre efforts had been outshone.

But that was six weeks ago. Now, on the day of the exhibition, the pieces of his dream lay tucked away at the back of his desk, hopefully out of sight until he could find a way of smuggling them out and disposing of them. So far from bringing him admiration, the glimpse of them induced fear and shame. He had failed. The boy who always did well. The boy who, for four years, had vied each week with Deborah Hills and David Balfour for the prized blue badge that signified top of the class.

He knew he had failed, but nobody else must know. And so began the lie. When the class had been told to line up in pairs and take their work into the hall, he had found a place in the middle of the queue, clutching the white cardboard shoebox in which he had kept his work for the past weeks, as if protecting his entry from public gaze until the last possible minute. As they had shuffled out, he had edged to the side of the line that would mean he did not have to pass too close to Kempson. Out in the hall, he approached the horseshoe of trestle tables and went through the motions of choosing his spot, among the other items, keeping his back between his box and those milling around him, then quickly turned away, ostentatiously replacing the box lid, and marched back to the classroom, where he took advantage of the confusion of the class reassembling to slide scraps of balsa wood into the deepest part of the desk. As he closed the lid, a part of his brain that normally registered his academic and social triumphs, offered the same admiration for the execution of his plan of deception. Ashamed, and not wanting to feel the least bit proud, he tried to shut it out and found, instead, memories of the past six weeks of agony piling in.

What had gone wrong? Everything. From the start. In his head he had expected it to be easy but the moment he looked at the wood and the tools his confidence collapsed. He didnt know where to begin. And, at that moment, he felt Kempson looking over at him from the big desk. He knows, he thought, he knows: he mustnt know. And with that he made a play of getting down to work. A wheel. Thats just a circle. Ill cut out a wheel. But the first attempt was crude and not round. It had to be round. How? Use a compass, that was it. And so he reached for his pencil case, took out his compass, adjusted the pencil and began to scribe a circle. The point of the compass sank through the soft wood. That didnt matter, he would have to pin the wheel to the cars body anyway.

I trust you are not damaging the desk, Hatch, Kempsons voice sounded threateningly across the classroom.

N, no, Sir, Chris responded, cheeks burning.

But then the sharp tip of the pencil gouged into the flimsy plank of balsa, tearing it. He tried again, with more delicacy. The line was faint but visible. He cut round it as carefully as he could and looked at the result. Its imperfection stared back at him mockingly and he felt things he was not used to welling up inside him: doubt and despair.

Setting the disgusting circle aside, he thought to try a simpler part of the model. He looked again at the picture. At the running board, a flat step on the side of the car that swooped up at each end to become the front and rear wings. How difficult could that be? He had watched his dad build a model boat from the same stuff, watched him bend it round to form the elegant curve of the prow. He cut a strip of wood and tried to bend it to shape the way he thought Dad had done it. At first, it was pliable but when he released his grip it started to straighten. He tried again, using more pressure. With a small, sharp crack, the wood snapped. He looked at it in shocked disbelief and realised that he was close to bursting into tears. He fought them back but now his whole face was on fire. He had the feeling that everyone was looking on, witnessing his abject failure. Failure. Him.

Suddenly, the bell rang for the end of the period and Chris quickly and gratefully gathered all the bits together and placed them in the shoe box. He tried to forget the past forty minutes and at the end of the day when his friends asked about what he was making he put on a show of quiet, assured, satisfaction. It convinced them, he could tell, and it almost convinced him. Today was just a setback. Next week it would all come right.

That night, in bed, he looked again at the postcard. What had been a thing of beauty, capturing his heart, now seemed to be aloof from him, mocking his presumption. I am beauty, I am perfection. You think you can recreate me? He studied the wheels and saw the enormity of the task right there. They were not flat, solid pieces of wood. A sunburst of delicate wooden spokes connected the bulbous hub to the rim; and around the rim a fat, black tyre ran. How, ever, was he going to do that?

Maybe Dad could help. Well, not help. This had to be something he did for himself. If he got Dad involved he would take over. Chris would be left standing to one side, watching, like when he got the trainset for Christmas. He would say that he had to make the thing at school, which was not a lie, because that was where the wood and tools were now. But he would ask Dads advice. Dad would like that.

Dad?

Yes? Be quick, I need to go.

Its just this model Im making at school. Im not sure how to make the wheels. Look. Chris showed his Dad the postcard, noticing for the first time that one corner now had a crease in it and was starting to fray. His Dad took it, looked at it appraisingly.

Its the spokes, see, Dad. I dont know how to make them.

His Dad, handed back the postcard without looking down and picked up his briefcase. Turning towards the door, he said, Draw them on. Use a soft pencil, and left.

Chris looked again at the car. Draw them on? Anger mixed with dismay and swirled around inside him, making him feel queasy. Draw? Like a child? Heres the house, heres the door in the middle, here are the windows, two up two down, heres the chimney and heres the smoke. And heres Mummy and Daddy and little baby Chris?

No. No, not good enough. Not nearly good enough.

Next free period, he tried again. But the wood resisted his attempts to cut anything as small and delicate as a spoke. Even the hub was impossible to get right. Then the glue spread as he tried to apply it and, lifting his thumb, he found it stuck to the pieces, which fell apart as he tried to extricate himself. It was hopeless.

Beaten down by this new awareness of his own lack of ability (it could only be that, the image in his head of how it should look was good, perfect), he took up the circle of wood from the previous week and his pencil case and tried to draw on the parts of the wheel. Sitting back, he looked at the result. Awful, a smudged line here, an uneven gap, here. He wanted to crush it and throw everything across the room. As if taking pity on him, the bell went and he quickly put the pieces of wood and tools away.

At home, again he studied the photograph. He tried not to look at the wheels, this time concentrating on the bonnet. It was a simple shape, solid looking. If he cut a piece off the thick block of balsa, it would just be a matter of sanding it into shape.

So next week, that was what he did. He measured, and cut and then took up the sandpaper. After five minutes, his fingers already red and stiff and sore, he looked at the block in his hand. It had hardly changed. Two of the long edges were starting to be soft but it was still just a block of wood. He went back to work.

At the end of the lesson he held the block up over the photograph. The lack of resemblance was horribly evident. The Renaults bonnet had a gentle slope but then dropped away suddenly before flattening out, like the slide in the playground. Chriss block had, by comparison, all the elegance of a brick.

By the fourth week, Chris had realised that sandpaper alone was not going to transform the block. He needed to help it along. If he cut the front of the block at an angle then maybe he could smooth out the hard line into that graceful curve.

At first the cut seemed okay. But, no, a bit too steep, perhaps. He tried a second cut. This time it was too flat but if he tried to rectify that he would shorten the bonnet. Perhaps now he could sand it into the right shape?

He rubbed and rubbed, after each burst, holding the block up to the photo. No, still not enough. No, still not right. No. NO!

The bell sounded but this time, as the class were packing away, Kempson boomed the awful reminder that they had just two weeks left before the exhibition. Make sure your work is ready. If any boy or girl is having trouble or in need of help, come and see me at the end of the day.

To Chris, these words were meant for him and him alone. But to take up the invitation would be to expose how little he had achieved; and worse, to admit that he was defeated, to admit his failure.

It was then that an unworldly calm had come over him. The impossibility of his task fell a way. With it went all recollection of the past weeks of failure. He became focused on one thing. The end of the block of wood in his hand must be made to match the curve in the picture. It must be perfected. He spent the next and last free period sanding and sanding his block, holding it up to the photograph and scolding himself. Not good enough. Wont do.

At the end of the day, with as little fuss as possible, he picked up his shoe box and made to leave. Kempson noticed.

Taking your exhibit home, Hatch?

Yes, Sir. Just some finishing touches.

Make sure they are your finishing touches, Hatch. This is not an exhibition of parental prowess.

Yes, Sir.

The snide inference was not lost on Chris. It stung more than all the misery contained in the box. He could not ask for help. That would be the worst failure of all.

To Part II - A good man

[surfboardsbydavenport]

5 Essential Tools

Stoked to be featured on Fiberglass Hawaii’s Composite Corner blog talking about some of my favorite things.

https://compositecorner.wordpress.com/2017/08/22/5-essential-tools-adam-davenport/

Having the right tool for a job helps eliminate wasted hours and frustration. Our goal with “5 Essential Tools” is to have the experts guide us into the specific tools that have allowed them to thrive in their careers.

Adam Davenport of Davenport Surfboards is an unassuming character. He quietly toils away, building boards by hand, from foam to finish. Whenever given a compliment, Adam is quick and earnest to credit a mentor who guided his path. Among them are Brian Hilbers, Scott Anderson, Mike Geib, Tyler Hatzikian, and Gene Cooper. Each instilled a reverence for hand-craftmenship and the importance of having the right tool for a task.

Adam recently relocated to Ventura, mere miles from our Ventura store. We’ve had the pleasure of getting to know him better and wanted to get his perspective on what 5 tools matter most to him.

Learn more about Adam Davenport at DavenportSurfboards.com

and follow along @Davenport_Surfboards

ROCKWELL 653 VERSA PLANER

The Rockwell plays an important role in board building where I grew up, the South Bay. In the 60’s that area had Rick, Bing, Jacobs, and a lot of those guys used this planer because you had the big Balsa stringers, funky and inconsistent foam, and you had to do a lot of work fast; regularly those guys would build four, triple-stringered boards a day. This is a big, heavy tool so you could level a board out and take big, accurate passes. When I started building boards, I followed guys like Tyler Hatzikian and Phil Becker, who were building traditional-style boards with traditional tools. The Rockwell has played a role in all their careers.

I got this specific planer from Gene Cooper. He noted my enthusiasm for the Rockwell and he wanted to help me develop my passion with era-specific tools. He’s a big advocate for Rockwell so he offered to find one for me for cheap, which he did. This one is from the mid 60’s and he got it for me for $74 dollars! So now I get to use a tool from the 60’s to build 60’s style boards, which is so neat. It doesn’t enhance my ability or anything, it just makes it more fun for me to get in here and shape. And truth be told, when this tool came along, I was in a really stale state of mind. I had moved up here to Ventura, I didn’t have a lot of friends, then Gene came in here with this tool and it made shaping really fun again. It totally revitalized my stoke.

40 GRIT SANDPAPER

Not nearly as glamorous as the Rockwell but it’s actually a really versatile tool. You can level with it. You can do nice, long, finishing contour passes. You can turn rails with it. It’s all about touch and how you apply it. I use it a lot. Mainly after I do my cutting with my planer, I then use my Surform to rough-in my main shape, the 40 grit is ideal for knocking down edges and starting to find the foil. Then, when the paper gets old, I cut it and make smaller pieces that fit in my hand to make nice contours, allowing very little separation between my hand and the foam so I can get the exact touch and contour that I want. It’s just a great blending tool.

SURFORM

This is the Surform. A lot of guys are for them, some guys are against them. I use it to dial in my planer marks. I do the foil, I do the cutting, then I take the Surform and just tune up those lines and make them really nice and tight. You can also turn rails with it. You can do concaves. You can do detail work; nose, tail, edges. It’s a nice, straight tool so it’s versatile. But it also cuts. And like the 40 grit paper, it’s all about application, pressure, feel, angle. The simple tools are really the most versatile.

This particular Surform is from a neighbor of mine growing up, Paul. He’s deceased now but I’ve known him since I was a little kid. When he passed away I used to go over and help his wife with yard work and just help around the house. When I was learning how to shape and I was starting to collect tools, she invited me over and offered me a box of his tools. It was so sweet! Something about old tool just feels better. There’s a story. There’s a provenance. I’m not a mystic by any sense, but the weight and the balance of old tools is just different. They just feel right.

A BLOCK OF WOOD

Super simple and low-tech, but a good ol’ flat piece of wood is important to have and it always comes in handy. Again, a great leveling tool. You wrap the 40 grit around it. It’s really good for truing up your outline, rounding things. You can put a nice piece of soft foam under it and now you can contour and foil. It’s just a simple, straight, square shape that offers a lot of versatility.

RALEIGH BLOCK PLANE

This tool is very important to me. I kind of shake when I talk about it. My biggest shaping mentor, Mike Geib, got me this for my 30th birthday. It’s a Raleigh Block Plane. And it’s really special because Mike is a lot like a dad to me. It’s a really nice detailing tool. You can do almost anything with it. It’s a very high angle blade, but it’s shallow and thin. You can level out foam. You can do nice detail wood work. You can do concaves. You can do the tips of the nose with triple stringers, and stuff like that. The blades are disposable so you just buy a pack of them. The tool is heavy so you’re not struggling to control it. I’ve had it for about 5 years now and it’s worked on about 300 boards.

This tool really helped to elevate my craft. I think that I was an okay shaper prior to this tool, but once I got it, my work became a lot more refined. I don’t consider myself to be a good shaper, just well taught and well coached. This is one of the pieces that has been instrumental in my story. And Mike is one of the people who I wouldn’t be here without. In fact, you should probably talk to him! He’s an amazing shaper

[chipsanddespair]

{Go to Part II} {Go to Part III}

The balsa wood dream

The classroom door opened and the short, stout, bald-headed figure of Mr Kempson leaned in. The class fell instantly silent, well aware by now of Kempsons volcanic temper.

This time, however, the demeanour was not punitive, not even mildly threatening, but, Chris noted, puzzled. Then he realised that two other adults were standing behind Kempson, outside the room, almost hidden from sight. As he identified his Mum and Dad, Chriss heart started to race.

Kempson was asking a question of the class, Does anyone not have something in the exhibition?

Chris dropped his head so as not to catch his teachers eye and willed his arm to stay down. Nobody else raised theirs. After a minute, during which Chris could feel Kempsons gaze sweeping over the classroom, the teacher turned to the two figures, shook his head, reinforcing the gesture with some words that were inaudible inside the room, and left, closing the door behind him.

A cold sweat had broken out all over Chriss head and body. His head was swimming and his eyes wouldnt focus. A watery sensation filled his mouth warning him that he might be sick. If he had been untruthful before, to a teacher, or to any other adult, he couldnt recall it. Other children, he knew, lied easily and almost constantly but he did not. He was proud, and protective, of the appreciation he received from the grown-ups around him for his manners, his respect and his semblance of precocious maturity, and he had taken great care not to jeopardise their willingness to embrace him. That privilege, he understood, had a price tag: he had to maintain their trust. Now, he felt as if he had fallen in an instant through into another world where everything was familiar but nothing could be relied on, including himself. It scared him. He wanted not to be there, wanted the old order to reach down and save him. And if that could not happen, then he wanted them to come back and confront him so that he could confess the truth, be forgiven and, hopefully, be rehabilitated in their eyes.

But they didnt come back. All day nothing was said. He thought, they must have known, gone back to check again among the paintings and models on the table in the hall, found no label bearing his name. At any moment, Kempson would come bearing down on him, drag him from the room, as he had seen him do with others, roaring his disgust into his face. It had never happened to him. The dread of it, of the humiliation of it, like the thought of being hauled in front of the class and slippered, was enough to keep him well-behaved, dutiful.

When that didnt happen, he expected to go home to be told of his mothers disappointment, a punishment felt far more keenly than his fathers angry hand. But no, there was just a faint chill edge of forced normality, and even that had gone by the next morning.

The hanging silence brought no relief, however, still less any pleasure; no internal voice crowing that he had got away with it. Instead, the feeling grew in him that they had quarantined him, that they had sealed the tear through which he had slipped, leaving him now forever trapped in this strange back-to-front world: a world where deception had ousted honesty as the common language, where trust had given way to wariness where they would always be watching him and where he would never again be at ease.

It should not have been like this. At the start of the summer term, Mr Kempson had announced to the class that there would be a display of work at the end of it and that parents would be invited. Everyone was to make something to put on show. It could be a piece of art or a poem or yes, Janice, it can be crochet dont be foolish, Dobson This is your last term before you head off to big school next year. This is your chance to show your parents how well you have progressed here at Christchurch.

Chris had known at once what he wanted to do. At Easter, he had been taken to the Motor Museum at Beaulieu where he had fallen for a gleaming, green liveried Renault AG from 1910. He had bought a postcard of it and fixed it in his scrapbook. Now, he would make a model of it. Out of balsa wood. Yes, he would need balsa wood, a Junior hacksaw, a modelling knife, sandpaper and glue. And a pot of Humbrol paint, British racing green. Paintbrushes. And maybe a pot of gold for the coach lines, if Dad could be persuaded to fork out the money. It would be perfect and Mum would give him one of those misty-eyed smiles of approval and even Dad might nod his head at a job well done. In his mind, he saw Kempson, too, beaming for the first and only time, and the rest of the class looking on, uncomfortably aware of how their own meagre efforts had been outshone.

But that was six weeks ago. Now, on the day of the exhibition, the pieces of his dream lay tucked away at the back of his desk, hopefully out of sight until he could find a way of smuggling them out and disposing of them. So far from bringing him admiration, the glimpse of them induced fear and shame. He had failed. The boy who always did well. The boy who, for four years, had vied each week with Deborah Hills and David Balfour for the prized blue badge that signified top of the class.

He knew he had failed, but nobody else must know. And so began the lie. When the class had been told to line up in pairs and take their work into the hall, he had found a place in the middle of the queue, clutching the white cardboard shoebox in which he had kept his work for the past weeks, as if protecting his entry from public gaze until the last possible minute. As they had shuffled out, he had edged to the side of the line that would mean he did not have to pass too close to Kempson. Out in the hall, he approached the horseshoe of trestle tables and went through the motions of choosing his spot, among the other items, keeping his back between his box and those milling around him, then quickly turned away, ostentatiously replacing the box lid, and marched back to the classroom, where he took advantage of the confusion of the class reassembling to slide scraps of balsa wood into the deepest part of the desk. As he closed the lid, a part of his brain that normally registered his academic and social triumphs, offered the same admiration for the execution of his plan of deception. Ashamed, and not wanting to feel the least bit proud, he tried to shut it out and found, instead, memories of the past six weeks of agony piling in.

What had gone wrong? Everything. From the start. In his head he had expected it to be easy but the moment he looked at the wood and the tools his confidence collapsed. He didnt know where to begin. And, at that moment, he felt Kempson looking over at him from the big desk. He knows, he thought, he knows: he mustnt know. And with that he made a play of getting down to work. A wheel. Thats just a circle. Ill cut out a wheel. But the first attempt was crude and not round. It had to be round. How? Use a compass, that was it. And so he reached for his pencil case, took out his compass, adjusted the pencil and began to scribe a circle. The point of the compass sank through the soft wood. That didnt matter, he would have to pin the wheel to the cars body anyway.

I trust you are not damaging the desk, Hatch, Kempsons voice sounded threateningly across the classroom.

N, no, Sir, Chris responded, cheeks burning.

But then the sharp tip of the pencil gouged into the flimsy plank of balsa, tearing it. He tried again, with more delicacy. The line was faint but visible. He cut round it as carefully as he could and looked at the result. Its imperfection stared back at him mockingly and he felt things he was not used to welling up inside him: doubt and despair.

Setting the disgusting circle aside, he thought to try a simpler part of the model. He looked again at the picture. At the running board, a flat step on the side of the car that swooped up at each end to become the front and rear wings. How difficult could that be? He had watched his dad build a model boat from the same stuff, watched him bend it round to form the elegant curve of the prow. He cut a strip of wood and tried to bend it to shape the way he thought Dad had done it. At first, it was pliable but when he released his grip it started to straighten. He tried again, using more pressure. With a small, sharp crack, the wood snapped. He looked at it in shocked disbelief and realised that he was close to bursting into tears. He fought them back but now his whole face was on fire. He had the feeling that everyone was looking on, witnessing his abject failure. Failure. Him.

Suddenly, the bell rang for the end of the period and Chris quickly and gratefully gathered all the bits together and placed them in the shoe box. He tried to forget the past forty minutes and at the end of the day when his friends asked about what he was making he put on a show of quiet, assured, satisfaction. It convinced them, he could tell, and it almost convinced him. Today was just a setback. Next week it would all come right.

That night, in bed, he looked again at the postcard. What had been a thing of beauty, capturing his heart, now seemed to be aloof from him, mocking his presumption. I am beauty, I am perfection. You think you can recreate me? He studied the wheels and saw the enormity of the task right there. They were not flat, solid pieces of wood. A sunburst of delicate wooden spokes connected the bulbous hub to the rim; and around the rim a fat, black tyre ran. How, ever, was he going to do that?

Maybe Dad could help. Well, not help. This had to be something he did for himself. If he got Dad involved he would take over. Chris would be left standing to one side, watching, like when he got the trainset for Christmas. He would say that he had to make the thing at school, which was not a lie, because that was where the wood and tools were now. But he would ask Dads advice. Dad would like that.

Dad?

Yes? Be quick, I need to go.

Its just this model Im making at school. Im not sure how to make the wheels. Look. Chris showed his Dad the postcard, noticing for the first time that one corner now had a crease in it and was starting to fray. His Dad took it, looked at it appraisingly.

Its the spokes, see, Dad. I dont know how to make them.

His Dad, handed back the postcard without looking down and picked up his briefcase. Turning towards the door, he said, Draw them on. Use a soft pencil, and left.

Chris looked again at the car. Draw them on? Anger mixed with dismay and swirled around inside him, making him feel queasy. Draw? Like a child? Heres the house, heres the door in the middle, here are the windows, two up two down, heres the chimney and heres the smoke. And heres Mummy and Daddy and little baby Chris?

No. No, not good enough. Not nearly good enough.

Next free period, he tried again. But the wood resisted his attempts to cut anything as small and delicate as a spoke. Even the hub was impossible to get right. Then the glue spread as he tried to apply it and, lifting his thumb, he found it stuck to the pieces, which fell apart as he tried to extricate himself. It was hopeless.

Beaten down by this new awareness of his own lack of ability (it could only be that, the image in his head of how it should look was good, perfect), he took up the circle of wood from the previous week and his pencil case and tried to draw on the parts of the wheel. Sitting back, he looked at the result. Awful, a smudged line here, an uneven gap, here. He wanted to crush it and throw everything across the room. As if taking pity on him, the bell went and he quickly put the pieces of wood and tools away.

At home, again he studied the photograph. He tried not to look at the wheels, this time concentrating on the bonnet. It was a simple shape, solid looking. If he cut a piece off the thick block of balsa, it would just be a matter of sanding it into shape.

So next week, that was what he did. He measured, and cut and then took up the sandpaper. After five minutes, his fingers already red and stiff and sore, he looked at the block in his hand. It had hardly changed. Two of the long edges were starting to be soft but it was still just a block of wood. He went back to work.

At the end of the lesson he held the block up over the photograph. The lack of resemblance was horribly evident. The Renaults bonnet had a gentle slope but then dropped away suddenly before flattening out, like the slide in the playground. Chriss block had, by comparison, all the elegance of a brick.

By the fourth week, Chris had realised that sandpaper alone was not going to transform the block. He needed to help it along. If he cut the front of the block at an angle then maybe he could smooth out the hard line into that graceful curve.

At first the cut seemed okay. But, no, a bit too steep, perhaps. He tried a second cut. This time it was too flat but if he tried to rectify that he would shorten the bonnet. Perhaps now he could sand it into the right shape?

He rubbed and rubbed, after each burst, holding the block up to the photo. No, still not enough. No, still not right. No. NO!

The bell sounded but this time, as the class were packing away, Kempson boomed the awful reminder that they had just two weeks left before the exhibition. Make sure your work is ready. If any boy or girl is having trouble or in need of help, come and see me at the end of the day.

To Chris, these words were meant for him and him alone. But to take up the invitation would be to expose how little he had achieved; and worse, to admit that he was defeated, to admit his failure.

It was then that an unworldly calm had come over him. The impossibility of his task fell a way. With it went all recollection of the past weeks of failure. He became focused on one thing. The end of the block of wood in his hand must be made to match the curve in the picture. It must be perfected. He spent the next and last free period sanding and sanding his block, holding it up to the photograph and scolding himself. Not good enough. Wont do.

At the end of the day, with as little fuss as possible, he picked up his shoe box and made to leave. Kempson noticed.

Taking your exhibit home, Hatch?

Yes, Sir. Just some finishing touches.

Make sure they are your finishing touches, Hatch. This is not an exhibition of parental prowess.

Yes, Sir.

The snide inference was not lost on Chris. It stung more than all the misery contained in the box. He could not ask for help. That would be the worst failure of all.

To Part II - A good man