Chapter Six

       Inappropriate

      The morning was free, so I suggested to Stevie we went into town shopping and had some lunch out. I had to get a few things and I didn’t want to leave him alone in the house just yet. Also, I find that a trip out, whether it is shopping or visiting a place of interest, is a good way of bonding with a young person. Stevie liked the idea of shopping and I gave him his clothing allowance for the month, credit for his phone and his pocket money. I also asked him not to wear make-up, as we would go straight to the meeting with his mentor, Carolyn, at school once we’d finished shopping. He accepted my wishes about make-up as easily as he had accepted Lucy’s. I thought now as I had then that what he needed was guidance on matters associated with gender identity, rather than someone ignoring or dismissing them – as Fred was doing.

      I parked in the multi-storey car park in the shopping centre and went with Stevie to the stores he liked. Once we had his clothes from home I would have a better idea of what he needed and could advise him on what to buy, otherwise teenagers often end up with a wardrobe full of jeans and no socks or winter coat. But for now I let him spend his money as he wished, and within half an hour he’d spent most of his clothing allowance on a pair of light grey jeans he said he’d been wanting for ages. They were tasteful and fitted him well. Most clothes would. Tall and slender, he had a model’s physique and I saw young people – male and female – glance at him admiringly as they passed.

      While we shopped we talked, and I learnt that his gran used to buy his clothes – what she and Fred thought he should wear – but it had obviously caused arguments, so for the last year he’d been buying what he wanted, and then the arguments had taken place when he’d worn the clothes and they’d seen them for the first time. He also told me he had been given clothes for Christmas and birthday presents, but he’d chosen them. He liked his clothes and he liked to shop. I learnt that he had two good friends at school, a lad of the same age who thought he might be gay, and a girl in his class whom he said was just a friend but was kind and understanding. Most of the other lads in his class had little to do with him, he said, and some teased and bullied him. I reassured him that we’d address that when we saw Carolyn later, and I suggested he might like to invite his friends home for dinner one time. He’d said he’d think about it. He wasn’t sure he’d tell them he was in care, which is true for many children and young people. They prefer to say the person waiting for them in the playground is a friend of their mother’s or an aunty, rather than admit it’s their foster carer. Although of course at Stevie’s age he wouldn’t even have to say that, as I wouldn’t be in the playground at the start and end of school as I was with younger children.

      Stevie only checked his phone a couple of times while we were shopping, but once we sat down with our lunch, chosen from a hot buffet, he suddenly cried, ‘Shit!’ And pulled his phone from his pocket as if his life depended on it.

      ‘Is everything all right?’ I asked him a few moments later, as, food untouched, he was still staring at the screen.

      He nodded absently.

      ‘Are you sure?’

      ‘Yes.’ But I wasn’t convinced, and it crossed my mind that perhaps he was being bullied online too. There was a time when bullying stopped at the school gates, but now it can follow the victim home through text messages, social networking websites, photos and video clips. It’s vicious, insidious, relentless and has in extreme cases caused a young person to commit suicide. Also, I remembered Verity had mentioned that Stevie might be in contact with his mother online and I wondered if this was causing a problem.

      ‘Are you on Facebook?’ I asked him casually as he finally picked up a chip and began eating.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘So am I. I could send you a friendship request.’ If he accepted it then I should be able to see quite a lot of his online activity on that website and who he was in contact with. It’s for this reason it’s a good idea for parents and foster carers to have social networking accounts; it allows them to keep an eye on their young person as well as keeping them up to speed with technology. A friend of mine only discovered that her daughter had traced her father (my friend’s long-time ex) through social media. She was then able to broach the subject with her daughter and reassure her that she didn’t mind. Adrian, Lucy and Paula had Facebook accounts, although only Lucy used hers regularly.

      Stevie hadn’t responded to my suggestion, but I’d send the friendship request anyway. He could accept or decline it, it was his choice.

      ‘Do you chat to your parents at all online?’ I asked. Many young people do without their carer’s or guardian’s knowledge.

      ‘Sometimes Mum, when she’s not in prison. They don’t have the internet in prison.’

      So I guessed that wasn’t the reason he was often anxiously checking his phone.

      ‘The kids at school who bully you, do they target you online? Or message you at all?’ I asked outright. It was no good hedging the matter and then regretting it later.

      ‘No. They haven’t got my phone number,’ he said. ‘Only my friends have.’

      ‘Good.’

      It was the school’s lunch break when Stevie and I arrived and there were students milling around outside, some standing in small groups, others sitting on benches, coats on and huddled over phones as they ate from lunch boxes and packets of crisps.

      ‘What’s the school’s policy on mobile phones?’ I asked Stevie as we made our way to the main entrance.

      ‘They have to be switched off while on school premises,’ he replied.

      ‘Is yours off?’

      ‘I’ll turn it off now.’

      We went to the reception desk, separated from the school office by a low counter, and the secretary recognised Stevie and knew we were expected. ‘I’ll give Carolyn a ring and let her know you’re here,’ she said. ‘Please sign in the visitors’ book and then take a seat.’

      I thanked her and, having signed in, we sat in the chairs arranged on the far side of the reception area, and Stevie powered off his phone. I looked around. The walls were adorned with framed photographs of school achievements – winning sports teams, successful examination results, students who’d become distinguished in a particular field, dignitaries and famous people who’d visited the school, and so on, much as you’d find in many secondary schools.

      Stevie was clearly anxious and, with no phone to occupy him, was tapping his foot nervously.

      ‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ I told him. ‘You know Carolyn, and she and I want to help you get back into school.’

      He gave a curt nod, but his foot kept tapping. I felt as though we were waiting to see the dentist rather than his mentor.

      ‘There she is,’ he said as a young woman entered reception.

      We both stood. ‘Hello, Stevie,’ Carolyn said, then, ‘Nice to meet you, Cathy.’

      ‘And you,’ I replied. Carolyn was fashionably dressed in black leggings and a long, baggy top. In her mid to late twenties, she didn’t look much older than Stevie or many of the other senior pupils.

      ‘I have a small office at the top of the building,’ she said brightly. ‘This way.’

      We followed