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wheezes before the water swallows him again. This is horrific.
    There are voices and footsteps outside, kids coming into the change room.
    The Fig is down for a few more seconds before he resurfaces, thrusting a desperate hand up towards me. I reach into the grimybowl, grab him, careful not to crush his cookie-thin body, and I haul him to safety.
    There are lots of kids in the change room now, some in cubicles either side of me.
    Jack knocks. ‘Carnival’s over. Let’s go, man.’
    I take deep breaths. I slowly open my dripping hand to look at The Fig, expecting to see his thankful little smile. But, instead, I find him crouched and angry. He growls and launches himself upwards. I try to catch him midair with my left hand, but he’s too quick. Slap . He attaches himself to my face. I try to peel him off but he won’t budge.
    â€˜What are you doing?’ I ask, but he doesn’t respond. ‘I saved you!’
    Nothing.
    Another kid knocks on the door of my cubicle.
    I scratch at my right cheek, trying to lift the edge of The Fig. I run my fingers over its rough surface. But it is stuck hard.
    A head pokes over the wall from the next toilet cubicle. ‘What’s goin’ on, Weekly? People need to go to the toilet.’ I look up. It’s Brent Bunder, the biggest kid in our year. ‘Errr. What’s on your face?’
    I cover my cheek where my dirty-no-good-big-brown-birthmark is. I unlock the door and head out, slamming straight into Jack.
    â€˜What’s up?’ he asks.
    â€˜Hey, it’s the kid with the poo on his back!’ says Wingnut, the pipsqueak who started all this.
    â€˜It’s not poo!’ I scream. ‘It’s my birthmark. See!’
    I rip my hand away from my cheek, showing everybody. Forty boys fall silent and stare. A couple in the back start to giggle.
    â€˜Is that funny? You wanna laugh at the kid with The Fig on his face? You want a piece of me? Do ya? ’
    Some of the boys look scared now.
    â€˜I was born with it and I’m stuck with it, all right?’
    Kids shift uncomfortably. A couple turn away.
    â€˜Sorry, Weekly,’ Chris Meade says.
    â€˜I’ve never even noticed it before,’ another kid mutters. ‘Has it always been on his face?’
    I breathe hard, trying to settle myself as the boys go back to getting changed. Jack rests a hand on my shoulder. I touch my face and turn to the mirror. It’s worse than I thought. I have to come to terms with the fact that I might look like this forever. Or at least until The Fig calms down and we can talk it over.
    Wingnut shuffles forward and stands in front of me. He stares at my cheek.
    â€˜That thing is reeeally ugly. And how’d it get on your face anyway?’ he asks.
    I feel the anger rise up in me again. I want to throw him in the deep end. The Fig feelsthe anger, too. I know it. He’s growing warm on my cheek.
    â€˜You want me to get a knife and chop it off?’ Wingnut asks with a smile.
    My cheek starts to burn and, in that instant, something magical happens …
    The Fig tears himself off my skin in a fury and launches through the air towards Wingnut’s face.
    Part of me is ecstatic, but part of me misses my old friend already.
    When I hear the satisfying smack of The Fig landing in the middle of Wingnut’s forehead, there seems to be just one thing to do. I point and say, ‘Ewww, you’ve got poo on your face.’
    Wingnut’s fingers fly to his forehead and he runs his fingers over The Fig’s bumpy surface. He turns to the mirror, mouth open in horror.
    â€˜It’s not poo!’ he says, quietly crying. ‘It’s a birthmark!’

‘Ahoy, me hearties,’ says a bored pirate voice over the speakers. ‘No mates over the age of seven are allowed on the climbing equipment. Or I’ll make ya walk the plank. Arrr.’
    A Very Large Man wearing purple-and-black striped pirate pants pulled