Somehow, Mum had managed to convince Dad to let me go to Trevor's party. I don't know what she'd said or did and I definitely wasn't going to ask.

It was kind of funny. I'd found over the years that Dad usually got his way with things between them – except when it came to me. When my parents had to decide stuff about me – where I'd go to school, what I'd be allowed to do, even stupid stuff like how short to cut my hair – Mum usually won out. Maybe it was because of her being a schoolteacher or maybe something else. The only exception was if whatever they were deciding involved my health – that's when Dad would put his foot down and nothing would change his mind. For now, I was just happy that Mum had won out this time.

The paintball party was all anyone had talked about at school the day before – heck, the week before - and our teacher, Mrs. Smithers, was at her wit's end trying to get us to pay attention to anything she was saying. We were much more interested in who was going and what types of games we'd get to play than in the maths she was trying to teach. I bet she imagined things would only be worse on Monday after the party.

It seemed like forever for the day to come and that morning I was up much earlier than usual. I really hadn't slept all that well. I was excited about the paintball party of course. But also a bit scared. Scared that I'd get shown up by my mates. Paintball was a lot of running and jumping and shooting. I was one of the younger guys in my class and definitely not the fastest, strongest or best at any sport. I worried that I'd be one of the first ones hit and have to sit out the game while everyone else played. It was enough to give my tummy a fit and, between the fear of failure and the gnawing of my stomach, I didn't get much rest.

Even so, I paid much more attention than usual to the clothes I'd wear, finally settling on a pair of jeans, a blue and green striped shirt, and shoes that would allow me to be comfortable running through the woods or whatever. Mostly, I wanted to fit in.

I quickly made my way down to the kitchen, where Mum was fixing breakfast.

"Well, aren't you the early bird," she exclaimed upon seeing me already dressed and ready to go at a time when I was usually still in bed, especially on a Saturday. She reached out and tamped down a few stray hairs that always seemed to stick out from my head no matter how much I tried to comb them into place.

"Can't be late," I said, anxious to go even though there was plenty of time. "Trevor said the van leaves their house at nine o'clock sharp. If I miss it . . ." I shuddered to think about what would happen.

"Well, sit down and have your breakfast. It'll only take a few minutes to get there." She set a plate on the table and pointed me to a chair. "You have time for a quick bite. You want to have energy so you can play your best."

I slid into my chair and looked at the food she'd set in front of me. I was far too excited and nervous to eat. Besides, I didn't want to try racing about on a full stomach. So, I mostly stared at my food, moving bits of it around the plate.

"James," Mum said a few minutes later, pointing at my still-full plate of poached egg, smoked marlin and toast. "You haven't touched your breakfast."

I shook my head. "I'm not hungry."

"You barely had anything for supper last night. You need to eat something," she said firmly.

"I'm fine, Mum. Besides, there'll be lots of food at the party."

"And that will be several hours from now. I want you to at least eat a few bites before we go."

I picked up my fork and once again pushed the egg around my plate.

"Come on, James," Mum urged, frowning at me. "Finish up or you will be late."

My dad came into the room just as I started nibbling on my toast. "Late for what?"

"The paintball party," Mum explained, setting a bowl of Wheatabix in front of him. "Trevor's birthday, remember?"

"Right," he said in a way that made me sure he didn't remember at all. "You're taking him, aren't you?" he asked. "I have surgery until noon."

"Yes. We'll leave as soon as he eats some breakfast."

Dad looked down at my plate. It was his turn to frown. "James, it's not like you to skip meals. Are you ill?" He reached out his hand to touch my forehead.

I jerked away. There were times when I hated the fact my dad was a doctor and this was one of them. He always assumed everything was a medical problem. Yeah, I was a bit nervous and excited about the day ahead and I didn't feel like eating eggs and fish for breakfast. That didn't mean I was sick.

"Dad, stop it!" I pointedly stabbed my egg, sending the yolk running across my plate, and stuffed a small bite into my mouth. "There! I ate my egg. See!"

"Don't be smart," Dad said sternly. "Or you'll spend the entire day right here."

Oops. I was probably pushing my luck by arguing with Dad about eating the stupid breakfast. "Sorry, Dad," I said – and meant it. I forced myself to eat another few pieces of egg and toast before putting down my fork.

"Is that enough?" I asked hopefully, looking at Mum.

She glanced at my plate and nodded. "Alright, James. Go clean your teeth while I put away the dishes. We'll leave in ten minutes."

The day started out really great. Mrs. Frakes had rented a couple of vans so we could all go together – it seemed that in the end Trevor had invited almost all of the Year 6 class boys and I was pretty sure that the few who were missing either didn't like Trevor or didn't want to do paintball.

Everyone was joshing around on the ride, or as much as we could in our seatbelts. I ended up in the way back of the van, squished between Graham and Nigel. It wasn't at all like riding in my Dad's Lexus. Every time we hit a bump, we all raised ourselves out of our seats and screamed as loud as we could. Graham's mum, who was driving, kept telling us to settle down.

It was hot and, with the up and down from the bumps, the twists and turns from the curvy roads, and being crushed in the back of the hot van, I pretty much wanted to puke the entire time. By the time we got the paintball place, I was more than ready to get out.

I must have looked a little green because someone told Mrs. Frakes, who came rushing over to me.

"It's probably motion sickness from riding in the back of the van," she'd said after looking me over. "The fresh air will help. And be sure you ride up front on the way home."

I took some deep breaths, which seemed to help a bit, then ran to join the others already inside the building. I didn't want to miss out on anything.

Everyone was so excited and it didn't take long to put on the gear they gave us. We each got a cammo jacket and pants along with gloves and a helmet. I'd never worn anything like it and it was the neatest thing ever – like being a member of the SAS. Mrs. Frakes was trying to take pictures of everyone on her mobile and I hoped she got a good one of me so I could show Mum and Dad.

And then came the coolest part of all – our guns. Dad wasn't too keen on guns so I hadn't seen many up close. The ones they gave us sure looked like the real thing, even though they only shot paint. As we all stood around pointing our guns at each other, I knew that it would almost impossible to top this party. Ever.

Next the guys running the program talked to us about safety and how to play the game. They must have told us fifty times over never, ever to take off our helmets when we were in the game area. Then they showed us how to shoot and how to reload our gun and finally what to do if we were hit. We tried to pay attention but all we really wanted to do was start the game.

We had a choice of courses to play and, since it was his party, Trevor got to choose. He picked one called "Beach" something or other. We'd be divided into two teams. One team would start in a boat and head up the beach to destroy the enemy's fuel supply while the other team tried to keep them away.

I was kind of disappointed in the beach; it was totally fake and nothing like the one we had in Portwenn. Basically, they'd thrown some sand on the dirt and called it a beach. And the boat looked more like a rowboat than the "landing craft" they'd told us about. Still, it was good enough for paintball.

We had to count off by numbers to make the teams. It was better than having us choose sides because no one ever wanted to be the last one chosen and I'd been worried that might be me, which would be totally embarrassing. My group would be the attackers in the first game and the defenders in the second. We probably should have gotten together and actually planned our attack. But we had guns and paintballs and wanted to get on with it, not stand around talking.

I ended up on the same team as Graham, who happened to be my best friend in school. We decided we'd stick together, trying to cover each other as we moved forward, just like we saw guys do on the telly all the time.

The game started and it was crazy. Everyone seemed to be running around shooting anything that moved and lots of things that didn't move. There was a lot of shouting running and paint flying all about. It was fun – it was perfect. So much better than bowling or even my magician.

We scrambled out of the boat and onto the beach. There were a bunch of obstacles – fake rocks, sand brush and piles of plywood – that would let us hide from the other team trying to shoot us. We basically had to make our way up the beach until we reached the other team's fuel area.

Graham ran out ahead, and I followed him. I had to admit that shooting the paint gun was one of the neatest things I'd done. My aim wasn't too good, but with a paint gun, who cared? You just splattered whatever you wanted to and hoped you hit something. Of course, you had to be a bit careful or you'd run out of paint and spend all your time reloading.

Graham and I made pretty good progress. One of us fired at the enemy while the raced from one obstacle to the next. And then we reversed it while the other one caught up. We'd made it not quite halfway up the beach, easily keeping pace with the other guys on our team. I was feeling pretty good that I'd managed to stay alive and not slow down Graham, who was really fast and a great shot. There were moments when I wondered if he wouldn't have done better without me with him and was grateful that he was my mate.

Just when we started to get close the enemy's camp, I found myself slowing down and Graham getting further and further ahead. It seemed that all the energy I'd had only a few minutes ago was gone. Suddenly, every step was hard – like running through mud. And I was getting a stitch in my side. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't keep up.

Graham knelt down behind a large rock and glanced back at me, curled up behind a large fake bush. "Come on, James! Let's go." He kept looking ahead to where the battle was now in full force, and I could see he was keen to get on with it.

I wanted to keep going, I really did. This game was so fun and I was so happy I'd been able to keep up and be a part of everything. And that I'd yet to get hit.

But I felt all out of sorts. My tummy hurt and I was incredibly tired. All this running about took a lot of energy, and I probably should have listened to Mum and eaten some breakfast. For now, much as I wanted to keep playing, I couldn't go on without a rest. I just had to sit down for a bit.

"Go on," I called out, waving Graham forward. "I'll catch up."

He looked at me and frowned, as if trying to decide whether to stick with me or do what I'd told him in going on without me. I urged him forward again. Finally, the thrill of the game got the better of him and, with another sad glance at me, he ran forward.

As Graham took off, I was happy to see that a couple of guys leaving the game area because they'd been hit; at least I wouldn't be the first out of the game. I stood up and turned my back to the action. If I was going to quit the game, I'd at least make sure it looked like I'd been hit. With all the paint flying, it took only a few seconds before I too was hit. As promised, it didn't hurt or even sting – it was almost as if someone had thrown paint at me.

After I left the field – being careful to keep my mask on until I was out of the firing area – I went to the loo, splashed water on my face and then sat in one of the stalls. It was the one place where no one was likely to find me. I sat there for what seemed a long while, trying to make myself feel better. By the time I came out, the game was already over. My team had won and Graham was super-excited because he'd been the one to destroy the fuel supply.

"What happened to you?" he asked me, somewhat breathless. "I thought you were behind me."

I felt bad that I'd let Graham down. "I, uh, got hit. Sorry." At least it was the truth. Mum and Dad would have been proud.

He shrugged. "No worries. Next time."

Everyone was chattering and getting new paintballs for the next round. I stood back. I couldn't do it, couldn't go out there. I'd never felt this bad before and I didn't know why. It couldn't be what I ate because I hadn't eaten anything. I looked at the clock – almost two hours until we were done here and would start back home.

As the others, now fully reloaded, headed out to the game area for the rematch, I stayed behind in the waiting area.

Mrs. Frakes came up to me. "James, aren't you going to join the next game?"

"Uh, I don't think so."

Her eyebrows tightened in concern. "You're not hurt are you?"

"No, I'm just, uh—" What should I tell her? "I just don't feel so good. Probably from the car ride," I added.

Her frown deepened. "Oh dear. Maybe I should call your father."

No, no, no. Oh gawd no! I couldn't let her call him. I could just see my dad arriving in his suit and with his medical case and making a big scene. He'd either examine me on the spot or drag me off to his surgery. In front of all my mates, no less. It would be humiliating. It's all anyone would talk about for weeks. I'd never live it down. No, I'd have to be dying before I let Mrs. Frakes call him.

"It's okay, Mrs. Frakes," I said, with as much energy as I could muster. "I just need a bit of fresh air. I'm sure I'll be right as rain when it comes time to eat the cake and ice cream."

"Well, I don't know." She continued to frown and I returned it with a smile. She seemed to brighten at my effort. "All right, then. But if you start to feel any worse, you let me know straight away."

She went back to taking pictures and I went to the loo and threw up everything I had, which wasn't much. And hoped the next two hours would pass much faster than the last two.

Glossary:

SAS: Special Air Service, a British special forces unit