Setting: This story is another in my series of JH vignettes. There are NO SPOILERS for S8.

As always, thanks to my terrific beta JD517. She helps me with the inner workings of the minds 10-year-old boys, reminds me of the importance of "British-isms" in a story set in the UK, and provides numerous other helpful suggestions. If anything remains amiss, it's my fault entirely.

The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This story is for amusement only and no infringement of any legal rights is intended.

It was the party, the talk of our Year 6 class. Trevor Frakes would turn eleven in two weeks and he was having a birthday party. Not just any party, mind you, but a paintball party. Over the years, I'd gone to lots of birthday parties with swimming and museums (boring!) and bowling and go-karts and camping. Last year for my tenth birthday, we'd had a magician – had to admit that was pretty cool. Still, no one in my class had EVER done paintball. It was too awesome even to think about.

It would be boys only, of course, and Trevor made sure every boy in our class knew what he was planning. He made sure we knew that only some of us in the class – his "mates" – would be invited.

When I had my birthday parties, Mum made me invite every boy in the class – and sometimes the girls too. "We don't want to leave anyone out, now do we," she'd say. "How would you feel if you weren't invited to the party?"

At the time, I hadn't given it much thought. Now I kind of knew what she'd meant because I certainly didn't want to be the one left out of this party – not being able to go or, even worse, hearing everyone talk about the party at school on the Monday after knowing I hadn't been there would be worse than terrible.

It wasn't a done deal that I'd be invited. cTrevor and I had been in school together since Year 1 and got on alright, but he and I weren't what you'd call best mates. It seemed that everyone in the class was now trying to be his best friend, saying or doing all sorts of nice things in the hopes of being invited to the party. I'd yet to do anything special.

"It's kind of stupid," I said to my mum across the table at supper. Dad was out on a home visit and wasn't sure when he'd be back, so we'd started without him.

Mum had made cottage pie with potatoes, one of my favorites. Dad liked fish and vegetables and, on nights like this when she cooked something he didn't like, she'd also cook fish just for him.

"What's stupid?" Mum asked.

"Everyone being extra nice to Trevor just to be invited to his birthday party," I said, stuffing a huge piece of meatloaf into my mouth. "Can you believe Kieran carried his books home from school and Graham brought him biscuits!"

Mum gave me one of her looks. "James, please don't talk with your mouth full."

"Yes, Mum." I dutifully swallowed my food before I started talking again. "Anyway, they're doing all this stuff just so he'll like them and invite them to his party."

"What's so special about this party?"

I took a deep breath and held it. "He's having a . . . paintball party," I said. "It's the coolest party anyone's had in . . . like forever," I added, watching as Mum frowned at my use of the word "like."

"Sounds very exciting."

"So, do you think it will work – doing stuff to make him like you?"

"I'm certain Trevor knows who his friends are."

"Well, I hope I'm one of his friends, since it's the best party of the whole year."

"Isn't he inviting everyone in the Year 6 class?"

"Nope." I stabbed at my potatoes. "Just his 'friends.'"

We both turned at the sound of Dad unlatching the door.

"That seems a little unfair," Mum said.

Dad set down his medical case and gave Mum a peck on the cheek. "Evening, James," he said to me.

"Hi, Dad."

Dad looked at our plates and frowned.

"Fish is in the oven, Martin," Mum said, and I sometimes wondered if she could read Dad's mind.

Dad busied himself preparing his own dinner. "What seems unfair?" he asked, pulling the fish from the oven.

"What?" Mum asked.

"When I came in. You were saying something was unfair."

"Oh that. One of James' schoolmates is having a party and apparently is only inviting some of the children in the class."

"What's wrong with that? It's his party; he can invite anyone he likes."

"I know that, Martin. But inviting some children and not inviting others means that some will be left out. Being excluded can create self-esteem problems, especially in children."

"As a child, I frequently was not invited to parties. My self-esteem, as you put it, didn't suffer.

"What's self-esteem?" I asked.

"It's how you view yourself," Dad explained. Your sense of confidence and self-worth." He washed and dried his hands before sitting down at the table next to me. He placed his napkin on his lap and began to eat.

"Exclusion can be very hurtful and stressful, Martin."

"It's a birthday party, Louisa. It's not like he's being excluded from university."

Excluded – that meant left out. Had I been left out? From Trevor's party. Did Dad know something I didn't? Did one of his patients tell him that I hadn't been invited?

"Martin, as a teacher, I can't tell you how many behavioral problems originate when a child is left out of an activity by his peers."

"Dad . . ."

Dad was still talking to Mum. "I don't doubt that. On the other hand, one's self-esteem shouldn't be contingent on the views or actions of another person – especially if that person happens to be a ten-year-old child."

"Dad!"

"What is it, James?"

"Are you saying I'm not invited to Trevor's party?"

"Who's Trevor?"

Mum shook her head. "Oh, Martin!" She took a deep breath. "Trevor is James' friend who's having the birthday party for a select group of boys." She turned to me. "Your father was talking generally – he was not saying that you hadn't been invited to Trevor's party. Isn't that right, Martin?"

"Um. Yes."

"Now, James, you need to finish your supper and start on your homework. And we," she added, giving Dad one of those looks, "can finish our discussion later."

A few days later, Trevor called to invite me to his party. I'd squealed with delight, running excitedly through the house.

"I got invited!" I couldn't help myself from shouting. "I got invited to the party!"

"James!" Dad gave me a stern look as I ran into the kitchen. "Don't shout in the house."

"Sorry, Dad. But I can't help it. I got invited to the party." I was almost jumping up and down, I was so excited.

"Trevor's paintball party?" Mum asked, looking up from the kitchen table where she was marking papers.

"Yes!" I said, unable to stop grinning. "Can you believe it?"

"When is the party?" Mum asked.

"Next Saturday."

Dad turned to me. "James, give me a hand putting away the dishes, please."

I dutifully walked over to the dishwasher and started unloading plates and cups and bowls. Much as I hated kitchen chores, at the moment I'd do anything to stay in my parents' good graces so they'd allow me to go to the party. I was pretty sure Mum would agree. I wasn't so sure about Dad. Dad wasn't too keen on things that weren't "educational," and I didn't think I could convince him that paintball would improve my mind. Then again, he was a fan of fresh air and exercise and paintball would definitely have both of those.

"What's a paintball party?" Dad asked.

I wasn't completely surprised my dad didn't know about such things; he wasn't exactly up on what was popular with my friends – unless it was something that caused them to end up in his surgery. I knew that the key to getting him to agree to let me go to the party was explaining it without making it sound dangerous.

"It's a party for Trevor's birthday."

"Trevor's his friend in his class at school," Mum reminded him.

"He's having his party at a paintball place. We get to—" I didn't want to say "shoot" as that definitely wouldn't go over well with Dad. Over the years, he'd dealt with more than his fair share of people accidentally shooting themselves or someone else. Also, if he thought violence was involved . . . it was a non-starter. "It's sort of like hide and seek only when you're found, the person squirts you with paint."

"With what?" Dad asked.

"Paint."

"I meant what do they use to shoot the paint?"

I struggled with how to answer his question without using the word gun and quickly gave up. "They're paint guns," I almost whispered. "Kind of like water guns only with paint."

Uh-oh. My father's expression was somewhere between confused and horrified.

"It's fine, Martin," Mum quickly reassured him. "Paintball is very popular with boys his age."

Dad was now frowning, which set off warning bells in my head. "It sounds dangerous," he said. "If James were to get shot in the eye . . . "

Before I could answer, Mum jumped in again. "They wear protective gear, Martin. "And they have special games designed for children his age."

I decided this wasn't the time to remind them that I was no longer a child. Best to keep quiet and let Mum fight my battle for me.

Dad still didn't look convinced. "The last thing I need is a group of boys in my surgery with all manner of injury—"

"Martin, they wouldn't let children participate if it weren't safe."

"They let children do many things that aren't safe. Do I need to tell you about the injuries I see from falling off scooters or trampolines or—"

"Dad! Every boy in my class wants to go to this party. Heck, everyone in the school wants to go." I didn't care that I was begging. "If I don't go, I'll be . . . I just have to go."

"James," Mum said. "Why don't you finish up your homework and get ready for bed. I'll talk about this with your father." She said the last with a smile and even a tiny wink that told me she'd be on my side. I sure hoped so. I didn't know what I'd do if they didn't let me go. I'd be the laughingstock of the whole school. I'd never again be invited to anything. I'd have no friends. My whole year would be ruined!

I climbed halfway up the stairs and sat down, wanting to hear what my Mum and Dad were saying. Mum just had to convince Dad to let me go – she just had to!

"I don't understand the need for such extravagant parties for children," Dad was saying. "What's wrong with a simple party with cake and ice cream?"

"I can't believe you're actually in favor of cake and ice cream."

Even from where I sat, I could hear Dad snort. "I'm not. I don't understand why people insist on celebrating another year of life by eating high sugar, high-calorie, carbohydrate-laden foods that clog the arteries and increase weight gain, thereby actually shortening life."

"No, Martin, I'm sure you don't."

There was silence for a few minutes and I started to head the rest of the way up the stairs, when Dad's voice stopped me.

"Louisa, this paintball idea is dangerous. Look at this." I wondered if he was showing Mum something on his computer. "It says here: 'Depending on the distance from where the shot was fired, a direct paintball impact commonly causes bruises. In certain areas and at close range, these impacts may leave welts, or even break the skin and cause bleeding.' I can't believe you would even think of allowing our son to participate in something like this."

Oh boy. Mum's got her work cut out for her now.

"Martin, I talked with Mrs. Frakes."

"Who?"

Mum sighed. "Trevor's mum. The company doing the party specializes in paintball for children. The kids must wear face masks. And, they use low-impact, fragile paintballs that they promise won't do any damage."

"They promise do they? The very people who are profiting from this. Now that's reassuring."

"I've researched it too, Martin, and talked to a couple of mums in Wadebridge whose kids have done it. They say it's mostly running around dressed like G.I. Joe. And the articles I've read say that paintball is one of the safest sports."

"I don't understand why it's so important for James to attend this party."

"Paintball is very exciting for boys this age."

"It doesn't sound exciting to me."

"Well, you're not ten."

Dad merely grunted.

"As to why he's so keen on going . . . children want to fit in, to be part of the group. All of James' friends will be going. How would he explain why he can't go?"

"Louisa, we don't need to justify our actions to the moronic parents of this village – or to their children."

"We wouldn't, but James would. He'd be devastated."

That's true, I silently agreed.

"Martin, he just wants to go to a party with his friends. He's my son too and if I thought for a moment he could be hurt, I'd never let him go."

Much as I wanted to keep listening, I knew I'd better get my homework done. Not being prepared for class tomorrow was a sure way to have both Mum and Dad take away privileges, probably starting with Trevor's party. I stood up and climbed the remaining stairs to my room, hoping against hope that Mum would win out.