3. The “meeting”
The soft brown chair is so uncomfortable that I can barely realise I am sitting in an actual hall. The meetings held here have no message at all. I am only here to please my very amused mother, whose talks of praising Jesus kept me stuck in a church hours on end, listening to death rattles disguised as choir songs.
Up by the front, about to step on, is Mrs. Malone. She is the Headteacher of my school, though I am not proud to admit it. She has a poppy on her waistcoat, to blend in with the other aliens. Her slick, freakishly long and puke yellow hair set off a fantasia of sniggers and giggles in my mind. Her eyes had the same width as a shrimp's. Her ears- barely visible- were so alert the cars going by outside felt like they were inside to her. I have no doubt she has an acute sense of smell, most dictators do.
Her stature was, and I’ve read this at home, very similar to that of Chairman Mao. He transformed quickly from a sinner to a saint in my eyes. I should be home right now, believing the opposite of what others think. I should be looking at a picture of 9/11, predicting the impact of the explosion. I should be smiling at Kevin Carter photos, miming to one of Hitler’s speeches. I am sitting as a minority in the town hall, waiting for more of her “schemes”.
“As I said last time,” she says. “There has been a rapid decline to progress. I fear that this is because of a drastic change to environment. Kids being bullied, robberies around local shops, peer pressure. I have invented a new scheme.”
A hand in her mouth, she crawls to the edge of the bed. With one gleam in her eye she kisses my chest.
“This new scheme will change our entire way of looking at schools. We, in the process of building schools for the future, are entering a phase called ‘the rebound’.”
“Kiss me,” she pleads. “It is only fair Robert. Release yourself.” Her eyes are the only fragments of her pubescent lies remaining. She undoes my jeans, spitting on my penis for good measure.
“As I have predicted many times before, the school is losing public image. This is why we are going to spend more of the governments money on uniform than your child’s education. I know you must be outraged, but believe me: we don’t have the money or the time for your child’s future.”
This must be a dream. I could’ve only sworn this wasn’t true. Endless nights, staring into a multi-layered screen, viewing a woman living an eventual suicide. Virgins are pure? Since when? Virgins are as scorned as call girls, junkies, whores, pimps. I have no preference for what I want to watch. I only look for signs of disappointment. The forced smiles, the cheeky laughs. The other day, a girl replied to the question “how old are you?” by saying “16, heehee”. She didn’t say anything for 30 seconds, hesitating to turn around to show the director what her body is worth.
“We have to cut down costs. We can’t afford to lose our integrity.”
“You have to screw me RIGHT this time. You can’t afford to lose your grip.”
“For this school needs to change. I want this school change and so do you.”
“For you need to know this. I want you to know this all through your body.”
“And thus, is the art of the great democracy.”
“And thus, is the art of the senseless ‘pornography’ you watch. Forget it.”
“Thank you for listening.”
“Thank you for wanting to screw me.”
Walking off, applause all over, her raw body transforms into the American dream: a censored accessory. I couldn’t make out much of her points- my eyes more fixated on her chest than her forced visions of political correctness in a wretched school. The physical nature of the exercise is now a disorientating outlook of the grey walls around me. The overall sense of nihilism now left, the fantasy is over. Her multiple kisses are now the dreams of a junkie’s needle.
I erupted with laughter once the clapping died down. My mother, embarrassed and obviously pissed off, hits me to make me shut up. This only kicks off the frenzy, as soon other people join in. My disjointed influence has taken over the minds of the figureheads. Upper class twats, about 7ft tall, join in as well. They don’t know what I am laughing at. Nor do I.
The applause starts again, as if the empty stage is now the funniest stand up routine that has ever been performed. We watch this invisible comedian go, playing to the crowd and making bizarre facial expressions in our minds. My mother walks out without a flicker of hope in her thick brown hair.
To say I am horrified is a bit of understatement. To say I have enjoyed it, however, is exactly correct. I don’t know what I am meant to stay away from, or what I should allow into my life. The lines have been crossed. Were there any boundaries to begin with?
I exited the hall on the best day of my life. The attention I am getting is greater than the first day of school. It will be greater than my first day of a new beginning. I have many roads to walk: the road to Kate’s body and innocence is my main objective. I must find the key to her true colours. If her face is to be smothered then so be it. I must give her anything without giving too much to her. She’ll never understand. That’s what they all say.
