I sprint through the hallways, new shoes squeaking on the linoleum. Stopping for a look at the map in my hand, I search for my science room, forty-eight. But the papers are useless. The new ink has started to run down the page because of my sweat. I lean against the wall, panting from my fast pace. The numbers have started to blur, my eyes not able to focus on anything too well, but I can just make out a few digits.
A few meters to my left is room thirteen. My form room was twenty-seven. With a groan, I turn back and run the other way without even bothering to check the map. Back past all of the classrooms, when I reach the end of the corridor I pause. I haven’t seen any students or teachers walking around at all. Everyone must already be in class. There is a flight of stairs to my left, and a door to the outside in front of me. A small red sign above the door states that it is a fire exit. I run up the stairs not caring if I head the wrong way. My life is over anyway. What will my science teacher say when I turn up with no uniform?
If anything has gone my way today, it would have to be the golden numbers bolted onto the classroom door; 48. I pull down the handle and push through. The teacher stands up at the front of the class, apparently giving an important speech. Immediately I take in the classroom. Three rows of students seated on plastic, two-person tables. Around the edges is another bench, with taps protruding from the wall. Gas, I think. I look at the students to see some of them scribbling madly in their notebooks, and others towards the back of the classroom laughing and passing notes. I start to laugh, but one look at the teacher shuts me up.
“Who are you?” He asks in an accusing tone.
“Mr Seager?” I am cautious; too much has gone wrong already. The teacher nods, and I introduce myself. My heart rate is racing almost as fast as I had ran through the halls only moments earlier. I take a deep breath, knowing that it will do nothing for my mufti appearance.
Upon hearing my name he shakes his head. “No, not looking like that you’re not,” I watch his head move from side to side, imagining what I must look like. A new student turns up out of uniform, after missing first spell and is so red he must be sunburnt. “You’ve got to be joking,” he starts to laugh. As he does, his slick blond hair glistens under the class lights, running smoothly into his skin, moulding the tones gently together. I can see the anger seeping into his pale blue eyes.
I hear a snigger from the middle row of seats. My eyes whip to the culprit, a tall boy with sandy-blond hair, and he looks like he was one of the ones passing notes. The kids on his table and the one next to his start laughing too. I already know I must look ridiculous, but it doesn’t help having laughing as your first form of contact.
I turn back to the teacher, just in time to see him start to speak again. “No. I won’t take it. Go and sit outside, bring your uniform and stationary tomorrow, and maybe then you can join the class,” his tone is harsh, and I know that anything I say will just make it worse. Once the teacher has finished his instructions, I hear more laughing erupt; not only from the blond boy and his friends, but nearly half of the class.
I turn around and close the door behind me. The muffled laughter starts to die down, and I sit against the wall. The wall has some sort of carpet instead of wallpaper, bit it still hurts when I bang my head against it. I open my mouth as my eyes close, letting out a deep, long groan. Is it even possible for a day to suck as bad as this? Just in case, I pinch my arm just below e sleeve. No, I conclude. I am not dreaming.
All of the energy seeps out of my body. I continue to bang my head against the wall, but it starts to hurt less and less with each new contact. I think my brain is going numb. That is, if I even have a brain, which would be hard to believe after a day like this.
It has hardly been two minutes before a click sounds to my left. Then the door opens, and instead of Mr. Seager walking out, I am surprised to find someone much worse. “What are you doing here?” I ask with less than mild interest. The banging behind me stops, and I realise that I have stopped punishing my head in order to get a better look at the boy.
The aforementioned sandy blond hair was strewn in all directions across his forehead. Eyes, dark brown, were squinting like he was trying to see without a pair glasses. But, with the drooping corners of his mouth, it was clear he was scowling. The boy doesn’t answer my question, not that I care, but instead walks over to the opposite side of the corridor and leans against the wall.
I don’t start knocking my head about again, and fiddle with the timetable in my hand. It doesn’t occur to me that I might need it later. It feels good as I rip the small shreds of paper away, and watch them drop effetely to the floor.
“I s’ppose you think you’re cool, eh? Arriving to school in a get up like that,” his voice is almost as bad as his laugh, but I can detect a hint of uncertainty in there, too.
“Better than a stiff uniform like yours. At least I don’t look like a blueberry,” my reply was lame, but it is the first thing I can think of. I look away in hope that he won’t notice. My eyes drop to the grey speckled floor. The yellow base is dark with years of mud and poor cleaning. I decide it looks a little like oil. The light is reflecting off it in a way that makes the uneven surface shimmer as you move your head.
The boy was looking down the corridor, to the other end and out the windows, but now he turns his head to face me. I look up at the sound, snapped awake from my reverie. I stare at him, glad that I am on the floor; my legs feel like jelly. I am not used to confrontations with strangers. Only animals and friends. It is a lot harder to read someone that you don’t know, to predict that they will say and do so you can counter it. A bell rings in my head and I think about my assignment. Maybe I need the practice.
We lock eyes for over a minute. He looks powerful, but I can see fear behind those eyes. His type might try to attack when I am off guard. But he doesn’t do anything as I sit there. The door to my left opens, and Mr. Seager appears.
“Tyler, go back in,” he beckons to the boy in a quiet voice. “Exercise three-point-oh in your workbook. No talking this time,” The boy sulks back into the classroom. I am a little disappointed by the fact that I didn’t get to win the staring competition, but I know that there is a lot worse to come. I bang my head against the grey carpeted wall again, hearing the thump jar through the wall.
“Sam, I know it’s your first day here,” he begins, his voice raised. I can sense that teachers aren’t as strict in real school as they are at the training compound. I decide to test it out, as my day can’t possibly get any worse.
“It’s Samuel,” I state, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. My heart starts to race and I take a breath to calm myself. It doesn’t work. “My name is Samuel,” I say, to sidetrack me from my fear. I can see the disbelief on his face, so I quickly add, “Mr. Seager.”
It is true, I think. They’re used to kids acting up.
“Okay, Samuel,” he says, defeated. I fight myself not to show a smile on my lips. “You are not in uniform, you have no stationary, and you have been late to every class so far. I know it is your first day,” he pauses, to make me think that he has a hard time saying this. I dive straight in. It’s all going to the dumps anyway, so what does it matter if another teacher is angry at me.
“As you said before…”
“That’s it. Samuel. Out; I’ll write a note excusing you myself. I see you already have a detention, and it’s not even morning break. Go home and think about whether or not you want to come back tomorrow.” He walks back into the classroom. As I follow his face until it disappears, I see a slight raise in the corner of his mouth.
Crap. I bang my head against the wall again. No more school today. At least now I can go home and get the folder. Despite this perk, I feel my eyes moisten. No, I tell myself. Boys don’t cry. But I can’t stop a small tear forming in the corner. As I sulk back down the stairs I wide it away of the end of my short sleeve. I can just imagine the looks on the students’ faces as I walk past the classrooms. There are small windows in the doors, but I can’t get a good enough look at anyone through the thick layer of liquid over my eyes.
I feel the sold floor beneath my feel and I still haven’t stopped crying. I push through the door and outside. As soon as I step foot outside the building I hear an ear-splitting shriek. I look around for the noise, and realise the school bell is ringing. Great, I think. Now everyone can see me crying my eyes out like a baby while they eat their food. I hastily try to wipe the tears away as I wait for the bell to stop deafening me. I throw my map at the ground, and start kicking it as I cross the quad.
The doors all open at once and everyone starts pouring out. I expect someone to point and laugh, but they aren’t looking in my direction. The outburst of blue and grey turns in to a river, all of the boys and girls headed in the same direction. I jog along until I catch them, and wonder where they are headed. I must say, the prospect of a fistfight cheers me up a bit.
My tears have dried up but I can feel the heat radiating off my cheeks. The warm sun is light on my back, seeping through the fabric in just the right concentration. The air is soft but has a humid taste to it. We head down to a rugby field. I can hear the conversations swirl around me in the torrent of children; the whispers are inevitable, and soon all eyes turn to me.
‘Who’s that guy, and why isn’t he in uniform?’ ‘…I bet he did it…’ ‘Does he even go to our school?’
And then I hear a voice that I had already memorised. It was one of the only ones I had heard since arriving here, after all. “I bet he couldn’t stand the thought of leaving school, so he threw the fire alarm…” I stop walking and turn around to face Tyler.
“What the hell?” I yell. I can feel the crowd as it stops pushing, and everyone fights for a front row seat. This has to be more exciting than a fire drill, after all. A bubble of air forms around us, and it’s just me and him. The anger is back.
Someone once said that you vision flashes red when you feel such a concentration of anger that it consumes you. I can tell you now that they were lying. But you can feel a difference. My fingers tingle, and a cool breeze catches in the hair on the back of my neck. My lips curl into a smile, and even standing still becomes a mission.
“Hey! Sammy, didn’t see you there bud, because you fit in so well,” his voice sounds like he is talking through a microphone, and it is soon reverberating through my head. It blocks out everything else and all I can hear is his snide tone. He takes a step towards me, and he is no longer too far away to see properly. He steps into a small circle of vision and I can make out everything. He has freckled littering his face like grain does to bread. His slightly crooked nose pokes out of his laughing, mocking face.
I don’t pay attention to it though; I just look at his neck. I can see the blood is it pulses through his thin skin. Every beat it flies outwards, coaxing me in, enticing me. I can’t say if the crowd is laughing, crying of cheering. The world is blocked out. After a second or so the offending voice is even clear of my mind.
I lunge.
Luckily, he had the sense to duck, and instead of catching his neck with my fist, I only hit the upper cheek. He falls down, onto the grass clutching his injury, and the spell is broken. My nerves begin to crack. I breathe deeply, but as always it does nothing. I see blood. The red is splattering all over the grass, and I follow the trail until I see a big gash cutting along the boy’s cheek.
My senses kick in and I start to run. The crowd parts as everyone sees my urgency, and I sprint out of the school gates before anyone can stop me. Without even one look back, I follow the streets that I had run less than a few hours ago.
Even though I have already ran so far today, I don’t stop until I find my way home.
