Chapter Text
If I’ve learnt one thing from switching schools twice a year, it’s that people love to stare.
I guess that’s valid. I’m new around here, and I look different to everybody else. It’s not a great combination.
The bus screeches to a halt once we’re inside the gates, and kids immediately start piling out. I grab my messenger bag from the seat next to me, and linger until everybodys gone. I don’t want to be pushing and shoving on my first day of year eleven, especially not at a new school. Some kid somehow already has a bleeding lip.
I fish inside my bag until I find my timetable - already crumpled from the sheer amount of shit I’m required to carry. Registration in room 15. Easy enough.
One issue. I have no idea where that is.
“Hey, uh, do you know where fifteen is?” I hurry towards the last person leaving the bus. She’s got two dark braids hanging by her shoulders, and pen drawings snaking up her hands, disappearing into her blazer sleeve.
The girl shakes her head. Then grabs a scrap of paper from her bag, scribbling: “No. It’s my first day, too.”
She gives me a tiny, sympathetic smile, and then leaves to meet somebody else, who looks practically identical to her. So much for that.
I follow the crowd, which seems like the most sensible thing to do. I’ve not spoken to anyone yet. Apart from one, this scrawny boy who ran up to me, took a photo with his cracked samsung phone, then ran away. Not sure what to do about that.
After five minutes of walking, I finally spot a door, the “fifteen” label peeling. I push open the door, feeling twenty pairs of eyes already looking at me. They don’t even try to be subtle about it - like I’m some animal in the zoo - on display for them all.
“Sorry I’m late.” I mumble, eyes fixed on the floor, so that I don’t have to look at everybody staring at me. The teacher stops speaking, adjusting her glasses to glare at me.
“Couldn’t find the classroom.” I add, as if that’ll help my case whatsoever.
“You couldn’t have asked anybody?” she asks, folding her arms. I shrug. “Go find a seat. I’ll give you an actual seat tommorow.”
I scan the room as quick as possible, looking for somewhere safe. The groups already look established. A group of boys are trying to create some contraption that flings rubbers across the room. Two girls are sharing a mirror whilst applying a new layer of lip liner. There’s a boy in the back, hunched over his planner with a pencil in hand.
“Is this seat free?” I ask, gesturing to the chair next to him. He nods and I slip in beside him, throwing my bag under the desk.
“Usually my friend sits there, but she’s in iso.” he informs me, eyes still fixed on his book.
“First day back?” I ask, a little more surprised than I should be. I’ve seen worse.
The boy rolls his eyes. “Willow’s practically permanently in isolation, nowadays. Today, I’m actually.. not sure why.” He grabs his phone from his blazer pocket, shoving it under the desk when the teacher isn’t watching. He gives me a look, one that I recognise as “don’t snitch.”
“So, new kid,” he mutters, simultaneously typing frantically under the table. “What’s your name?”
Before I can respond, I feel something hard hit the side of my face. A rubber drops to the floor, rolling underneath another desk. The teacher starts to yell at the boys who did it, whilst I massage my cheek. The boy next to me still hasn’t looked up from his phone.
“Player.” I say. “What about you?”
“Oh, she told a year seven that she’s a fat slag. Typical Will.” He turns to face me. “I’m Tigry.”
We spend the rest of registration in silence. Our form tutor sends three girls up to the headteacher for skirts that dare to sit above the knees, and Tigry gets his phone confiscated. I can’t say I didn’t warn him. I tried.
By the time form is over, I’ve learnt three vital things.
1) The school corridors are far too narrow for the amount of kids they’re forcing through them.
2) My form tutor is genuinely a vile woman who probably enjoys inflicting pain on children.
3) Apparently I’m sat next to that girl called Willow in English. It’s a pretty name - but by the way Tigry spoke about her this morning - maybe she doesn’t match those connotations.
Tigry isn’t in my English class, but he introduces me to this other kid, Doggy, who is. I’m hopeless when it comes to anything literature related, but luckily, so is he. Doggy’s even taller than me (and I’m quite tall, if I do say so myself) with shaggy brown hair that falls into his eyes. As we walk, he keeps blowing it out of his face. He talks quite a lot, which I don’t mind, because I’m not a very talkative person.
“I’ve been growing it out over the summer.” he explains, practically reading my mind. “Bunny wants to practice on my hair. She’s giving haircuts in the school bathrooms to earn some extra money.”
“Is that allowed?” I ask, immediately regretting it. Of course it’s not.
“Course not.” he says with a laugh. “But hey, it’s a good way to make some quick cash when you’re fourteen.”
I can’t disagree with him. I started a fortune telling business in my old school, flipping a rubber to decide yes or no. Surprisingly, it worked in my favour. Part of me thinks Doggy’s hair looks fine like that, but maybe it’s too early to let him know. I’ve only known him five minutes.
The English department is on the other side of the school, but I get a good look around as we walk. It’s a pretty big school, bigger than most of my old schools. I try not to worry. The year sevens probably find this way worse.
To my surprise, somebody’s already sat in the seat next to mine. I wasn’t expecting anyone, but I assume this is Tigry’s friend.
She has grey, messy hair, with wired headphones hanging by her neck. I wonder if she’s allowed to wear that hoodie. Probably not.
“I thought you were in iso.” I say, slumping down into the chair against the wall. Willow raises her eyebrows.
“Well, I’m not.” A pause. “How’d you know that?”
I shrug, grabbing my pen from my bag. I’ve used the same one since year eight. It never seems to run out, and I’ll probably cry the day it does. “Your friend told me.”
“Damn, Tigry,” she mumbles, leaning back with her arms folded. “Can’t keep his mouth shut.”
She continues mumbling under her breath for a while. I wonder how on earth she’s already escaped from isolation.
The teacher tells us to turn to page twenty-two of A Christmas Carol. I hate that book. I never understand what that Dickens guy is trying to show. Regardless, I’m left alone twenty minutes later when a teacher drags Willow back to isolation. So much for that.