It was Thursday. We were doing chairs. Wikes was drawing on the whiteboard again, a frog’s kidney this time. I was planning on sneaking back in at break and writing ‘Self Portrait’ underneath it. I was looking forward to that. Pathetically, it was going to be the high point of my day.
I’d been in the tent for two nights so far. I had fish and chips the first night – that was OK. The night after, I went home with this kid Terry. He’s a bit of a geek. I offered to let him show me his Wargames stuff. I was only going in for after-school snacks, but his mum asked me to dinner. It was weird, but it got me fed.
I was feeling good. I was on top of my game. I was sticking to the rules – my rules. I was going to school. I might have been prepared to bend that one if there was anywhere else to go to, but there never is, because everyone else is, well, at school. I was sitting tight, doing my work in class, not doing my homework at home. Perfectly reasonable.
It’s just a pity they can’t be reasonable as well.
Chairs is fun, though.
What you do is, while Wikes draws on the board, you and your mates stand up, grip the table in your hands and tiptoe off with it. You don’t need to go far, just a metre or so to start with. The point is, when he looks round, the room has been rearranged. All done in total silence.
It’s really funny.
The first time he didn’t react at all. We’d all just tiptoed backwards with our tables a couple of metres, so we were all jammed up against the back wall. He might not have even noticed consciously. He just looked mildly surprised and got back to picking which colour pen to use next.
The second time we’d moved all the tables forward so we were all right up close to him. He spotted that all right. You could see him twitch.
The third time we were really subtle. We just turned our tables round so that we were all sitting there with our backs to him, staring at the wall opposite.
Wikes let out a terrible cry and flung his pen at us – it got Alex on the shoulder.
‘Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I don’t know what’s going on? You’re going to stop this right now. Now! Now! I said NOW!’ he screamed, and he banged his hand so hard on his desk it hurt him.
It was hilarious. Wikes was dancing around shaking his hurt hand. People were almost literally falling off their stools laughing. Even the good kids, the ones who like to pretend they’re learning something from all his board dribble, even they were laughing. Wikes stopped dancing and just stood there looking at us falling about. Then he must have decided it just wasn’t worth it and turned away and got back to doing his drawing on the board.
‘This group …’ he muttered, quietly. I was quite close to him. I think that’s what he was saying. ‘This group …’ He had the pen up to the board, but he wasn’t doing anything. Then, just for a moment, he rested his forehead against the board and it suddenly occurred to me he was hiding his face. Poor old Wikes, he was crying.
And then it wasn’t funny any more.
It’s one thing getting revenge for him being such a lazy arse, but I didn’t want to make him cry. I hate bullies. It was the first time I thought to myself – maybe I was being one. Just because he was a teacher didn’t mean he couldn’t be bullied.
No one else had noticed. They were all hooting away like monkeys.
‘Leave it out,’ I hissed. ‘He’s upset – leave it.’
Alex and Jamie on my table went quiet and flapped their hands at the others so the noise died down. But Wikes must have heard me too, because he turned round, cool as anything. His eyes were red, so I knew I was right.
‘Chris Trent,’ he said to me in a quiet voice. ‘I’ll see you outside. Now. Go on.’
I got up and went out, with him right behind me. He was so quiet he scared me. I thought, What now?
Outside in the corridor, he came right up to me, so I had to step back to keep my distance. He stepped further forward and put his hand on the wall so his arm was over my shoulder and leaned in close.
‘You’re the ringleader, Trent,’ he said. ‘Don’t think I don’t know.’ He gulped a couple of times, trying to catch his words; he was still upset. ‘School’s wasted on the likes of you,’ he said.
He was so close I could feel his breath on my face. I tried to move sideways, but he stepped round so he blocked my way. It was really uncomfortable.
‘I was trying to stop it,’ I pointed out, but he wasn’t listening.
‘Proud of yourself, I expect,’ he said. ‘Nothing better to do than make a mess for other people to clean up.’
‘Sir …’
‘Spoiling it for everyone else. You’re just a little shit, Trent, aren’t you?’ he said.
I couldn’t believe my ears at first. He said it so clearly there was no doubt, but I still couldn’t believe it.
‘What, sir?’ I said.
‘What, sir?’ he mimicked. He pulled a face and shook his head. ‘Your sort make me sick. A selfish little bastard, that’s what you are. Your mother must be a right bitch to bring up something like you.’
‘What?’
‘You can stay there. I’ll report this to the head.’
He turned to go. But – he can’t say that! He can’t get away with that!
I grabbed his shoulder. ‘What did you say? What did you call my mother?’ I hissed.
Wikes looked down at his shoulder and smirked. ‘Assault is it now? I’ll tell you what I said, Trent. Nothing. It’s my word against yours. And we both know who’ll be believed, don’t we?’
I was so shocked. I just stood there staring at him. Where were the rules? Why was he doing this?
‘If you don’t get your grubby little hand off me right now, I’ll get you done for assault. Because do you know what, Trent? There are plenty of other people in this school who’d like to see the back of you. Aren’t there? Aren’t there, Trent?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said automatically, and I dropped my hand and looked away – just because I was ashamed at him speaking like that, I think.
Wikes nodded, and then he turned and walked back into the classroom. I stood and watched him like an idiot, because he’d treated me like scum and I’d still said yes sir no sir three bags full sir, like a good little boy. He closed the door quietly. Then I turned and went.
I was trying to stop it! All right, I do start it sometimes. If he wants to call me names, that’s up to him – but he can’t call my mother a bitch and get away with it, no way!
I was so angry. I stormed off down the corridor. I thought, That’s it. I’ve had enough of this crap now.
I was going to go straight back to my tent, but I was taking a shortcut across the hall in front of the stage, and a teacher was coming in at the back and, you know what, I didn’t want to explain myself, so I ducked up the stairs and behind the curtain and went to hide backstage.
It was Mrs Connelly. I heard her pause – she’d seen me go in – but she went on her way. Thought I was running an errand for someone, I expect.
I went to the little room backstage and sat down on the wicker costume basket. I had tears running down my face. It’s funny, with me and school. It just goes on day after day. I get bored and I skive and I do what I can to avoid the work and punishments and things, and I get on with my life as much as I can. But really, it does my head in. I don’t realize until something like this happens and suddenly there it is, right in my face.
I wanted to go home. I wanted just to forget about it. But what I wanted, more than anything, was to just tell someone how unfair it was that my crimes get pinned against me all the time while an idiot like Wikes, who makes so many people suffer every single day of his life, can call my mother a bitch and get clean away with it.
I started to have a look through the hamper of costumes. It was mainly panto stuff. The tutus were tiny – they must have been for Year 7s, I reckon. I had to split one up the sides to get it on and it only came down to just below my ribs. I have a hairy stomach. It looked ludicrous. I was starting to feel better.
Long stripy socks. Good. There was this pair of sequined pants, they were a bit small too, so I left my boxers on underneath. They left little to the imagination as it was. A tiara. A Superman cape. Then I raided the make-up table, spiked up my hair with gel, whitened out my face, did big blue eyes and a fat, smeary, ugly red trannie mouth.
Perfect.
I had to cover myself up with a coat on the way back to class – the last thing I wanted was to be hoiked off before I made my point.
I knocked on the door …
‘Come in,’ called Wikes.
I banged the door open and stood there in what I think is called a plié. Then I minced across the room, doing two or three turns as I did, and dived under Wikes’s table.
The place exploded. Everyone was hooting and yelling. Wikes went mad. He tried to drag me out, but I’d got hold of the table legs.
‘Get out! Get out! What do you think you’re doing, boy? Get out!’
‘I’m protesting,’ I yelled back. ‘I’m protesting against you calling my MOTHER A BITCH!’
The whole room went quiet when I said that. Wikes stood there, licking his lips for a moment. Then he nodded.
‘Lying won’t help you, Chris,’ he said quietly. ‘We’ll see what the head has to say about it, shall we? Marion,’ he told one of the girls. ‘Go to fetch the headmaster, will you, please?’
He sat down on his chair and looked out of the window. The girl ran off out of the class. A minute or so passed, then I got out and went to sit on one of the desks while we waited for the head to show up.