The bus took twenty-five minutes to get through the traffic before it reached the school and by that time it was full of kids shouting and screaming and throwing things out of the window. Like a zoo but on wheels, with an upper and lower deck. I got up slowly and followed the boys, catching my foot against a giant black sports bag that had been left, thoughtfully, in the aisle. I swore and heard a deep, ‘I’m nearly a man’ laugh. It was the bag’s owner, an older boy, Jason Patel.
‘Wanna watch where you’re goin’, sexy . . .’ he said to me with a smirk.
‘Get stuffed . . .’
‘Easy – gal thinks she’s funny, innit . . .’ he said to his mates, who all joined him in laughing at me.
‘I’m sorry?’ I asked, pretending that I didn’t understand what he meant.
‘I’m sorry . . .’ he mimicked.
‘Come on, Grace,’ said Jit, from the stairwell.
‘Better go join yer boyfriend, sexy . . .’ smiled Jason.
‘And you’d better get to the dentist. Yellow teeth . . . Big no-no.’
I walked away quickly as Jason’s face turned red and his mates started laughing and telling him to clean his teeth. He called me a rude name as I went downstairs and got off the bus. Jit and Dean were standing in the bus shelter waiting for me.
‘Let’s try and get to school on time for once,’ said Jit.
The stop was about a quarter of a mile from the school gates and we walked slowly down the road, other kids running past us to get in before the registration bell went. Jason and his mates ran past too, calling me names. Jit called Jason a few back. But then Jason stopped and turned round.
‘You what?’ he shouted.
‘You’re in the dog-do now!’ Dean grinned.
Jit looked like he was about to apologize but instead he shrugged and carried on walking. Jason shouted something about ‘another time’ and ran off after his friends, his bag bouncing on his back.
‘Fool!’ spat Jit.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ replied Dean. ‘If he’s so bad, he would have dealt with it right here . . .’
‘I ain’t scared of him . . .’ said Jit.
‘God – you two are soooo tough,’ I laughed, trying to wind them up.
‘Shut up and wipe the crumbs off your face,’ said Jit, smiling.
‘Stinky git . . .’
I didn’t have time to finish because the bell sounded and we were only just at the gates. Mr Black was standing at the main entrance, looking at his watch and shaking his head. As we walked up he tut-tutted.
‘And good evening to you three,’ he said, straightening his tie knot.
‘Bus was late . . .’ mumbled Jit, not looking at him.
‘I believe that if you had caught an earlier bus—’ began Black, but Dean cut him off. Big mistake.
‘There was traffic, sir!’
‘Now, now, Dean. We don’t interrupt people when they are speaking, do we?’
‘Nossir.’
‘Because that would be very rude of us, now wouldn’t it . . . ?’
‘Yessir.’
‘Right then. Now get to your form rooms and if I see you dawdle into school tomorrow, I’ll have to give you detention . . .’
‘But sir—’ I began, only to be interrupted by the man who had told Dean that it was wrong.
‘Firm but fair, young lady. Firm but fair . . .’
‘Unlike your belly,’ whispered Jit as Mr Black walked out of earshot.
‘Unlike which one – the firm or the fair?’ I asked him.
‘Definitely the firm. Black needs some serious exercise . . .’
‘You’ll be like that one day,’ I said with a grin.
‘Maybe so,’ replied Jit, ‘but I won’t be walking round with toast stuck to me face like you, will I?’
‘Dissed . . .’ laughed Dean, giving me a bear hug.
‘Gerroff . . . !’
Mrs Dooher, our form tutor, was reading out names as we joined our classmates. As usual, I went and sat down with Suky and Hannah, at a table just in front of the boys. Imtiaz shook his head and laughed as we walked in.
‘One of these days you lot will be on time,’ he said, like he was our dad or something.
‘Just ’cos you like to get here before the caretaker don’t mean we have to,’ replied Jit, winking at me.
I couldn’t wink back because I can’t wink. Whenever I try, I look like a constipated baboon with heartburn. Mrs Dooher looked up from her register and smiled. She was my favourite teacher, a bit like a surrogate mother, with her soft Liverpool accent and stories of being asked out by some old bloke called Paul McCartney who used to be in a band called The Beatles. I had to raid my dad’s music collection to find out who he was. A pop star but a real one with talent – not like the rubbish nowadays, according to my dad. Mrs Dooher gave us the dreaded announcement – late lunch week. Again. Then she stood up and shuffled over to where we were sitting.
‘I’m going to have to tell you off for being late again’, she said with a smile.
‘We’re sorry,’ I told her, answering for Jit and Dean too.
‘You’re always sorry, Grace. I can’t keep making excuses for you all . . .’
‘Won’t happen again, miss,’ Dean replied. ‘Honest.’
‘I dunno,’ she said, smiling again.
Dean grinned and then got up and gave her a hug.
‘You’re lurrvely . . .’ he told her, in a silly accent.
‘You cheeky get . . .’ she replied.
‘Do we have to be on late lunches again, miss?’ he asked her.
The others didn’t hear him. They were busy gossiping about school stuff. But I wanted to know what he was talking about.
‘It’s on the rota, Dean. That’s the way it goes . . .’
‘But miss – the food’s always cold and that . . .’
‘And what . . . ?’
‘I’m sorry?’
Mrs Dooher smiled again. ‘You say “and that” after every sentence. I was just wondering “and what” exactly,’ she asked.
‘It’s just street banter, you get me?’ replied Dean.
‘Do I?’ grinned Mrs Dooher.
‘What?’ asked Dean, confused.
‘Get you. Do I really get you . . . ?’
‘Oh you’re just takin’ the p—’
‘Dean!’ replied Mrs Dooher, pretending to be stern.
‘The mickey, I mean.’
‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘Now get off to your lessons and leave me to prepare for the nightmare that is Year Ten.’
The others were already on their way to lessons as I pulled Dean to one side and asked him why he was bothered by being on late lunch all of a sudden.
‘The food’s nasty,’ he told me. ‘All cold and that . . .’
‘And what?’ I replied, a feeble attempt to continue a bad joke, I know.
‘Grace . . .’
‘But we’ve had a lunch rota since we got here,’ I said.
‘Yeah – I know that but it don’t mean we have to like it. You remember that silly rhyme – School Dinners?’
‘Yeah. “Concrete chips, concrete chips. Sloppy semolina . . .”’
‘Relax, Grace. Ain’t no need to make it rain by singing the thing . . .’
I stopped singing and pouted at him but he just ignored me. Silly boy!
‘Well I reckon we should complain . . .’ he said.
‘Who to, Dean? No one is going to change the rules because of us.’
‘Don’t mean we shouldn’t complain,’ he moaned, as we walked after the rest of our form group.
I sang the silly rhyme all the way to French, in a French accent, until Dean put me in a headlock to make me stop.