My school

My school is surrounded

by a wire fence

and a stand of stringybark

that the council

is debating whether to rezone

for a new housing estate.

Each morning the buses bring

the hippie kids from the hinterland

and us southerners from Turon

into the main car park,

already filled with four-wheel drives

dropping off the locals

too lazy to walk.

Mr Drake, our Science teacher,

is on uniform duty

at the front gate

telling boys to tuck in their shirts

and girls to remove their lipstick.

The first rubbish bin

in the schoolyard

is decorated with red-lipped tissues.

I whizz past him on the bike

and he tells me to stop

and strap my helmet on properly.

Rachel walks through the gate

wearing a pair of trousers

instead of the tartan skirt.

When Mr Drake stops her,

she says,

‘Girls are the equal of boys

and should wear the same uniform.’

He says, ‘Well, you won’t be allowed to class

wearing trousers.’

Rachel winks at me,

turns to Mr Drake

and, in front of everyone,

drops her trousers

to reveal her skirt underneath.

She hands Mr Drake the trousers

as the bell rings

and we all cheer

as Rachel strolls to class.