The students crash into one another,
laughing, swearing, tipping trays,
while teachers pretend not to notice,
hunched over their lunches like crows.
The school smells of custard and bleach.
The head of Year 11 enrols me immediately.
Starting next week then, she says brusquely,
ushering a nosebleeding boy
into her room with an eye roll.
Fighting again, Philip?
For the love of …
I count on my fingers the weeks left
until my exams.
Kelly-Anne says, Will you survive this place?
It’s a zoo.
I laugh.
You know this is how every comp
in the country feels?
She grimaces.
I’m glad I’m not sixteen.
A bell rings loudly and
the corridor is quiet.
The noise is just noise, I say.
I’ll survive it.