The landslide didn’t stop at home. It became more and more difficult to keep my feet at school too, especially now my cinema trips had been rumbled.
I tried hard to keep a lower profile than ever, but seemed only to find ways of drawing attention to myself.
In a single day I managed to walk into an open locker door (almost decapitating myself) and embarrassed myself hideously in a PE lesson (me and hockey sticks never did go together) before dropping my lunch tray in front of the whole school. It was like someone had a humiliation magnet trained on me, and to cap it off we had English last period, another pitfall that I doubted I could avoid.
To help me further Donna cranked up the pressure as we marched in.
‘I’m expecting great things from you today, hear me?’
After ten minutes I could feel the sweat pooling on my back. I had to feed her some info that would help, because the alternative didn’t bear thinking about.
Salvation eventually came about half an hour in when Hobson asked a question about a prologue. I scribbled the answer furiously in my exercise book, almost breaking the page with my nib, before thrusting it under Donna’s nose. Her hand shot up instantly, blurting the answer out proudly despite not having the foggiest what it meant.
Mr Hobson stood in shock for a second before beaming widely.
‘Excellent answer, Donna. Spot on.’
Modest as always, she stood and curtsied to the class, quickly unpicking the work she, or rather I, had done. She didn’t stop beaming for the rest of the lesson, except to grill me for more answers.
‘Good to see you pulled yourself together,’ she said as we stood to leave.
‘I’m doing my best,’ I answered, trying to act casual, though I must have sounded desperate.
‘Well, you’ve a long way to go yet. Don’t forget that.’ And with a final snarl she upended my bag on to the floor, its contents skimming over the tiles, including the case that held my scissors and lint.
Fortunately she didn’t look back, soaking up giggles from the others as she paraded out. I was on my knees in a flash, scuttling around until I spotted my tin.
I was unravelling quickly. I needed to get everything in the bag and home before anything else went wrong.
‘You’ve missed some stuff over here,’ sighed Hobson, bending to retrieve my gym kit. I took it meekly, not daring to look at him. ‘Oh, and there’s this too.’
He had my tin. I could hear the scissors rattling inside and prayed he couldn’t work out what it was for.
I snatched this time, eager to have it in my hands.
‘Steady on, Daisy. I’m trying to help.’
‘Sorry, sir.’ I blushed. ‘Just in a rush to get home.’
‘Well, let me help you, then.’ He turned to pick up my bag, delaying a second with it before coming back to me.
‘It’s like the Tardis, this thing. I can’t believe how much stuff you fit in it. So, how are you? How’s … things?’
‘Fine,’ I mumbled. ‘Great.’
‘Really? It’s good to see you back in class, but it’s only really in body, isn’t it? I didn’t hear from you again today.’
I bit my lip at what I’d gifted Donna.
‘What can I say?’ I offered. ‘I never was the sharpest tool.’
He sat on the desk in front of me with a sigh.
‘What a load of bollocks.’
The sharpness of his words made me look at him.
‘We both know that’s not true. I look around the room and I see more potential in you than in any of the others.’
‘Course you do,’ I scoffed.
‘It’s true. You have something very special, Daisy. You’re intuitive, instinctive, and it kills me to see you not fulfilling your potential.’
‘I’m getting by.’
‘But that shouldn’t be enough for you. I’ve read your file in the office, spoken to the other teachers, and they’d like more from you too. I know there’s something holding you back. I realize we’ve had this conversation before, but you need to know that whatever is on your mind, we can sort it out.’
‘Honestly, sir, there’s nothing going on.’
‘Daisy, we both know that’s bull.’
‘How do YOU know?’
‘Because I’ve been there, and I acted just like you,’ he added quietly, before pulling himself to his feet. ‘There were things I bottled up for a long time. Stuff that ate away at me, and until I got brave and told someone, someone I trusted, it messed me up badly. I don’t want the same to happen to you. You’re worth more than that, do you understand?’ He laid his hand on my arm, my bad arm, but I didn’t pull away in pain. Instead I felt a buzz ripple up it, all the way to my shoulder.
‘Think about what I’ve said, won’t you?’ he said as he gathered his stuff and headed to the door.
‘I will, sir. Thanks,’ I answered, instinctively feeling for my scars, still sensing the rare good feeling that he’d left there.
I thought about little else all the way home. In a way he was right, I needed to unload, but I daren’t. What I’d caused was so unforgivable, how would anybody understand or want to help? It wasn’t as if I could talk to Dad either. It was hardly a roaring success last time I tried, and we’d barely spoken since.
I kept going back to something Hobson had said, that he’d been there, done the same as me, and I wondered, hoped even, that maybe he might be the one person who’d get it, who wouldn’t laugh or run off in disgust. The thought of sharing started a new wave of fear circling me, forcing both my step and my heartbeat up from an amble to a jog. I needed to be home, in my room, where I could fend it off safely, where no one could see me or my scissors.
I managed it as well, or did for a while. Dad wasn’t home, which calmed me a bit, and for once I kept the panic at bay with a shed-load of pacing about. I tried to force my head into other things too, thinking that unpacking my bag would divert my thoughts elsewhere, and it did until I found a parcel in the bottom of it, wrapped clumsily in brown paper. Frowning, I turned it over, fearful of it being a gag from Donna, another way of humiliating me. Binning it went through my head, but I couldn’t shelve the curiosity and found myself peeling back the wrapping at the top right-hand corner.
Instantly I recognized the packaging. DVDs. Two of them, When Harry Met Sally (the film he’d banged on about at the cinema) and one called Frankie and Johnny. Both looked old, like they’d been on someone’s shelf for years, and I frowned because I hadn’t seen either of them. Both were rom-coms, identical-looking to the film I’d seen when he caught me leaving the Ritzy. There was a note tucked into one of the sleeves, a scrawl I could just about make out:
If it’s comfort viewing you’re after, try these two. I love ’em! Don’t worry about giving them back … I have spares … enjoy!
TH
He must have slid them in there when he was helping me with my stuff. But why hide it? In a way it didn’t matter, it was the size of the gesture that counted. I couldn’t remember the last time someone did anything like that, or knew me well enough to get it right. I was stoked and terrified in equal measure, but chose to push When Harry Met Sally quickly into the DVD player. Watching it would give us something to talk about, things that might allow me to get on to the stuff that really mattered.