Burgers

They’re all the same. Pointing. Laughing. Staring. They’re relentless. But today I’ll show them. I thought a new school would be a good change for me. Moved here with mum thinking it would be a fresh start and all the nonsense that happened back there would be erased from our lives. My life. She tries in her own way but she’s cut from a very different cloth. A different fabric all together. How she believes I should tackle my ‘situation’ is a very different approach to the one I want to take. Is it too much be want to be liked? Is it too much to ask that when I pretend to laugh at an awkward joke, no one realises instantly that I don’t really care about the subject of the joke, only that I’m stood with a group of people, and not sat at my desk alone wishing I was stood with a group of people, laughing at an awkward joke? We ran away from him and I will not run away from this lot.

It doesn’t make sense because my first day went really well. The teachers were really nice people, the students were nice people, even the rotund man sweating through his hairnet was friendly. So what changed? I certainly didn’t change. I’m still the positive Polly I always was. Always am. I went into every lesson with an inquisitive approach, always trying to learn, always trying to understand. It was the last period of the first day it started. The Lawson boy who never pays attention in class asked to go to the toilet and after he’d left the classroom everyone started giggling. At first I though the giggling would pass, maybe it was a quick joke or a note passed around but it kept on. And for some reason I joined in. It was a nervous acceptance laugh without even understanding what the hell I was laughing at. It was soon apparent and I felt humiliated. Now I have a nickname and it’s really stuck. I over heard Mr Crawley talking to Mrs Lesley and referring to me as… I can’t even say it. You know your in a bad place when even the teaching staff are degrading.

“Mum?”

“Yes love?”

“I’m heading off now, do you need anything on the way home?” I hope not, the list is usually pretty long and full of pointless items.

“I think we’re okay. Oh, actually, check if we have black bags?”

The kitchen cupboard is full of bags, I know it, she knows it, but I go through the motions anyways, rustling the bags in the cupboard so she can hear.

“Yeah we have plenty, are you going to put the bins out?”

“You can just do it on the way in from school love, you know how my back is.”

So why did she as if we had bags if she had no intention of putting them out? Her back? God almighty her back. The back I supposedly damaged whilst she was carrying me, I wish she’d let that go, it’s definitely been long enough.

“No problem mum, see you later.”

“What time will you be home love?”

The same time I’m home every day.

“Around four mum.” I stand tapping my fingers on the front door waiting for more. Is that it?

“Bye then.”

“What’s that?”

“I said bye.”

“I thought you’d already said bye?”

“I had but then you asked…” I shut the door shaking my head, dumbfounded by her thought pattern. The brightness of the morning has a welcoming glow but the violent shift of the garden hedge tells me there’s still a March chill in the air. It’s a nice enough street, only three stops from school and I must be on the less popular side of the bus route because there’s not that many people on from my school, although I do tend to get in a little early. It’s a main road I suppose but it’s within a housing estate so it’s not terribly busy. The terraced houses are tall and retain an air of character, small paved fronts with an array of wrought iron gates, some with artificial plants hanging above the door ways, some with just plain bricks but all in all, well maintained. It says a lot about an area where all of the fronts look tended too. There’s an assumption that a well organised property must be owned by professionals, respectful citizens with good morals and sufficient funds, in my experience, our last place being the opposite, it’s usually pretty accurate.

The 88 bus is pretty empty for a Monday morning. I wonder if it’s usual inhabitants are still hungover from pay day weekend? I spent my weekend watering the garden and catching up on Tolstoy for this term. The bus is one of the few remaining that still contains the old style seating, they’re almost retro. The fabric is blue and spotted. Since it’s empty I decide to take the upper deck. It’s nice to get a different view of the city. Cities always look different from above, especially you’re able to remove the modernised shop fronts from view. At the second stop I see an elderly women struggling. Jesus she’s old, like… in the Blitz old. But good on you sister, still independent and doing your own thing. I respect that. I can hear the wheels of her pulley… trolley… thing as she gets on the bus. Is she coming up the stairs? There’s respect and then there’s stupidity. What the hell is she trying to get upstairs for, it can’t be the bloody view, it’s not exactly Rome. I peer over the stairwell to see if she’s okay. She isn’t.

“Let me get that for you.” I lean down and grab her trolley.

“Get you dirty little paws off my bag.” she spits with a venom not in keeping with her fragile disposition.

“Sorry I’m just trying to help.”

“I don’t need your flipping help.” She wrestles the bag from me and makes her way to the top of the stairs and sits a few rows back from me. I can hear her mumbling under her breath. I was only trying to help. She’s not just mumbling, she’s talking. Something about Graeme not being happy. Ahh now it makes sense. She’s senile. I really want to turn around but she may just attack me.

The plan I’ve set out in my head is to be firm, not exactly argumentative, I don’t want to provoke any further friction but they need to understand what they’re saying is hurtful. We’re all people in this world and we should look after each other, it’s the only way we can move forward. Harmoniously. I’m not strumming a guitar and siting around a camp fire holding hands with strangers but I have to be there every day. I’m sure they’ll come around. I had loads of friends at my last school. I was pretty well liked. I never had problems like this, so this is new for me. I get that it’s not exactly ‘Our Lady’s Immaculate Virgin’ but surely I haven’t fallen that far.

As my stop approaches I bolt for the stairs and briefly glance at the old devil lady. She has no clue who or where she is. Poor kitten. I hope she’s okay. She might not even know where she’s going.

The bus stop is just over the road from the main school gates. Dark green security fencing, wrapping the school in a defensive structure. More to keep us in than keep people out. The school yard already has splintered groups. A trio sit on the far wall just outside of the Year 8 block, huddled around a boys phone giggling. Two girls are stood on the far end of the yard failing to conspicuously smoke. They lock eye’s with me. I just drop my head and gingerly cross the road.

How hard can it be, come on. I know they’ll start as soon as I step into the classroom. I’ll drop my bag and walk straight up to them, it’s always the same them, same him. I’ll really make them understand that enough is enough. I wont get angry, I’ll just get straight to the point. I am a person just like them, we probably have a lot in common, and one thing we definitely do have in common is no one likes to be insulted, and if it continues it’s classed as bullying and I won’t be bullied. He tried it for three years before we got the hell out of there. He tried to bully us, tried to bully me. The things he said were so derogatory. “You’re just a pathetic women like your mother. She needs me, she needs a man, and one day you’ll need a man or you’ll be nothing,” often after spending all day in Labrokes. How people haven’t put LAD and BROKE together is beyond me. He was a vile, uneducated, narrow minded misogynist that didn’t deserve our time. But that’s what happens to some women. They’d rather be with someone than no one at all, which leads to bad decisions and even worse relationships. I stood up to him, I stood in my mothers corner and we stuck together, and I’ll stand up to this lot.

After my little mental prep I head through the gates and through the reception. It’s still pretty quiet and there’s no none around. The corridor’s have an off grey and black squared floor pattern, the lino is scuffed with years of skidding, jostling and fighting. The corridor to the left is more pictures than it is walls, hundreds of photos of the school football teams dating back to 1988. Football kits gradually getting tighter and haircuts getting shorter. The thick mahogany door frame of my form class door is wedged open with fire extinguisher. I pause for just a moment and then step in. No one even acknowledges me… as usual.

I drop my bag and sit at my desk. I take out Tolstoy, then my notes, then a couple of text books, then my diary, and rearrange then in a very organised manner. I wait for the first comment. I’m ready… I think. The chatter begins and I can feel my heart throbbing, I focus on it. I will myself to slow it and stay calm but my hand is shaking. I try to act natural flicking through Anna Karenina but I’m not reading anything and the more I concentrate on trying to act normal the less normal it feels. I can’t let them get to me, I won’t. It’s only fifteen minutes until form class begins and we take the register, I really want to get this confrontation out of the way before then but I also don’t want it to happen, this disappoints me. Greg Lawson walks through the classroom door. Shirt out and tie missing.

“Morning Burgers,” he says with a eye brow raise of nonchalance. This is it! The class erupts into laughter.

“Right, now that is enough, I’ve got something I need to say…” No one is listening because they’re all still laughing and Lawson has walked off to his desk at the back.

“Greg.” It continues. “GREG.” My voice pierces the laughter and they refrain. They are now all focused on me. On this moment.

“Me?” he asks.

“Of course you, who else. Now I’m sick to the back teeth of the way you have treat me since I came to this school and I don’t understand what…”

“Calm down burgers.” he interrupts without even looking at me.

“Stop calling me burgers, burgers is obviously not my bloody name.”

“Did you just swear burgers?” I can feel the sweat on my back through my shirt. I grip my right fingers with my left hand and take a breath.

“What did I just say?” I ask firmly.

“I don’t know burgers I wasn’t really listening.” He still won’t look at me. The rest of the glass begins to giggle, I can hear them in all directions, they’re all as bad as him. This group mentality would’t exist without this piece of dirt.

“Right I’ve had it up to hear, now you listen to me Greg Lawson, this is now bullying and I’m going to speak to the teachers and I’m sure you’ll be suspended, do you really want that in your last year. Don’t you want to get into Warwick and study Engineering? You’ve got no chance if you’re not here!” I can see he contemplates my logic. Its working. I’ve told him, this will shut him up. No one wants to destroy their own future plans.

“As if burger nipples is threatening me?” The class erupts once more with a few ohhhh’s in there too. This is too much. How can I make him stop. He just isn’t listening.

“I’m going straight to the head right now, do you want that?” I offer one last way out.

“Go for it burgers, just don’t trip over your nipples on the way.” he says staring at me blankly. I refuse to take any more.

“FUCK YOU GREG,” I scream clenching both of my fists, “Fuck you, you smarmy little attention seeking cunt. When you’re suspended and don’t get into Uni, and then don’t get a job, and then end up on the dole living on pot noodles in your sad little one bedroom flat, I’ll laugh in your fucking face!” The room is reduced to silence. Damn that felt good. I hate cursing but sometimes it’s the best way to express yourself. Everyone is glaring at me. Looking through me. They look down as though they’ve witnessed a murder.

“Can you step outside please?” I immediately recognise the heads voice. How long was he standing there? Did he hear me swear. Oh dear god am I going to get kicked out? This is not how I pictured it. Mum will be furious.

“Of course Mr Clarke.” I leave the room and make sure the door is firmly closed. Mr Clarke walks more than ten paces away from the classroom. He looks at me almost confused, like what I said was unexpected… which makes sense I guess. He put’s his hands in his pockets and pauses. His cheap blue suit and off white shirt scream divorced and doesn’t give a shit. He opens his mouth but the bell begins to ring. He stops and gives a short awkward smile indicating he’s going to wait until after the bell. The grey bell box is directly above our heads and shatters the corridor silence. I feel like I’m awaiting for results and the doctor is pausing, formulating the best way to deliver the bad news.

“Miss Roland’s, is that really an appropriate way to speak to your students?”