Just Another Day at School

“Don’t you dare jump out of the window, Amelia!” Mrs. Brown, our history teacher, shouted with utter disbelief when she saw me opening the window and climbing on top of the frame. Class 8 was held in the pavilion building, so we were right on the ground floor. No risk of hurting myself and breaking my bones. Just the cheek of it all.

“Did you hear me? If you do not go back to your desk and sit down immediately, I will inform Mr. Wilcox of your unruly behaviour. This will have dire consequences for you. You will also leave me with no choice but to contact your parents and let them know about your disruptive behaviour in school. “I’m certain they’ll be deeply ashamed of your behavior.”

I was still trembling slightly from my earlier outburst of anger, so her latest verbal assault bounced off me like raindrops on a waterproof coat. Just a few minutes before, we were all asked to write down a few reasons as to why it was important to have a parliament. I remember Mrs. Brown giving a lecture about the different parliamentary systems at the beginning of the class. I recalled her saying that some countries had ministers and others presidents. As usual, my focus diminished the longer she talked. My thoughts trailed off when I heard the word “president”, which led me to think of the American president, Donald Trump, which again reminded me that some conspiracy theorists believe that the White House has hired some actresses to pose as Melania Trump’s double. How cool would this be, I thought, acting as the First Lady walking proudly in front of all the photographers who were trying to catch my every move. Would there be a real danger of being shot? Naw, just shot by a thousand cameras. I saw myself as the double entering the presidential state car, a shiny black Cadillac, with a frozen smile on my face. Driving off slowly, my hand in a waving gesture still visible through the bulletproof window. I imagined the Paparazzies jumping in their cars and on their motorcycles in hot pursuit to get that ultimate shot that would land on the first page of the Sun.

None of this helped, of course, when it came to the task ahead of me. I was staring at my empty page, which was as blank as my mind.

My friend Kayefi, who was sitting next to me, glanced over, nudging me with her pencil. She was rolling her eyes and pulling a funny face. A half-started sentence was scribbled on her notebook, with a hangman drawn at the top of the page. This cracked me up, and I started giggling. A warning glance was shot in our direction, and I quickly turned silent as a statue. “Parliaments, parliaments, parliaments,” I repeated in my head, as if by merely mentioning the word several times, I could conjure up the needed information from my unconscious mind. Well, at least my unconscious mind must have been listening in and stored the facts somewhere, if I could just get to it.

Kayefi dropped a little crumpled piece of paper on my desk. Carefully watching Mrs. Brown, I used a moment when she was checking her mobile phone to unwrap the message. A pencil-drawn picture of Kayefi’s head with her ponytails flying sideways, her hand pointing a gun to her head. “Shoot me now!” was written next to it. I couldn’t suppress a derisive snort leaving my nostrils. I quickly controlled myself, however, bowing my head over my still-empty paper. The classroom was bathed in silence, only interrupted by the sound of pencils scratching over paper and the occasional coughs. I could hear Kayefi’s soft voice asking, “How do you stop Mrs. Brown from drowning?” “I don’t know. How?” I whispered back, brimming with curiosity. “By taking your foot off her head.”

This time, I could no longer hold back; I burst out laughing, little drops of saliva covering my empty page. Kayefi joined in the laughter and squealed like a little piggy. Our laughter cut through the silence like a siren on a quiet Sunday morning. Mrs. Brown’s hand hit the desk hard with a loud bang. “Amelia, how dare you interrupt the class,” she scolded. “You can leave now if you don’t want an education and prefer ending up as a window cleaner.”

This infuriated me, not only because she singled me out when Kayefi was laughing with me, but also because of her derogatory comment about working as a window cleaner. My mum occasionally worked as a cleaner in other people’s houses to make ends meet. There’s nothing to be ashamed of in that profession. How dare Mrs. Brown mock poorer people and always blame me for every mishap in class? When the boys during breaktime messed around and threw empty plastic bottles at each other, she would ask me if the bottles on the floor were mine. When Mrs. Brown lost her memory stick and asked the class where it could have disappeared to, she only looked at me. Whenever there was chatting going on when her back was turned to the class, my name would always be amongst the guilty. It was exhausting and belittling for me. It gave me a sense of discouragement that whatever I tried would not be good enough anyway and that I could not do anything to prevent failing this class. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to accomplish anything. It was just difficult for me to focus on things that I found boring. I was diagnosed with ADHD, and although I have the ability to hyper-focus on projects that interest me and rock my boat, I find it exhausting to concentrate on projects others want me to be engaged in. My brain doesn’t work like others; to me, it feels like my brain is broken, like something terribly has gone wrong with the wiring.

Most teachers didn’t know much about my condition, and even if they did, they didn’t seem to care much about it. I would often hear them say it was my defensive behaviour and laziness that prevented me from succeeding. ADHD was just an excuse, a barrier I put in front of myself so I could get away with doing some earnest work. Why would I choose to underachieve? It troubled me deeply when my tests were always marked the lowest, when I couldn’t keep up copying notes from the blackboard or remember to write down my homework tasks. The teacher took joy in pointing out my lowest grade before the very eyes of my classmates. Why would I want to choose that? This constant nagging feeling inside me that I was too stupid to do anything at all?

No one could understand how my brain worked. A tidal wave of thoughts would enter my mind, drowning out all the other voices around me. They would lead me into a labyrinth where a thought would cascade and disperse in different directions. Some thoughts would end abruptly, and others followed new paths, ever winding down different directions until I entirely forgot where it all started and where it all should lead to. My mind would become like a browser with way too many tabs open and the Google search word long forgotten.

Here I was again, publicly humiliated in front of my classmates. I stood up decisively, mustering the courage to face my teacher. “You want me to leave the classroom? No problem!” I don’t know where this idea to leave through the window came from. I suppose I did not want to leave the classroom resembling a dog beaten by its owner, its head bowed down in shame for what it had done. Although the class was silent, I could sense the tense anticipation of my peers. Everyone stared at me either in bewilderment or in amusement. Michaela, the teacher’s pet, sitting in the front row, grabbed her neighbour’s sleeve, drew in a quick breath, and gave Mrs. Brown a sympathetic look.

I opened the window at the back of the class, swiftly heaved myself up on the window frame, and jumped down, landing softly in the flowerbed.

I could still hear Mrs. Brown’s voice trailing behind me, “I will call the principal, do not dare and leave the school.”

I headed towards the toilets, which were situated in a toilet house at the back of the schoolyard, just wishing to lock the door behind myself and be alone for a while. Dark clouds were forming in the sky; soon heavy rain would be pouring down, washing away all the dirt from the concrete floor, turning it into a shiny, fresh surface. I wished with the rain, my sorrow and pain would wash away too.

The schoolyard was completely empty, not a soul in sight. Middle school and high school shared the same recreational area. Being in the 8th grade, the last year of middle school, we were proud to be the oldest. Only during break time were we faced with the older teenagers from high school who often treated us as if we still belonged in Kindergarten. Mocking us for our silly games, but mostly they just ignored us, too little interested in the likes of us who were still going through puberty.

“Hey, what’s up?” a sudden voice woke me up from my deep thoughts. I turned sideways and stood face to face with Jeff from class 10.

His blonde hair still dishevelled as if he just got out of bed. He gave me a cheeky grin, which made his dimples look even more prominent. He must have noticed my reddish cheeks and puffy eyes, wondering what was going on and who would have upset me so much. I tried hard to fight back my tears. The last thing I wanted now was to come across like a big cry-baby seeking attention. Awkward enough to bump into my crush, I desperately tried to keep my composure and my cool.

How many times have I dreamt about an opportunity to have a chat with Jeff? We never exchanged any words; I just admired him from afar. He wasn’t even aware of how I felt about him. During break time, I would scan the whole playground until I finally set my eyes upon him. I would quietly observe him, marvel at his ease in conversing with others and his natural gift to make everyone laugh. Sometimes he would just walk with one friend, deeply engaged in a more intimate conversation, a concerned look on his face, his hands gesturing along with his words of advice. I felt really socially awkward, and bumping into Jeff just raised my anxiety levels to new alarming rates. I had to make conversation; there was no one else around to step in for me. Just being silent was no option either, of course. What if I said something stupid? That’s what most of the teachers thought when I opened my mouth. My English teacher, Mr. Gareth, even once said sarcastically that I was as stupid as a flower. This expression struck me as odd, as flowers could not possibly be stupid. Stupidity was a human attribution. Flowers were just flowers, the way they were meant to be, and most of them were very beautiful.

Luckily, Jeff was not like the other guys in his year, looking down on the 8th graders. I saw him messing around with some students from my year, exchanging jokes, joining in some light chatter, and kicking the ball around. I liked his simple style. A black T-shirt, a blue pair of jeans, and worn-out trainers; he was not one who cared much for labels. Many of his mates wore company trade names on their clothes like soldiers wearing their medals of honour.

One day, in the hallway of our main building, I spotted a picture he had painted in acrylics. His name was proudly scribbled in black at the bottom of the canvas: “Jeff Rodes”. The picture showed an abandoned dilapidated building. The windows were broken, parts of the wall missing, and the roof half torn off. The building was painted in different shades of grey. Only the nature around it was painted in striking colours. The grass was lush green, colourful flowers popping up between its green blades. Trees in full bloom and the sky a deep blue. This picture reminded us of the transiency of life, of how the old would be overtaken by the new, and life would go on despite everything we go through.

When I finally spoke, my voice was soft and unsure. “I just had enough of history, Mrs. Brown just got on my last nerve, and I needed some fresh air.”
“Yeah, this one is a pain,” Jeff acknowledged, “but don’t worry too much. Next year in high school, you won’t have her anymore; the level will be far too advanced for her to teach,” he added with a grin.
“Who do you have in history now?” I timidly ventured.
“There’s a new teacher who just started a semester ago,” Jeff went on. “His name is Mr. Lincoln, the irony of it, right? I wonder if he chose to teach history because of his name.”
“Ouch,” I laughed, “now I understand why our teacher is called Mrs. Brown; she likes to stick her nose where it doesn’t belong!”
Jeff laughed heartily. “She certainly does. She’s a lonely old spinster who needs to get busy with other people’s lives, as her own one is as dead as a funeral parlour.”
“So true,” I agreed with a sigh. “What really annoys me, though, is that she seems to have taken a special interest in my life.”
“Well, that just means that you have an interesting life. All those goody-goody students don’t offer her enough fire to keep her interest burning.” He gave me an inquisitive look. “So what is it with you that keeps her this busy? Are you a naughty girl?”

Trouble was my middle name. Wherever I went, I got myself into some kind of predicament. A few days ago, I entered the school library planning to listen to my audiobook app in one of their comfy armchairs. A double lesson of Music got cancelled last minute, and I was really hooked on Creepypasta, just wanting to enjoy some more horror stories and urban legends before the real nightmare, school, would continue. I knew the librarian hated me with a passion just by the way she looked daggers at me when I entered. She overlooked the little library like a bulldog ready for a fight. I long avoided taking books out because whenever I returned them, she would notice every little speck of dust on the plastic cover, any dog-eared pages I made, or little bumps on the spine, always threatening me that I should compensate the borrowed books as they were in too bad a condition to go back onto the shelves.

On this day, she was highly suspicious of my presence as well. She sat stiffly behind the lending desk, her greyish hair pinned up in a bun. She always wore a woolly cardigan, even in the summer, and she always spoke in a slightly nasal voice, as if she was suffering from a cold all year round. Probably from sniffing too much old book dust, I imagined. I hid in the corner, tucked away from her view, and started listening to my favourite story, “The Last Bus”. Before long, I forgot where I was. I tucked my legs comfortably in the armchair and immersed myself in the storyline.

I was coming to the end of the story when a group of students silently entered through the door. They were from year 8 as well but belonged to my parallel class. I spotted Susan, her long brown-reddish hair waving down to her waist. Susan was liked by everyone, students and teachers alike. She had a calm disposition and was always sweet-natured and approachable. Not an ounce of arrogance or egotism flowed in her body. Susan was an avid reader as well; she devoured all kinds of genres but mostly literary and classical books, to the sheer delight of the librarian who fed her with recommendations whenever the opportunity arose. Before long, she grabbed Susan’s attention.

“Hi, my dear,” the librarian approached her with a warm smile, something I thought would never be possible on her face. Her mouth normally curved down like an upside-down smile. “Have you read Harper Lee’s ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’ already?” she asked eagerly. Susan shook her head, interest sparkling in her eyes. She was always keen on finding great new reads. “The quintessence of Modern American literature, so beautifully written in the voice of an 8-year-old girl who observes racial inequality in Alabama in the 30s. You will love this book,” the librarian trailed on and handed Susan a copy with a sense of achievement, like a priest who has brought another lamb into his fold. “If you need any more recommendations, you know where to find me.”

I jumped up with newfound zest and took over the role of the librarian. “Please follow me to the most important aisle in our library, the Horror section,” I spoke the last words in a trembling voice. “Here you’ll find all sorts of malevolent and evil characters, flesh-eating monsters, cruel supernatural beings, bloody murderers, and wicked creatures who take pleasure in destroying your soul.” Susan trembled slightly, even though her curiosity was piqued.

“Imagine your aunt has a secret hobby of torturing little girls, and she gets the help of her evil sons to do the dirty deeds.” I picked up the book “The Girl Next Door” by Jack Ketchum and dropped it into Susan’s arms. “If the level of psychopathy is not fulfilling enough, here’s a copy of ‘American Psycho’ for more gore and brutality.” I dropped it casually into her arms as well, followed by a copy of Stephen King’s “IT”—”you will never look at a clown the same way”—and a copy of “The Exorcist,” “in case you ever get possessed by an evil spirit one day.” Finally, I took out my favourite book, “Bird Box,” an intense survival story confronting the protagonists with mysterious creatures simply called “The Problem,” who threatened to destroy the world. When grabbing this book out of the shelf, I could see the librarian staring at me through the gap, her eyes glinting with disapproval and her face contorted in a grimace fitting right into the horror section.

I stepped back horrified and gently pushed Susan back into my comfy chair, where we chatted a bit more about all and nothing in low and considerate voices. Susan seemed excited about her newfound books and promised to give me some feedback after reading them. The librarian half-heartedly processed the books and handed them to Susan, her lips slightly trembling with disapproval. “Did you not get the copy of ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’?” she inquired in a hurt voice, but Susan was already out of the door, her nose deep down into one of the books I recommended, Harper Lee’s book inattentively left on a side table where we were last chatting.

“The library is not a hangout place for idle students. You can do your homework here or borrow some books, but I do not want you loitering around without any purpose,” the librarian hissed at me before I left.

“I’m not really a naughty girl,” I finally said to Jess, “just a misunderstood one. I don’t really like school. It’s not that I don’t like learning; it’s just the way they teach you stuff here—so boring and without any fun. I just don’t feel like I fit into the school system.”

Jess considered this for a moment before replying, “Not everyone learns the same way. Me too, I like schoolwork to be more engaging and more practical. We need to make our own experiences with the material they give us; we’re not just empty vessels to be filled. We have our own experiences and skills we can contribute to each lesson.”

I was thinking of the picture he painted in the hallway, how he formed his ideas with a splash of colours on a canvas. “Just hang in there a couple more years and you can leave middle school and get yourself a job. Become the person you want to be. If you want to go back to school again at a later stage, it will still be possible. It’s never too late to learn.”

I gave him a warm smile, my mind in overload on how I could ask him to hang out with me one day after school. As if Jess could read my mind, he offered to hang out in the park next Friday afternoon after school. “I can give you some practical tips on how to survive middle school and how to avoid the minefields laid out by the teachers.”

I nodded my head in agreement. “Yeah, that would be nice, getting some tips from a middle school survivor.” Before I could continue, I heard my name being called out in a sharp way.

“Amelia, I want you straight in my office,” the voice of Mr. Wilcox hollered across the schoolyard, with Mrs. Brown on his heels like a little puppy dog.

“I better go,” I said to Jess, slightly embarrassed to be called out like this. He gave me a pitiful look and a sheepish smile. “Just don’t get yourself expelled,” he whispered. “Just pretend to be sorry and you’ll be fine.”

He gave me a last wink and walked off. I was alone facing the school director and his minion. I sighed, but was secretly happy to have met Jess. I was not a stranger in Mr. Wilcox’s office anyway. For me, it was just another day in school.