Back to School

F3, Cycle 93

Prompt: Write a story using the following word list: Traffic, New Shoes, Calculus, Bus Stop, School, Principal
Word Limit: 1000
Genre: Open

The Return

It was just me and Jenkins at the bus stop. We exchanged brief grunts of recognition, but he stood a safe five feet from me, shuffling back and forth on shiny, new shoes. I looked down at my own new shoes – black brogues with suede stripes down the side. Were they cool? Jenkins lit a cigarette. He was too grown up now to gather with his mates behind the bike shed. I looked away; didn’t want to smell that delicious, deadly smoke; didn’t want to fall off the wagon. Jenkins started to bob up and down and I feared he might be having a fit. Then I realised he had music plugged into his ears.

The traffic was heavy this morning; the school run in full swing. The fumes coming from the cars were more dangerous even than the smoke issuing from Jenkins’ sullen mouth – but who was going to step forward to ban fancy packaging for fancy vehicles? Hypocrisy. I wanted a cigarette. I popped a Polo into my mouth and sucked on it furiously. A frazzled-looking woman, being dragged along behind a yapping poodle, muttered a tired ‘good morning’ as she hastened on towards the corner shop for milk or biscuits or sherry.

We were waiting for the number seventy two bus, Jenkins and me. It was already five minutes late. There were no more school buses; not in urban areas anyway. Council cuts. Only a few school buses continued to run in rural districts, where not everybody owned Landrovers and where the narrow, unlit roads were considered too dangerous for children to walk. Not so in the towns. From here, school was too far to walk - so you either used your parents as taxi drivers, or risked muggings and perverts as you half froze to death at lonely bus stops. I would have cycled, but the roads were too dangerous and cycle lanes were practically non-existent. A Ford Fiesta almost drove into the back of a Toyota as mother took her eyes off the road to pass a packet of crisps back to her fat, spoilt offspring. The screech of brakes frightened a pair of sparrows, who had been sitting peacefully on a whitewashed wall. A lean tabby cat, who had been watching them from a distance, skulked off in disappointment as he watched the birds fly into the leaden sky. Rain started to fall.

Jenkins pulled up his hood and rummaged around inside his rucksack. As he took out a fresh pack of B&H, a new looking copy of ‘Calculus for Wimps’ almost fell out onto the sodden pavement. I felt for him. My father had attempted to teach me calculus when I was twelve years old. He said it would give me a head start. I didn’t get it. And he didn’t get that I didn’t get it. With tears in his eyes, he’d thumped the table and roared, ‘It’s only differentials. It’s easy!’ I vowed, from then on, to concentrate on the arts.

Finally! The bus turned the corner of Mumford Street, only eight and a half minutes late. I followed Jenkins onto the bus; both of us drenched as we showed our passes and took seats as far away from each other as possible. Two elderly women with pursed lips and tight white curls sat together at the front of the bus, loudly discussing gall bladders. The only other passenger was a scruffy girl of about fourteen, who was simultaneously chewing gum, tapping out texts and picking her nose. The bus driver was humming some tune – it sounded like ‘Hark the Herald Angels’ but it couldn’t have been – although Christmas decorations would surely start appearing in the shops as soon as the leaves began to fall.

At 8:20am, Jenkins, me and the girl (still texting) got off at the stop outside the school gates and went our separate ways. It was an old Victorian building – once a proud grammar school, where academia was king – but now it was a comprehensive where mere attendance was looked upon as a sign of achievement. The teachers were weak; stripped of any means of discipline by the self-righteous, ‘children can do no harm’ brigade – God bless ‘em.

The corridors were buzzing. Children were sliding along polished floors; teachers’ heels were clip-clopping with unfounded confidence. Scenes from Harry Potter flashed across my mind, and I could smell boiled cabbage already. Mr Hardman whooshed past me, a pile of books under his arm, his bat-cloak flying out behind him. Now, there was a man who would love to wield a cane. If only.

I wanted to turn around and catch the bus home. I felt like I was coming down with flu. And my stomach wasn’t right. Oh to be curled up under the duvet with a mug of hot chocolate, watching ‘Homes under the Hammer’. But my leaden legs carried me onwards, past the chemistry lab, the gym and the library – past displays of trophies and photographs of triumphant football and cricket teams – onwards towards a heavy oak door, where the etched brass plaque read, ‘Principal’. I felt a tug on the back of my jacket and looked around. I squirmed. There stood Adams – his cherubic curls concealing the demonic little creep that lay beneath. He owned a pony and boasted a sister called Stardust. His father expected him to go to Oxford. No chance. He smiled up at me sweetly and I wanted so badly to slap him.

‘Good morning, Sir,’ he said, ‘isn’t it great to be back.’

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