Dear Charlie. Natália Gomes
with an emotional baggage tag labelled ‘heavy’. I slid it gently off the bannister and walked with it to the bin. Fabric and contents swaying gently over the lid, I opened the lid and smashed it down deep inside.
Sliding a hand into my trouser pocket, I looped some loose lining fabric around my finger like an infant searching for its comfort blanket, and stepped through the front door. A mix of rain and light mist trickled from the sky leaving a faint glistening on the grass. Snow would fall from that very sky in only a few months. That was Charlie’s favourite time of the year. He loved painting the streets blanketed in soft white. I wondered if his paintings were still in the art room. I bet they were dry by now, but there would be no one to bring them home.
Pushing away memories of the winters past, I hurried down the street to the bus stop on the corner of Windham Drive. I had been told in the orientation letter that bus 09 would go right to the new school. Seventeen miles and 40 minutes later, the bus flew past the tall black gates of Knightsbridge Academy.
‘Excuse me?’ I leaned forward and loudly cleared my throat. ‘This is my stop,’ I called out. No response. I stood up and shuffled to the front, my legs wobbling underneath me as I shifted from side to side. ‘That was my stop,’ I said again, pointing to the school in the rear-view mirror.
As the brakes suddenly slammed on, my body hurtled forwards, hitting a silver pole. The driver turned around to face me. ‘Sorry, didn’t see you sitting way back there…’
When I looked up, I saw him staring at me with wide eyes and a gaping mouth, like I was an animal at the zoo. Interesting, amusing, but unpredictable and therefore dangerous. Does everyone know my face? Do I look like my brother?
Scrambling to my feet, I hurried down the stairs hearing the squeak of my soles on the wet rubber lining. When my shoes touched the slippery concrete, I felt the urge to look back. I couldn’t help it. I needed to know. So I did.
‘My neighbour’s grandson went to Pembrook Academy,’ he said, his eyes suddenly dark. Then he spat on the steps of the bus, shut the doors and drove away, leaving me standing there in my shame and confusion.
By the time I got to Knightsbridge Academy, it was 8.40am. I would need to leave earlier the next day. Maybe if I walked a little further from the house I could take a different bus. I would wear my hood up over my face so the new driver wouldn’t recognise me. Who knows how he would be connected – maybe his daughter’s friend went to Pembrook Academy, or his postman’s nephew taught there. Everyone seemed to be just one more piece of this intricate puzzle, waiting for their turn to be noticed and slotted into the big picture.
When I got to school, the main doors were already locked. I had to use a buzzer to get inside and when I did I had to go through a metal detector like at the airport. Knightsbridge Academy had clearly stepped up its security since June. Or, perhaps it was only installed after they heard of my enrollment here.
A stout secretary with curls on her head and above her upper lip greeted me in the office with a forced smile. ‘Samuel Macmillan?’
‘Yeah,’ I said, gripping the strap on my bag until the fabric pinched my palm.
‘You’re late.’
I nodded, noticing how her voice quivered slightly when she addressed me. Was she scared of me?
Quickly averting her eyes, she handed me a white envelope. ‘School begins promptly at 8.05am but since this is your first day, we’ll give you a pass. Here is your timetable. English has already started so show your late pass to the teacher. Room 212.’
Beyond the office, the building opened up into a large hall with high ceilings. Peach tiled flooring stretched out and disappeared under several closed doors that were interspersed around the hall. The ceiling was comprised of long glass panels angled into a peak, like the steeple of a church. The walls were dotted with framed awards, certificates and the occasional art project. It didn’t look much different to Pembrook Academy.
Seeing a student come out of one of the classroom doors, I hurried towards him. ‘Excuse me, where’s the stairs?’
He opened his mouth to respond then his eyes darted to the white envelope in my hand, and my name written in bold font across it.
‘Find it yourself,’ he said, gently pushing past me.
After several loops around the hall, I finally found the stairwell. Peering into classrooms, the envelope already damp from my sweaty hands, I tiptoed down the hall on the second floor. Each step mimicked the wild pounding of my heartbeat and every room I passed seemed to shift towards me, as if the walls were slowly closing in. By the time I had reached room 212, I had sweated through my T-shirt and my flannel shirt. My breathing was heavy and loud, and alarmingly erratic. I hadn’t realised that I would be this nervous. If I had, I probably wouldn’t have left the house.
Palm slick on the shiny silver doorknob, I opened the door and cautiously stepped over the threshold. Fourteen heads instantly spun around to look at me. I opened my mouth to weakly announce myself, but the teacher stopped me.
‘We’ve been expecting you. Take a seat.’
Locating the last seat in the back row, I plopped down on the wooden chair. My body suddenly drained of energy, the anxiety depleting my reserves, I rested my back against the wood.
The teacher loudly cleared his throat, gaining back the attention of at least half of the class. The rest eventually turned back around after they got bored of waiting for me to do something.
‘As I was saying, due to the recent… incident… we will be working from a new text list for our American Literature unit. Please dispose of your old ones – ’
‘ – Excuse me, Sir? What if we’ve already read the books from the old list?’ called out a mousy brunette from the second row.
‘Loser.’ A few kids from the back rows laughed, and looked at the student they knew had said it.
‘That’s enough, Noel. For those who have already read the texts from the old list, please talk to the headteacher for credit.’
‘What books are off the list?’ asked another student seated near the window. Looking around I saw that all the window blinds were down, shielding those inside. Not even a sliver of daylight snaked in from under the horizontal slats. But judging from people’s expressions, the threat wasn’t lurking outside. It was inside, sitting in the back row. I shifted in my chair and pulled at my shirt collar, feeling the heat from their silent stares.
‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest; The Catcher in the Rye.’ He cleared his throat suddenly, ‘And we won’t be studying Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood,’ he said, not meaning to send a glance my way. But he did. And everyone saw.
‘But those are classics!’ shouted one boy from the middle row, which set off a wave of comments and frustrated outbursts.
‘What are we going to be reading instead? Children’s books?’
‘This is meant to be Advanced English, not nursery school.’
‘Why are we getting punished for something that he did?’ said Noel loudly.
‘He’? Is he talking about me, or Charlie?
The class fell silent, and slowly heads turned over frigid shoulders, looking back at me. My toes squirmed in my shoes and I tucked my chin to my chest, avoiding their piercing eyes, their angry thoughts, their fears. Glancing down at the floor beneath my desk, I wished I were back home in my bedroom, hidden under my covers where no one could find me.
‘If anyone has anything to say, you can talk to Ms Bevins. I don’t make the rules. In the meantime, let’s get back to the current syllabus: Shakespeare.’
After that, English class flew by in a haze of discomfort, as did Physics then Maths. This Noel kid ended up being in most of my classes, and had a comment to say in almost every one. And just when I thought I had peaked, the day got progressively worse. At lunch, a pretty raven-haired girl