Jack Mutant - Which Way is Down? (Part 3)

 

Jack and Chris re-assembled for afternoon registration and left the school gates together. Stepping along awkwardly as they became accustomed to the rhythm of each others gait and Jack’s legs being several inches longer. ‘Mr Graham has an allergy to kids you know, I’ve seen that kind of thing before,’ said Chris.

 

‘Really?’

 

‘Yes, one of my uncles has it, he’s a scout leader and kids make him ill, he hates them.’

 

‘Why did he become a scout leader then?’

 

‘He doesn’t have any children, not married or anything but he says parents these days are lazy and he wants to do his bit, to contribute towards training the next generation, improving them before they...step out into the world. Where are you walking?’

 

Chris’s voice was high, higher than a girls, but it came from a low mouth, just a metre or so from the ground. ‘Cross Lanes estate,’ said Jake, feeling exposed now, revealing details about himself.

 

‘Oh. I can walk half the way with you. I know a special route, although I’m not allowed to take it. My dad said it’s dodgy but you’re with me, you look like you could defend yourself Jake.’

 

Chris has a dad, thought Jack, we’re not the same after all. There was part of him that didn’t want Chris to have a dad, wanted him to have a worse set-up than his own fragile family situation, perhaps even wanted him to be an orphan. Now he felt sad and inferior but he soon reminded himself that he did have a father, it just so happened that he was a floating father; his roots had disconnected from the bottom of the family pond. The last part of what Chris had said to him sunk in and came as a shock, did he looked like he could defend himself?  I’m not sure I can, thought Jack but he stood up tall since it was now obvious that if anything dodgy kicked off, Chris was not going to be doing anything.

 

It was such a relief to be outside in the fresh air, away from omnipresent walls, the glare of teachers eyes, so hard and containing, the exhaled breath of strangers, so suffocating, their constant presence and hostile voices. Some of the elves were out on the pavements, looking slick and superior with their scientific calculators and Latin phrasebooks. Chris led the way and they passed through a silent retirement village, loudly adorned with the bright hues of Bizzie Lizzies, then down a long alley and over a railway bridge. Jack tried to work out which part of the route exactly was dodgy.

 

‘Guess I’ll see you tomorrow Jack,’ said Chris turning off into a no through road full of modern, detached houses, beige and rectangular.

 

‘See you,’ said Jack. Tomorrow seemed far into the future. He’d got through the first day unscathed but he knew from experience that as time passed and his foibles were exposed life at school would get harder. I must keep a low profile, he thought, I mustn’t mess up.

 

Jake took a few moments to get his bearings, a petrol station in the distance jogged his memory, he was closer to home than he’d realised. A vibration in his pocket was bound to be his mum checking where he was. He removed his phone to find a message from his dad; ‘Hope you had a good day, best wishes Dad.’ What did this mean? Everything and nothing.

 

Jack had his own key now, he opened the front door being careful to remember to remove it from the lock. His mother was still dressed in her beige mac, standing at the kitchen worktop with a teabag in her hand. ‘Look at you, all grown up!’ she said, ‘Well….how was it, what did you learn?’

 

Jack sighed, give me space, he thought and made her wait several seconds for a response. ‘It was ok...I suppose. I learned not to breath in when you’re moving filthy, dusty old gym mats around.’

 

‘Oh - did you see anyone you know…..or meet any new friends?’

 

‘Cromwell Spruce,’ Jack said shrugging. He said this purely to punish his mother and make her worry.

 

‘Oh.’ She frowned, grabbed the kettle and filled it with water. ‘Did your dad text?’

 

Jack felt himself deflate a little, gone now were the extra inches of height he’d gained from being told by Chris that he looked as if he could look after himself. ‘Yes,’ he said sadly and grabbed some snacks from the kitchen cupboard. He skulked off into the lounge, plopped onto the sofa. She has reminded him, he thought, she’s reminded him it’s my first day and that’s the reason why he texted.

 

Those early weeks of senior school were mostly spent either being lost or feeling lost, his shoes lost their shine and the shine of feeling grown-up disappeared. The campus seemed like a small town and the corridors endless, all the same grey/white colour, same width, same smell of old books and socks. There were regular mix ups where two forms would end up in one classroom for the same lesson period; the teachers would have a sort of stand off, staring at each other, shrugging and trying to defend their space by way of a stifled argument broken up with fake smiles. The children would grow more and more restless and noisy until things were eventually sorted out, by which time there was less than half an hour of lesson time left.

 

Jack learned which toilets were quiet and clean and which were filthy and full of savage boys. He worked out which was his favourite room in the school; the drama studio, he didn’t like drama but this room was painted a natural shade of green, carpets and had the sort of soft lighting which made him feel relaxed. The worst part of the week was whole school assembly on Wednesday afternoons. This lasted for an hour and involved sitting perfectly still and remaining silent while surrounded by hundreds of children all crammed in like sardines, watched over by teachers who sat like linesman along the edge of the rows watching out for chatting and fidgeting.

 

Outwardly Jack was like a statue, perched on his seat, hands in lap, head frozen and eyes fixated on Mr Knight or the headteacher Miss Dickerson discussing some serious theme related to the problems of our planet. Rising sea levels for example and the possibility that Holland could be swallowed up and vanish from the landscape of the world. Inwardly Jack had fireworks going off in his head, the urge to fidget, the urge to shout somehow wholly inappropriate, possibly about ‘Dickers’ (as they called her) her large, muscular build and hairy limbs, how she ambled around their school in big boots like Big Foot. Sasquatch! The word cartwheeled across the tip of Jack’s tongue.

 

In an attempt to stifle these dangerous urges he instead concentrated on counting the number of times certain words were said or somebody coughed. If the pressure rose too high he might release a little cough of his own which often caused a minor epidemic of coughing across the hall, resulting in much eye rolling from the teachers. Coughing, eye-rolling, coughing, eye-rolling and Miss Dickerson looking up to the ceiling and closing her eyes momentarily while she prayed to the god of teachers to teleport her to an island far away where all teachers lie on sunbeds in eye masks.

 

After the assembly the class would convene for last registration with Mr Graham who would return to the theme briefly and ask them to think about it on their journey home, ask them, stern faced, to imagine how they would feel if Sandpools was at risk of being swallowed by the sea. The children’s eyes lit up. ‘It’s important to dream,’ he muttered as they marched out.

 

At certain times of the day there would be a crush in the main corridors as pupils swarmed out of lessons, pushing and shoving. For the older, larger children this wasn’t too much of a problem but for the newcomers, many of whom were of very small stature, this was rather terrifying. Chris in particular would grab onto something with a look of wide-eyes horror as children swelled like a tide in the narrow passages and stairways, his voice shrieking higher until it was at the pitch of a panic-stricken rodent.

 

Even during quieter periods the communal areas of school were intimidating, teenage boys, grown and hairy like brutes jeered and jostled, fights broke out, physical fights, the flat sound of fists pummelling flesh. Girls made up like dolls seemed hostile if only in the ways they laughed and gossiped and made a small boy feel somehow both exposed and invisible at the same time. Course language which Jack always been told was rude and innapropriate was suddenly routine, spoken as casually as regular words. This would take some getting used to but alas the clean slate of infancy is soon dirtied.