Do I Have To Go&;#063;

"What a handsome young man!"
Mother's face was a picture of delight. She clapped her hands in glee.
How proud she was of her son, Jason, on this important day. He looked
so smart; a proper young gentleman.

Jason, meanwhile, skulked in the stairwell with a face like thunder,
his mother's compliment doing nothing to console him. After all, this
was his first day at Westbury Boys School, the local comprehensive, and
he was absolutely dreading it. It took a great deal of concentration to
imagine somewhere he wouldn't rather be. Accidentally falling into the
local sewage works and taking a big, solid gulp was the only contender
so far.

"Well, come on then; no time to linger! Sit at the table and I'll serve
breakfast. What kind of mother would let her son start such an
important day without some wholesome food?"
Jason sighed and meandered across the room, his socks dragging on the
carpet pile. Despite the deliberately Neanderthal posture, he actually
looked very smart. He wasn't sure why he had taken care not to crease
his shirt. Or why he had knotted his tie carefully, not yanking it so
tight that it cut off the blood supply to his face. He detested smart
dressing which, to some extent, explained today's aversion to school. A
pair of jeans and a T-shirt was much more his cup of tea. However, he
knew it made Mother happy, so perhaps for her sake he had made an
effort.
He flopped his slender frame onto a dining chair, adopting an unhappy
elbows-on-table slouch. He sniffed the air cautiously; the unmistakable
odour and sizzle of fried food merely confirmed his suspicions. If the
previous "special occasion" was anything to go by, breakfast would be
ample enough for a family of five and a ravenous dog.
Given that he bore more than a passing resemblance to a garden cane, it
was something of a mystery that Mother seriously believed he could
consume such a quantity in a single sitting. But then, his mother had
her own special logic.

"There we are! Eat up now, before it goes cold." She appeared in the
doorway, threatening a tray that brimmed with fried food.

Jason gaped at the monstrous meal; a stack of pancakes, three pork
sausages, plum tomatoes, fried bread, eggs and bacon - the works. Not
only that but a bowl of sugary cereal (no doubt for energy) and
apparently an entire loaf of lightly-buttered toast.

He groaned. He didn't even have time to protest; she had turned tail
and was undoubtedly in eager preparation of Breakfast: Stage Two -
Revenge of the Sausage.
His stomach was already turning over like a concrete mixer in
anticipation of the day ahead. The smell of fried food was simply
increasing the likelihood of spending the entire morning gripping the
toilet bowl.
He sat, staring at his cereal spoon as if expecting it to feed him
automatically. Then some traitorous part of his brain forced his hand
to take it and dip it into the bowl. He performed a lobotomised version
of eating breakfast, splashing around in the milk and munching,
cow-like, on the flakes.
Breakfast was the last thing on his mind. Staring blankly at the wall,
the nightmares he'd been having these past few weeks replayed inside
his head, like a broken projector that refused to stop.....
It always began with him standing, alone, in the middle of a sports
field on an exquisite summer day. As he was enjoying the warm sunshine,
a low rumbling sound would emerge from behind him and he would look
down to find he was the proud owner of a rugby ball. Turning around, he
would see a pack of sweaty, hairy teenage boys hurtling towards him
like stampeding cattle. He would attempt to run, but to no avail! His
feeble legs would paralyse as the savage beasts bore down on him, a
looming mass that blocked out the daylight as it grew closer.....and
closer.
He'd hurl the ball into the air in the desperate hope that they would
follow it, but they never did, ploughing through and over him,
trampling him into the mud with a thousand plastic studs. Trampling him
over and over again, half a dozen boys that seemed, somehow, to be ten
thousand!
When the suffering became unbearable, he would leap awake in a cold
sweat, panting like a dog as the rugby squad apparition continued
through his bedroom wall and out into the street.
Right now, as he ate breakfast, he relived the fear. His face ashen at
the unseen horror, he proceeded to drop his spoon into the milk.

"Don't you want those corn-flakes, dear?" Mother had reappeared wearing
Marigolds.

"Mother, I can't eat this. I'm not hungry."

"Not hungry? What's wrong with you?" she inquired. As if she didn't
know.

"I don't want to go to school, Mother. I don't feel at all well."

"Oh, nonsense, Jason! It's first-day nerves, that's all! Now come
along. I'll put this food on a plate for your father whilst you get
yourself ready. No point wasting it, is there?"

"Thank-you, Mother," he replied ungratefully, and moped off in search
of his jacket.

************

Jason clambered into the passenger seat of his mother's ageing Metro,
waiting in trepidation as she turned the key. The damned thing started
first time; it never started first time.

"There we are," she said gleefully, patting the dashboard. "Always
reliable when we need you!"
I'll remember this, thought Jason. When she's not looking, I'll let
your tyres down.

They set off at the regulation twenty-nine miles per hour, Jason in
grim acceptance of his fate. He felt like a dumb farm animal,
innocently duped into the cattle truck to go to market. Here, piggy,
piggy.....
For most of the journey, he sat in silence, sullen-faced with his chin
on his hand, gaping out of the window. As they turned a corner and the
school grounds came into view, he made a final, determined appeal for
mercy.
"Mother, I really don't want to go today, I feel quite sick. Can't we
go home and I'll go to school tomorrow?"

"Jason, you're not a little boy any more. It will be fine once you get
there, you're just getting yourself excited. You did exactly the same
when you started at the middle school and look how much you enjoyed it
once you got used to it."

"That was different, Mother," he protested. "That was a mixed school.
This is a boys' school and they're much older! Most of them are bigger
than me; I'll probably be beaten to a pulp as soon as I get through the
door. I wish I'd never left the middle school."

"Don't be silly, Jason. Sometimes, you have to be a bit more
determined. That's what life is all about: a new day, a new challenge!
Once you get there, you'll love every minute of it, and I'm sure you'll
get on just fine with the bigger boys! Just you mark my words."

The school buildings loomed into sight.
He'd been here before, of course, when he'd taken a look around at the
end of last term. The building was Victorian and built like a fortress
with towers that struck up into the sky like jagged fingers. Coupled
with the brooding sky that hung ominously overhead, the scene was
almost as menacing as it was in his nightmares. He couldn't imagine how
this place could be anything other than unpleasant.

By now, Mother was already looking for somewhere to pull up. It was too
late: he had passed the point of no return. The car lurched to a halt
and Mother produced a neatly-wrapped parcel from her shopping
bag.
"There you are; I've packed you some lunch," she smiled proudly. "I put
some of that bacon in a sandwich for you and there's some fruit and a
chocolate bar. I'll be back at four-thirty to pick you up." She leaned
across and planted a kiss on his cheek. "Off you go then! And remember:
Mother's very proud of you, Jason!"
He stared at her; she did indeed look very proud. He forced a smile in
return, trying to gain strength from her words of support. "Thanks,
Mother," he replied, and stepped out onto the kerb.
He closed the car door with a rusty clatter, then Mother was off, her
silhouette offering a wave goodbye that he half-heartedly responded to.
Then she was gone and he was all alone.
He briefly contemplated running off into the back streets and flinging
his packed lunch over someone's garden fence, but realised this did not
have good long-term potential. Unable to think of anything more
ingenious, he crossed the road and stopped to peer in at the
gate.
He checked his watch: quarter-past nine. Registration would have begun
by now, which meant that he couldn't put off the inevitable any longer.
Besides, at least now the school yard was devoid of the writhing,
kicking mass of brutal thuggery that surely inhabited this place. He
shivered at the thought.

He checked his watch once more. Right, he thought. Here we go.

Grimacing, he strode through the gate towards the sign marked
"Reception". Perhaps Mother was right; perhaps he would be all right
once he settled in. He grasped the door handle, noticing how clammy his
hands were. Stepping through, he wiped them discretely on his trouser
leg.
Inside, two boys sat on uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs against
the wall and a woman with her hair in an excruciatingly tight bun stood
at the reception window. Jason managed to slam the door in his anxiety,
the resultant blast causing the two boys to leap perceptibly from their
seats. The receptionist raised her eyebrows haughtily and peered
disapprovingly at him.
He gulped, gesturing at the door and mouthing something silently to the
woman, his hand jigging in nervous apology. Scurrying to the reception
window, he attempted to compose himself; not easy when a trickle of
cold sweat was launching itself from his right armpit.
"Good morning. I'm Jason Pembridge. S-sorry about the door, I'm always
doing silly things like that," he grinned nervously. The receptionist
stared blankly at him, her eyes widening as if to say, Are you here for
a purpose, or simply to waste my time?
"Jason Pembridge," he repeated, after several seconds of embarrassing
silence. "I'm supposed to be starting today."

The receptionist nodded as if everything made so much more sense.
"Okay, let me see," she replied haughtily.
A paper binder was located and placed upon the counter, from which a
sheet of headed paper was removed. A determined finger traced the page
like a homing missile. "Ah, yes. Jason Pembridge. Class 3A, up the
stairs behind reception, along the corridor, through the double doors,
third room on the left hand side. Mr. Merridrew will be there to meet
you and introduce you to the boys in your class."
She shut the folder with an efficient 'snap' and peered at him. "Did
you get that?"

"Uh, yes, thank-you. Up the stairs," he pointed vaguely, scratching his
head, "through the doors,"

"No, along the corridor, then through the doors," she corrected
impatiently.

"Yes.....corridor.....then through the doors, third on the.....left?"
He waited for the efficient nod. "Thanks," he smiled, and set off. Only
another six hours to go, he sighed.
He made his way up the stairs, his heart beating like a Geiger counter
approaching Chernobyl. There's still time to escape, his darker
consciousness whispered. Ah, but would Mother be proud of you?,
retorted his moral side.
With grim determination he thrust out an arm, hurling open the
double-doors. Recalling Mother's encouraging words, he was, just for a
second, Billy the Kid, striding into the bar with a trusty shooter at
each hip, ready to take on the bristliest and meanest of bad guys.
Well, perhaps anyone under ten stone and five feet two.

Third door on the left. His eyes pinpointed it, half-way along the
corridor. He strode on, concerned that if he didn't keep up the
momentum his legs might make him run away. His imagination began to
stir, depicting the ring of the dinner bell, then the throng of a
sweaty Mongolian horde pouring out into the corridor and he, alone,
striding straight towards them. A thousand hairy-legged teenage thugs
armed with sports equipment, averaging twelve stone apiece and headed
his way, thirsty for blood and bellowing like the New Zealand rugby
squad with road rage.
For goodness sake, stop it! he scolded himself. Sweat was breaking on
his brow and his heart felt as if it would collapse in a steaming mass
of ventricles at any moment.

His feet had somehow carried him to the classroom.

A small vertical window allowed him to peer inside. At least he had the
correct room - he could see Mr. Merridrew at the front of the class
gesticulating wildly, demonstrating something that only he seemed to be
interested in. Then, as Merridrew turned around and took off his
jacket, the class erupted into a riot of paper-throwing and an attempt
by two boys to tie a third to his chair.
Oh, my God, Jason groaned to himself. I was right! I've got a bunch of
heathens in my class and they're going to slaughter me.
When he looked back at Mr. Merridrew, the man was beckoning him in. Oh,
please, no! He's seen me, Jason realised hopelessly. This is it; the
moment of truth, Jason. Sink or swim.
Squeezing the handle with slippery hands, he swung the door gently wide
and poked his head tentatively into the room. The air was
breathable.

Whatever you do, sound confident, he reminded himself.
"Sorry to bother you. I'm Jason Pembridge, it's my first day
here."

"Ah, yes; we've been expecting you! I've just been telling the class
all about you," Merridrew boomed. "Come in, come in!"

Jason entered the classroom, making sure to close the door carefully.
Thirty pairs of eyes scrutinised him with fierce intensity. He smiled
weakly, attempting not to look petrified.

"Class 3A: Your attention please," exclaimed Merridrew. "This is Mr.
Pembridge, your new Physics teacher."