Friendship on Fire (3 page)

‘Let's make a start please, school,' I said emphatically, trying to copy teachers I'd heard, although with less effect. My voice barely seemed to reach my friends at the back of the hall.

Another minute went by. I still waited. Another minute.

I was beginning to get really annoyed. The rude little bastards were spending more time laughing at my hair and not settling down, ignoring their teachers who were sitting in the aisles trying to shush them for me.

A familiar feeling of heat rose up my neck and on to my scalp as I felt the first signs of losing my temper.

Not a good time,
I urgently thought.
Later, when you are
around friends, or family, or alone in a paddock, you can lose
your temper, but not here, with a heap of special guests, and a
school you are supposed to be leading.

I waited another agonising twenty seconds before grabbing the microphone clear out of its stand and walking forward to the edge of the stage. What I said next, I'm not so proud of.

‘Oi you lot. Shut your mouths and pay attention to people  when they're speaking to you. If this is the way you want to start the year off, then God help you all.'

There was a period of silence of the sort normally reserved for occasions such as Anzac Day. Visiting parents up the back of the hall had their hands over their mouths in shock.

But, I had done it. I had shut them up. They were looking sorry for themselves now, weren't they?

My anger left as quickly as it had risen. Sheepishness, on the other hand, would linger a lot longer.

Someone next to me coughed gently. I had forgotten about my partner school captain, Roman. He was my very oldest friend, the only person besides Rachael who knew me inside out. How embarrassed he must feel now, standing next to the psycho who just told the whole school off. He was blushing a shade lighter than me and looked ready to push me off the stage and defriend me forever.

Holding the microphone to my mouth again, I tried to smile. ‘That's better. Now sit there quietly until assembly is over. It's the first day of school and you shouldn't be acting like a bunch of animals. I am Daisy, your female school captain for this year …'

I was cut off by smirks coming from the same junior students. ‘Listen here you little …' I was winding up for another rant but Roman ripped the microphone from my grasp and nudged me gently to his right.

‘Good morning school,' he breathed naturally into the microphone. ‘Special guests, Mr Head, staff and students. Welcome to the first day back at school. I hope everyone had an awesome summer holiday.'

He smiled as everyone cheered in approval, more so of the change of speaker. I rolled my eyes. Everybody loved Roman.

‘Good to hear. Let me introduce us. We are your school captains and we are here for you. If you have any problems, or would like to suggest any improvements to the school this year,' he smiled at me and I stepped on his foot, hard, ‘then we are the people to see. We will be running the swimming carnival in the next few weeks, sports carnival in term three, and all the socials.'

A roar went up from my friendship group down the back.

His eyes turned mock serious. ‘On the other hand, we and our group of ten student councillors will also be watching your uniform and behaviour inside and outside of school. If we notice patterns in negative behaviour, we will have to report you to the principal.'

Students began to boo and hiss; I smiled smugly back at them. I went to grab the microphone back to glean victory but Roman held it firm and finished his speech. I pouted at him.

‘We wish you all the best this year. Work hard for your teachers, but not too hard, and make plenty of time for friends, and partying.' For the teachers' benefit, he quickly added, ‘Safe partying, of the non-drinking variety. Of course.' He cleared his throat and put the microphone back.

The whole school applauded.

He always knew the right things to say. Bastard.

First period was maths. Could my day get any worse? To me, maths was the spawn of the devil. It made no sense how there could be only one correct answer that was not debatable. It was unfair to expect anyone who had an imagination to learn maths. 

Mr Berry, our teacher, was a man of many talents. Among  these was his ability to use his metre long thick wooden ruler on any student's desk if they gave him the wrong answer, weren't paying attention, or didn't pass a test. In today's case, one who had red hair with a weird alternative hat on her head. Me.

His favourite activity, however, was to articulate, in no uncertain terms, who was going to fail high school and who was going to pass. Because clearly, if you fail maths, you fail everything that matters in life. I mean, all teachers were going to put the hard word on us in our final year, and we get that. No socialising, no life, no time for television or junk food, only study, study, study. We'd tune out after a while.

I started doodling in my exercise book to pass the time as the work became more and more confusing. My doodling turned into a fantastic life drawing of the perfect guy. Tall, dark hair, blue eyes … six pack … big hands and feet … but not
too
big … yeah, this was going to be perfect. Stick figure art, you know.

‘
Whack
‘. The evil ruler that should have broken years ago slammed down on my desk with shattering accuracy. Mr Berry's beady eyes came into line with mine as he craftily stole my art piece from under my nose. The lone hair on his nose twitched under his gaze and my face started to grow hot. The bandage beanie didn't help.

‘Ahh. Quite the artist. A fashion expert, master orator and now competent artist in one package, ladies and gentleman.'

He stopped to gaze around the room as though it was his courtroom and he was a lawyer. ‘What about maths?' he screamed as he ripped the page out of my book. ‘Who can survive life without maths?' His hands swept the room questioningly, nearly clocking the kids around him with the ruler. The class went silent.

Stupidly, I replied, ‘Anyone, sir.'

He dropped his arms. ‘Sorry?' His voice had turned into a menacing whisper.

I cleared my throat. Maybe he was going deaf inside all that ear hair. ‘Anyone, sir. Well, me, anyway. I will never use maths again after I leave school. Not this kind of maths, say.'

I pointed to the board with our study of trigonometry on it; as good as Chinese to me.

‘And what, pray, do you want to do with your time when you leave school,
if
you pass it, Brooks?' There was nothing I could do to stop this train from crashing and burning now.

‘Um. That has yet to be determined, sir.' Rachael kicked me under the desk. Wrong answer. ‘I, I mean … maybe travel, sir. Or maybe, a doctor?'

Mr Berry's booming laughter was heard all the way from the music rooms, I found out later. He strode back to my desk and sat on the edge of it. His knit cream vest smelt like mothballs. I leant back in my chair.

‘You know, I wanted to be a professional football player and play for the West Coast Eagles when I was your age. No really, I did,' he whispered. ‘Then I realised, I can't actually play football. Or kick a ball straight. And what was the point of me dreaming about something, if I couldn't master the initial skill of it? Mmm? See where I'm going?' He nodded meaningfully at my blank exercise book.

‘Yes, sir,' I said quietly.

He got some blu-tac out of his pocket and started attaching big blobs of it to my artwork. ‘I like. It stays with me now.'

The bell rang for second period.

Rach dragged me reluctantly to English with Mr Andrews — well known for his elaborate, yet self-absorbed stunts during in-class essays, tutorial presentations and his personal favourite, exams. He was literally an over-dramatic psycho who didn't need coffee but couldn't stop drinking it. Yes, year twelve was definitely going to be interesting.

As soon as we walked into the classroom, he was waiting for us. Not sitting in his teacher's chair, like a normal person. Not greeting us at the door like an enthusiastic graduate teacher. No, he was waiting, spread across four desks on his stomach, and disturbingly quiet.

‘Who's there?' he muffled through the desks.

Everyone stepped back and looked at me, whispering something about being school captain and responsibility. I frowned. Sarah tried to push me through the door. Compelled by peer pressure, I gingerly stepped inside and answered him, ‘Year twelves sir. Senior English?'

Silence.

He turned his head slightly to eyeball me.

‘Daisy? Is that you? I can't recognise you with that strange hat you're wearing. Ahh yes of course.' And he was back to life again. ‘Look at me. I'm a beached whale.' he screeched, as he waved his arms and legs around over the edges of the table. I stifled a smirk.

‘Really, Daisy, who's your favourite teacher?' he teased.

‘Uh …'

‘It's me, isn't it?'

Why bother asking when you are so cocky already?
I thought.

‘Sure, Mr Andrews,' I said warily.

As a welcome back present, we received an essay due next week. I flicked Roman a glare and he rolled his eyes at me. Always so diligent, extra assignments didn't bother him in the slightest. I envied him.

By recess I was feeling like I wanted to quit school and buy a rock to live under. At least until the social shame was over and everyone would forget my ridiculous hair, the even more ridiculous turban and my temper stuff-up on the first day of school. Someone seriously kept farting in human biology in period three, so I couldn't get my head around the content, not that I ever found the subject thrilling.

By lunch I was searching eBay on my laptop for said rock. Surely someone would be selling one …

After music period five with a teacher who should be in a rock band or cut his hair, I wanted to go home. Mr Horn couldn't control the class for two minutes, so I put earphones in and played the dodgy keyboards until the bell went.

Last lesson of the day: history. I thought the best subject in the whole world wouldn't be able to cheer me up. My favourite teacher had left the end of year eleven anyway. Who could possibly replace him within a year? I didn't have the energy to learn another four topics. Besides, I had heard about my new teacher, imported from the east, and I had seen her talking to other teachers across the quadrangle. She looked nice enough, but what if she wasn't? I couldn't take another idiosyncrasy from one more teacher.

In a back corner, I unwound my headpiece and let my wild red hair roam free. Chances are, the new teacher won't know the ridiculous school rules about natural hair colours. To my surprise, Miss Shaw was young and hadn't been teaching for long. She didn't have crazy demands for the first lesson, but she did state her high expectations for our performance throughout the year. I could deal with that.

I pondered the idea of a normal teacher; is that an oxy-moron? The boys nearly fell over when she admitted she had this stash of lollies reserved for when we got brain-dead during class. I was excited about that, too. At least something went right today.