Dear Charlie. Natália Gomes

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 from the year above walked over to me. I was sitting at a long thin metal folding table, six empty seats to my left and to my right, and this girl chose to sit right beside me. At first, I was confused then surprised, and by the end I was even optimistic. She turned to me, smiled sweetly with her cherry-stained lip-gloss and asked, ‘Are you Sam Macmillan?’

      Of course, I was beginning to get excited at this point and probably too quickly nodded my head. Then she said, ‘This is for Pembrook,’ before pouring most of her ice-cold Diet Coke into my lap. She threw the remainder of it, with the paper cup and straw, into my lunch tray, making my food completely inedible. She laughed, then walked away to join Noel and his friends sitting at the table beside me, who high-fived her.

      I battled with whether to stand up, let the ice cubes fall from my lap and walk away, or remain seated until after the lunch bell rang. I stayed in my chair – bad choice. By the time the bell rang and everyone rushed by me, my lap was filled with half-eaten sandwiches, more ice-cold drinks and even the odd apple core. I was a human rubbish bin, and that too was how I was beginning to see myself. And despite what Dr Albreck said, it didn’t get much better.

      Having only ‘re-immersed’ myself back into the archaic ritualistic behaviours of a teenager for a couple of weeks, I was already aware of my status at this school and the divide that it caused. The student population here seemed to be partitioned into three distinct groupings. For purposes of convenience, I called them Group A, Group B and Group N/A, where the current ranking was as the label states, ‘Non-Applicable’. Unfortunately, Group A had attracted the bigger number – those who hated the sight of me. They had no qualms about conveying this to me, at most times of the day and in most places in the building. The raven-haired drink-wielding girl was certainly a member of this group, seemingly led by Noel. Those who tripped me in the halls passed hate notes to me in class and frequently knocked into me while I walked, were also members of this group.

      Group B consisted of primarily girls and highly sensitive theatre-driven boys whose heightened emotional awareness prevented them from looking me in the eye or acknowledging my presence in classes. Often they walked by me with a glistening in their eye and a slight trembling of the bottom lip. That group didn’t bother me, and I was happy to avoid them if that’s what they wanted. It was the third group that fascinated me the most – the non-applicable group. Those were the ones who rimmed their eyes in dark liner, wore various music shirts depicting album logos and who spent their afternoons after school sitting on the steps at the High Street Art Gallery debating which Radiohead song best defines the decline of modern society. They were the ones who occasionally and nonchalantly passed glances my way and who didn’t seem to display any of the typical responses that I had grown accustomed to: anger, hatred, fear, confusion. It was Group N/A that I decided to sit next to at Free Period one day.

      At first, no one looked my way as I slid into an empty seat, but when my geometry book slid out of my hands and onto the floor loudly, that’s when they took notice. It was easy to see who the group leader was because many glanced towards one particular boy who sat at the head of the table, his eyes fixed on me. Some flitted between him and me, while others waited for his response to influence theirs. But instead of telling me to leave, he grinned at me and continued his conversation.

      ‘So, my cousin says he can get us in around 10 tonight.’

      ‘I don’t know, Dougie. I’m still grounded from last weekend,’ shrugged one of the other boys who I would later find out was nicknamed Worm.

      ‘So, tell your dad that you’re going to the library to finish a Physics project,’ chimed in a pretty brunette sitting beside Dougie with her arm around the back of his chair. Her eyes were wide and her lashes were so long they skimmed her eyebrows when she glanced up at me occasionally. I didn’t know why but she made my cheeks burn slightly.

      ‘He’ll never buy that,’ Worm scoffed.

      ‘Then tell him you’d be happy to finish it at home but that Sam here is your Physics partner,’ she grinned, winking at me.

      ‘Sam Macmillan!’ he blurted out, as if my name caused him physical pain. ‘My dad would never let him in the house.’ He quickly glanced at me. ‘No offence, I don’t even know you.’

      ‘Exactly. The library will sound pretty nice to your dad then,’ she laughed.

      ‘So, it’s settled,’ the group’s leader announced loudly, silencing the others beside him. ‘We’ll meet at Griffins Park at 9.30 and get the bus over.’ He shoved a couple of books into his torn leather backpack and stood up from the table, pushing away the chair. Immediately, everyone else followed. But before they left, he turned to me and in front of everyone, talked directly to me. ‘You coming with us?’

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