Although I’ve completely failed to remain undetected, I have at least achieved one goal: securing a seat at the back of the classroom. The fact that nobody actually wants to sit next to me doesn’t stop me from draping my backpack conspicuously over the table beside me, just to be sure.
“Good morning, lads and lasses. My name is Perkins. Mister Perkins to you, of course,” quips our teacher in a forced jovial tone, laughing harder than necessary at his own joke when nobody else does. “I will accompany you on your wondrous ventures into the English language. We will have fun this year…”
After this rather ominous introduction, we are presented with a smorgasbord of literary references (we don’t understand) and jokes (we don’t get) and it doesn’t take long before we collectively simmer in a tasteless stew of lethargy and boredom, served with English mint sauce. This first school day promises to be a very long and very boring one, but just when Mr. Perkins is about to finish a very long, very old, and very tedious poem, the classroom door flies open, slamming with a loud bang against the wall.
“The first one who ‘helps’ me find my classroom again will find my schoolbag between his teeth,” hisses a razor-sharp voice. In response, the corridor erupts in laughter.
"Hope your bag doesn’t get lost, then," shouts a girl. The laughter and shouting, reaching cyclone levels, is abruptly cut off by the door slamming shut as hard as it was thrown open.
Inside that door, still trembling and fuming, stands a boy—a really small boy. He’s at least a head shorter than me, and I’m already considered tiny. His hair is slicked back with an excess of gel, making it look solid and shining like a freshly polished car. It’s not the only thing about him that’s meticulously styled. He looks more like a mini-adult than a schoolboy—a very rich mini-adult: spotless white shirt, gray waistcoat, dark blue blazer with brass buttons adorned with little anchors, designer jeans fresh out of the wrapping, and, to top it all off, a little red bow tie. Everyone stares at him with wide-open eyes, all stunned into silence.
“Charles Deering, I presume?” squeaks Perkins, attempting to keep it light. But the soft, sharp, condescending hiss that escapes the boy’s lips wipes the smile from his face like bird poop sliding off a windshield. “Tjesissssss.”
“That’s not how we treat each other in this school, Charles. I don’t say this lightly, but if you don’t change your attitude, I will have to send you to the vice-principal.” The shock that ripples through the classroom catches me completely off guard. At my old school, the vice-principal wasn’t exactly someone to fear. On the contrary, he was a pushover, promoted out of harm’s way by the school board. Being sent to the vice-principal there meant an easy hour of gaming, chatting, or watching TikTok in our rundown school cafeteria. Apparently, that’s not the case here. Everyone seems genuinely impressed by the threat. Even the boy at the front of the classroom seems to pick up on this and quiets down.
“No harm done, my young friend,” pivots mr. Perkins smoothly. “Go and find yourself a seat.”
Normally, my curiosity would definitely have been piqued by a posh little brat bursting into the classroom like that, but not today, as I’m still wrestling to make sense of what happened before class. How on earth did that sluggish boy evade that gigantic fist? Things just don’t add up. But then I’m interrupted in my musings by a low hissing voice.
“You don’t expect me to remove this filthy piece of cloth myself, do you?” The new boy looks condescendingly at my backpack on the table right next to me. What’s happening here? I think, confused. There are at least three other empty tables to choose from, and this little gnat wants to sit next to me? No way!
“And why would I do something stupid like that?”
“Because I asked you to of course.”
“And if I don’t? Are you going to call your daddy?”
Before I realize what’s happening, I’m on the floor with the boy on top of me.
“Keep my father out of this,” he hisses in my ear. What the hell? I have no patience for this nonsense! This has to end now! I clench my fists, but before I can punch him in his smug little face, I feel an electric shock and then another. This is getting weirder and weirder. Is this little shrimp statically charged or something? But then, even more baffling, something invisible pushes us apart with surprising force.
“That’s quite enough,” Mr. Perkins says resolutely.
“I’m not in the habit of sending students to the vice-principal on their first day, but I won’t hesitate for a moment if you don’t start acting like the adults you’re supposed to be.” All the students who had stepped away from their desks to get a better view of the fight shoot back into their chairs. "Good. That won’t be necessary, then. Let’s move on to the poem by Coleridge on page 45 of your textbook."
We, too, scramble back into our chairs. I have no idea what just happened, but one thing is certain: jokes about fathers? Not a good idea.
I secretly glance at the boy next to me, who is staring straight ahead, his piercing blue eyes still spitting fire. Suddenly, he turns his head toward me, catching me so completely off guard that I forget to look away. After sizing me up like a boxer an opponent before a fight, his eyes narrow, and his mouth curls upward. It takes me a few moments to realize what’s happening. Is he smiling? Reflexively, I smile back, then quickly turn my head to face the front of the class, hoping to hide my embarrassment and praying I don’t turn red.
Compared to the tumultuous start, the remainder of the lesson drags on like a snail on double-sided tape. Mr. Perkins’ continuous recitations of old English poems drown the whole class in a pool of lukewarm apathy, from which we only awaken when the school bell announces the end of our torture-by-boredom. Everyone packs their bags and gets up, but I stay in my seat as long as possible to avoid them.
There they go, my brand-new classmates. All dressed with that carefully cultivated casualness that costs a fortune to get exactly right. All seeking that “personal touch” to distinguish themselves from each other, only to end up looking the same. The herd mentality of the elite. All radiating the abundance of confidence inherited from their confident, successful parents, with their confident, successful jobs and their confident, successful upbringing. It could have been funny if it didn’t get to me so much.
“Losers!”
My head snaps to the right. I didn’t realize Little Lord Gel-Head was still sitting next to me. Why? The classroom is completely deserted by now. What does he want?
“Bravo. First day at school, and already as popular as a serial killer. Well done.” I stare at him, wide-eyed.
“I have to confess,” he continues, “I was hoping to be assigned to the same class as The Arsonist of Blackship Falls. No, don’t be angry. Believe me, I’m a real fan. That fire was excellent.”
“I didn’t set fire to anything, you little gnat.”
“It’s alive! Doctor Von Frankenstein! It can talk!” That does it. This little posh toddler needs to learn a lesson, but before I can say or do anything, he nods toward the door.
“Sure you wanna stay?”
He’s right. Students for the next class are already walking in, whispering to each other and pointing at me.
“No, I’m leaving,” I mumble.
“Great! I hoped you’d say that because I don’t have a clue where our next lesson is. Lead the way!”
“Don’t think so, baby.”
“Tsk tsk, I can walk wherever I want, Fire-head,” he replies with the air of entitlement that only children from wealthy families seem to inherit at birth.
Suddenly, I feel completely drained. Without another word, I walk out of the classroom, pretending not to notice that he’s following me and determined to despise this little Gnat until the end of days. Still, when he hands his empty sandwich bag to a bewildered freshman a few minutes later, as though the boy were his personal valet, I can’t help but smile.