Ginger Nuts and Peedy Pants
The school bus still hadn’t come by a quarter to nine on that terrible day. The geeks at the bus stop were panicking. Oh how awful! They were going to miss double German if it didn’t turn up soon!
I was not troubled by such a calamity. I hated German, in fact, I hated school and school hated me. I didn’t care, because whenever possible I sneaked off and did my own thing. All I had to do was show up for registration morning and afternoon, and then there was no written record of my absence.
That morning it looked as though I might have a legitimate excuse and even though it would mean spending the day at home with my feuding unemployed parents, I still had the privacy of my room, my music and my notebooks and pens.
I was so looking forward to having a day off that my disappointment was huge when the bus finally arrived at two minutes to nine. I decided, as I climbed aboard, that I would bunk off anyway. I would sign in and then leave on my way to my first lesson. I would spend my dinner money on a new notebook and go to the town library.
It was my turn to be taunted by the school bullies on the bus that day. Peedy Pants looked relieved and sympathetic as I took my seat beside her, just as I did when it was her turn.
Maybe we could have been good friends, us two victims. But the events of that day removed all possibility of that.
“Hey, Ginger Nuts,” yelled the bruiser called Whiff. “You got any money?”
Peedy Pants flinched, but I ignored the comment and stared out of the window, pretending not to have heard him. Whiff wasn’t used to being ignored. The bus fell silent, waiting for his reaction.
“Oh no, of course not,” he yelled back. “You’re a dole scrounger’s boy!”
All the kids on the bus erupted into laughter, most of it fake. Even Peedy Pants smiled appreciatively but I like to think that it was only out of fear of Whiff and his gang. But the comment upset me. My parents weren’t perfect and I spent most of the time imagining that I hated them, but I didn’t like other people slagging them off. So Whiff got my dinner money just to prove a point.
It was easy to escape that morning. Because the bus had been late, we all had to sign in at the office, so as soon as I had done that, I slipped back out of the door and rushed up the stone steps to the street without looking back.
It was a fair walk to the library, but I didn’t mind. I was away from school; out of the reach of Whiff and all those derisive teachers who made such fun of my learning difficulties.
For all my lack of ability in the classroom, I was glib tongued – I loved words – and I had no difficulty in convincing the harassed librarian that I had been sent by the school to research a project and procuring a wad of paper to “write notes” on.
It must have been about 11.30 when I heard the sirens. I remember they startled me out of the adventure story I was writing, starring me as a Super Hero. I saw the four fire engines rush past the window. I got quite excited by the urgency of them and promptly began a new story about me saving the shoe factory from burning down and singlehandedly rescuing all two hundred factory workers from the inferno.
I needed to get back to school for afternoon registration or else I would be found out and I was really cutting it fine. When I got outside the traffic was at a standstill and even from there, I could smell the smoke. I hurried past the queue of stationary cars, glancing frequently at my watch; desperately not wanting to be late. It was easy to imagine that I was that Super Hero, with limited time to save the world.
An ambulance with its siren blaring and blue lights flashing wove its way through the line of backed-up vehicles. I remember standing in someone’s driveway as several cars mounted the pavement to let it pass. It was all very thrilling.
I saw the smoke before I had even turned the corner on to the street where the school was and I felt a sick feeling in my stomach. Somehow, I knew that my school was at the centre of this drama.
Then I saw it. The shabby old building had been gutted by the fire that had been subdued but continued to smoulder stubbornly. I saw all the kids looking on, shocked into silence – some crying but most just staring at the carnage. I wanted to cry too.
My parents stood with Mr Anderson, the Headmaster. Why were they there? And why were they crying? They thought the school was crap. They were always saying that if they had the money they would send me to a posh private school. I felt embarrassed that they were blubbering in front of all the children and teachers.
The ambulance had arrived and had its back doors flung open. I wondered who the casualty was. I couldn’t help but hope it was Whiff. But he saw me before I saw him.
“There he is!” he yelled, with none of the usual menace in his voice. Everyone turned to stare at me, as if I’d started the fire.
I could see my parents rushing towards to me and noted the dark frown upon Mr Anderson’s face. But I was distracted as some of the traumatised fire fighters brought out the lifeless body of one of their colleagues. I felt vomit bubble up into my mouth. As my parents reached me, shaking and crying and overcome with relief, other fire fighters, choking back tears, brought out a second body. I knew by the ridiculous childish bunches in her hair that it was Peedy Pants.
I remember my parents hugging me tightly, crying hard and deliberately not looking at Peedy Pants’ father openly weeping over his daughter’s limp body. I couldn’t take my eyes of him. How had she not escaped? We all knew the fire drill – we had to walk calmly and quietly out of the school, not stop for belongings and on no account, re-enter the building. Then we would all line up and registers would be called. I froze, my vision blurred and I fell to the ground.
When I woke up, my parents were being led away by the police. Two policemen stood by me. They pulled me roughly to my feet and explained that I had not been accounted for. The girl had rushed back into the building before anyone could stop her to try to find me and the fire fighter had re-entered the building after her.
I sit here now, in my room at the Juvenile Correction Centre, clutching a letter from my mum, telling me that the inmates of my dad’s prison were giving him a hard time over the incident, hastily scrawled on her prison notepaper; but my thoughts are with Peedy Pants. I still don’t know if she went to look for me because she could not face being the only target for Whiff and his gang. I like to believe it was because she was my friend.
© Diana Morrison 17/09/12
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