A Wilting Rose

A Blossom Amongst Weeds

I trod through the open school gates, my hair a crimson cloud behind me. The ice had melted since the day before, and now my feet were plunging into the slush it had left. An icy sensation crept over my feet as it spread across my shoes and tights, and I shivered as I ploughed on through the wind. The sky was cloudy and iron-grey, and the lack of light from the sun cast dim shadows upon Weatherhead. A few clusters of people were milling around in small groups near the gates, and as I walked I collided with a girl hugging her school bag to her chest.

'I'm so sorry,' I apologised, stooping to collect her fallen bag.

'No, it's fine,' reassured the girl, straightening up and looking rather breathless. 'If anything, I walked into you.'

She was small and slight, with caramel blonde hair tied into a low ponytail at the back. Her eyes were navy blue with a splash of grey, and they were covered with thickly lensed glasses. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold air, and scattered with freckles. She was blinking rapidly like a rabbit caught in a spotlight.

I smiled warmly at her, and continued on my way to form. I had vaguely recognised her as a Year Ten, but that was to the extent of my knowledge.

I reached form to see a rare happening; a group of five populars, including Michelle's best friend Casey, were already there. I sighed at their mocking expressions as I walked through the door, and marched over to my usual seat at the very front. At the very moment I had opened my book (Mansfield Park by Jane Austen) a series of shouts echoed from the corridor.

I saw Mrs Thomas sigh in evident annoyance, and push back her swivel chair, to inspect the noise issuing from outside the door. As she walked over the room, I turned to see unconcealed glee and anticipation on the faces of all those behind me.

Furrowing my eyebrows, I concluded that this had been staged. Perhaps it had been to get Mrs Thomas out of the room. Whatever it was, I wouldn't stand it.

As soon as the door banged shut behind our form tutor, the populars let out the derisive laughs they had been suppressing. I sighed, shut my book with a snap, and turned to face them.

'Yes?' I said plainly.

I could tell they were surprised. Usually I stuttered and stammered in front of them, and a cold response evidently wasn't the expected.

'Well, get on with it,' I said, raising my eyebrows. They seemed to be grappling with words to say.

'You're dead today, spof,' Casey eventually shot, twirling her hair round her little finger. She had put in such an effort of curling it she looked rather like Medusa.

With this thought I snorted, causing looks of outrage to pass over all of their faces. 'Yeah, dead,' I said sarcastically. 'Because obviously you won't get into any trouble for that.'

A boy named Mike Styron narrowed his eyes, as though attempting to process my words without looking gormless. He opened his mouth after about a minute of strained silence, and said, 'Michelle ain't in today. Because of you.'

'What did I do?' I demanded coolly, but it was Casey who replied.

'Shut up, Mike,' she snapped quickly. 'Michelle isn't in because she's ill. Anyway,' she continued, turning to me, 'I suppose you're wondering why we're in early.'

'Actually, I'm not,' I informed her. 'But go on.'

'We planned it all yesterday on group chat,' blurted a girl so caked with fake tan she looked like she had spent a month in a can of baked beans. After this proclamation, Casey elbowed bean-girl in the ribs, a fierce look on her face.

'We are here,' she said, giving an expression to the rest with clear instructions that she was the one to do the talking, 'to teach you a lesson.'

'Here we go,' I said, rolling my eyes.