Morning rushes in, bathing me in light because the cheap, orange curtains are paper thin. My usual foreboding is bleached by the idea of Henry. Maybe my luck is about to change.
"Mercy, stop playing dead."
"Fuck off."
"As your frenemy, I'm obliged to get your arse up. You're lucky I'm talking to you. Putting sleeping tablets in my hot chocolate last week was bloody dangerous. I could have OD'd."
"Obliged? Shit! No wonder you're friendless – what century is obliged from?" Mercy taunts.
"I'm gonna do it," I threaten.
"Do what?" asks Mercy.
"I think you know," I respond not wanting her name to contaminate my voice box.
"No, not her, I'm getting up. Settle down, Sparra. Look, my foot's out."
God she's a mini monster.
I grab my stuff, looking around, making sure I have everything.
I'm not gonna moan, but it's frenzied here. Kids hang around the toilets, bathroom, in front of the mirror; whinging, swearing and heatedly brushing by one another, – chaotically searching for hairbrushes, lanyards and shoes. In the kitchen, over-sleepers and slowcoaches crowd around the fridge, as cereal crunches under foot. Arguing ensues and my senses jangle from overload, as I pull the door behind me.
My car transports me from one hell to another. Whoever decided school days are the best of your life I seriously pity, because their adult life must be shit!
Rushing towards the gate, kids are dragging themselves to form: shoulders rounded, heads down, heavy footed; trying to delay the inevitable. Their dissatisfied babble ruins my positivity as soon as I walk into school. I'm a free, independent young woman one minute, a school child the next. Someone who must ask permission to use the toilet and to take off her blazer. In the real world I'd cared for a dying person. There are lots of us – kids – growing up quickly, coping with parents who are disabled, ill, alcoholics, drug dependent...dead. Once you've matured quickly, you can't switch it off. Society's changed, but not school; they've no idea what kids are up against. Schools don't want you to use initiative or be independent...they want you to obey and study yourself into the ground, to make their stats look good. I'm not the only one who hates school; there are thousands of us, we all wish for a flood, fire, swarm of killer bees – any catastrophe that will close school.
***
At thirty thousand feet; enroute to Heathrow, I am exceedingly agitated. My seat is kicked purposely and repeatedly. A mother and daughter sit behind. 'No', 'boring' and 'what the fuck' are on repeat. The mother flees to the toilet. The brat's feet push my headrest. I lean over. Smiling I beckon her, press my lips to her ear and threaten.
"Kick my chair again and I'll gut you like a fish."
In the passport control queue, the teenager clings to her parent. The mother looks my way. I flash her a smile. The mother flushes and pushes a stray hair from her face before smiling back.
"Honestly Stephanie; I've had it to here with your lies."
***
Plan Henry is happening tonight. I can't concentrate. I skip lunch, not because of Henry, but because it's bloody inedible. How can you get a baked potato so wrong? Priti's potato is dead too.
After school, I drive carefully, aware I'm distracted by tonight's masterplan.
"Today dragged on forever," I moan.
YOU ARE READING
The Rebirth of Henry Whittle
Teen FictionPhoenix Whittle, orphaned at 11, has been in and out of foster care. She's systematically bullied at school and facing homelessness. Until she's offered a home by an estranged uncle, Henry Whittle. But that was the old Henry. Now a killer and id...
