Leaving London

Chapter Twenty Seven

I detest back-to-school shopping. I absolutely hate it. So far I've survived five of Mrs Baines' torturous lessons, and as a 'treat' (yes, she thinks this is a reward) Mum has arranged to take me for a day of shopping. Now, usually, I'd look forward to something like this, but she insisted instead that it was to buy me school wear and stationery. The worst type of shopping.

I've been perched on a tiny, dusty square seat in a dimly-lit changing room for the past hour, getting thrown items of clothing and different sized sports bags and lacrosse balls. I've tried to explain that it's not necessary to buy a whole new wardrobe, considering I've only had my current uniform for less than four months, but even so, Mum is forcing me to acquire a few more of the essentials, plus I need new sports equipment, seeing as the activities in P.E lessons are seasonal. Next term I'll be battling it out at lacrosse and gymnastics. Lacrosse is something I've always wanted to play, even though it looks like a very demanding sport judging by the several American TV series I've binge-watched; which mainly include high schools with surprisingly strong lacrosse teams. Gymnastics, however, is going to be a nightmare. When I was about seven, I was able to do the splits, and during P.E warm-ups I've discovered I can perform some fairly high kicks, but for the most part I have the flexibility and grace of a thick wooden plank.

Half an hour later, after dawdling over blue or red lacrosse socks, we finally leave the murky shop door armed with two slim-cut white shirts, tights, a pale grey sports sack, socks, a neon pink lacrosse ball and a sturdy, white lacrosse stick complete with weaved hoop at the top. It feels light and cool to the touch, and I can't wait until our lessons start. The next place we enter is a bookshop, which has a huge shelf stacked with stationery as well. Mum decides to try and uncover a novel out of the series she's just started reading, so she heads over to the other side of the shop to leave me scouring the shelves for a new pencil case. I find a pretty one huddled under a pile of key rings, and I fill up my other hand with an eraser, pencils, pens and a pair of scissors.
"Put it all on the till, then." Mum says, plonking down a couple of chunky books. I dump it all next to her stories and wait for the plastic bag of stationary to be clutched between my fingers. That's the worst of today over with.

Topshop is next on the list. I pick out a new pair of black ballet pumps, and use the cash rolled up in my back pocket to afford a denim, lacy backpack which will actually fit my folders in, for once. We stop off at the supermarket on the way home to pick up some dinner, and that's it. At least that nightmare is out of the way.

∞

My last lesson with Mrs Baines is a relief. The three hours are spent pooling over a number of chemistry textbooks, question sheets and formulas, finished off by some history work. It's the last time I'll have to cope with her snidely remarking that I'm taking so long to answer a question that the Great Wall of China could have been built, or listening to her chomping on a caramel sweet as I'm trying to think up how to say 'I love going to the beach' in Spanish. It's the last time I watch a smile shoot up her face as money transfers from my parents hands into hers, and the last time I watch from the window as she trots down the driveway on her wobbly ankles.

By the time I tuck up in bed, at five minutes past midnight, I'm absolutely dreading the fact that there's only this weekend between me and school. Two measly days and a whole new year will have started. A fresh timetable will be refreshing, sure, but there's no feeling as dooming as realising you have a whole year of education ahead of you until you've earnt another significant block of time off from school. What's more, is that it's depressing to brood over the fact that in the space of a few weeks back into routine, this whole summer break will feel like it's passed in the blink of an eye. It will seem like it went too fast, and that I didn't do enough, and that I didn't make the most of the warm, sunny weather, even though I've got a solid, bronze tan to prove that I have.
I mentally list everything I need to do before returning through the sickly green doors of NewBridge Academy, and with a deflating huff I realise the list is practically never-ending. I don't feel tired at all now I've had a sickening overdose of bad thoughts about school, so I do what I was inevitably planning to do before I switched off my lamp: I flick it back on to full beam, collect my phone from the side and return under the stuffy covers. These past few weeks have been alive with messages and phone calls from my three friends in London, and so I expect to find a few notifications from them once I click onto the Facebook app. I do, and this time it's all from Kayla. She's giving me an update on her performing arts school. She's already Skyped me whilst wandering around the site so I could get a laptop-sized tour of the place, and messaged me several times in class for which she got her phone taken off her for a week and a detention. This time it's her excitement over the unveiling of the summer performance the arts school presents every July - a mixture of singing, dancing, acting and instrumental talent, not to mention the costume designers, producers, technicians and choreographers involved. She's also sent me a picture of her and another girl slouched outside what I presume to be auditorium doors. Kayla's eyes look alive, the kind of alive I used to recognise when she'd talk about musical theatre or see a kitten or something. The other girl is pretty, slightly on the tall side with porcelain skin, raven hair licking at the sides of her arms and catty green eyes blanching the rest of her complexion. The one thing that stands out is how skinny she is, almost frail; ceramic, as if one knock would send her splintering and crashing to the ground.
This is Dawn, I read, She reminds me of you a bit. I think you'd really like her.
The words sting a little, as if Kayla making new friends has opened up the wound of missing her, and just poured salt water all over it. It hasn't of course, I'm glad for her, because I know she's going through a similar situation to how I was only a few months ago - surrounded by strangers in a completely different environment.
She looks cool, how come she's at the school? I reply, trying to sound as enthusiastic as possible. Kayla told me that dozens of students were recruited for the start of January - that's when they accept new students, for work towards a performance in the summer and gradual work towards other scholarships or parts in productions or theatre throughout the other half of the year. Dawn probably started with Kayla, another new fish in the stream towards a successful life in show business.
Dawn's incredible at dance and she can sing too, reads the response. I even go as far as adding Dawn as a friend on Facebook, telling Kayla I'm so happy for her and that Dawn seems like a really good friend. It doesn't take long for the alarming sight that it's almost one am to make me feel a bit drowsy, so I shut off my outside life and allow myself to succumb to sleep.