Talent...and what to do with it

Chapter 3 Part 2

Chapter 3: Jonah

Yesterday's optimism had taken less than twenty-four hours to evaporate. Salter's Academy had an automatic door. It might as well have been a revolving door. I knew I wouldn't be here long. Last night Mum told me she had spoken to her boss and got permission to do a later shift at the call centre so she could come with me to school. This morning she hadn't even got out of bed. Not that I really wanted her here anyway, but I'd missed my bus and now I was turning up late.

Most of the teachers in my old school had had it in for me, but there had been a couple that had acted like they cared. I had no illusions about this place. My old Headteacher had told me that teachers don't like being questioned, or made to look stupid, or being ignored. She'd said I should figure out a strategy to make sure I lasted at my new school till I'd finished Year Eleven. But the only strategy I'd come up with was to curb my urge to say what I really thought and keep my mouth shut.

The Headteacher invited me into his office. I doubted this was usual practice for new students. This would be my warning. I watched him flick through a fat file of papers, occasionally glancing up at me. Sometimes he raised his eyebrows. It didn't take a genius to work out that he was looking through my catalogue of misdemeanours.

"When I look at this it makes me think you are not the kind of student we welcome at our school." He looked at me as if he expected a response. I didn't have one. "It seems that you have a history of being rude to teachers and violent towards other students; and that's just when you bothered to turn up." He flicked through the pages. "Ah yes, and in one incident it appears you carried a knife into school with you." I still said nothing. I couldn't deny it. There were two sides to every story of course, but my side had always been ignored.

"Coupled with a poor attendance record, and what could be described, at best, as a mediocre academic history, you hardly seem about to be made head boy." He looked up at me again over his glasses. What did he expect me to say?

His tone hardened. "If you try any of this at my school, and I mean anything, you are out. I don't know what standards of behaviour are acceptable in Manchester, but down here, at this school, you will be excluded if you as much as answer a teacher back." He pressed an intercom and asked for Mr Jacobs to be sent in. "Our Head of PE," The Head explained.

He was a youngish guy, kind of tall and thin, wearing trackie bottoms and a T-shirt. He was here to tell me their plan, and I began to understand why this school had accepted the kid no one else wanted.

Mr Jacobs sat down and leaned towards me. "So, Jonah, we know you are a very fast runner."

I shrugged. It was a cliché, but in my case it was true. Tall black kid equals fast runner. Sometimes they'd called me Bolt at my last school. Mainly for my ability to run out of the building, admittedly, but if I ever took part in any sports I always did well.

"I heard you got a County record at District Sports."

I wondered how they knew. It had been back in Year Seven, not long after we'd gone back to Manchester and Mum had been positive about that fresh start, too. It was the last time I took part in any races like that.

"You also did well when you were at primary school down here."

So that's how they knew. What else did they know?

"We are keen to train you back to fitness, get you running again."

I didn't respond. Just kept staring forwards.

Then Mr Jacobs said, "What's the problem Jonah? Don't think you can do it? Think you've lost it?"

I felt hot. I dug my finger nails into my palm.