That time I got rejected three times on the same day!

Chapter 4

I left Vicky at the western gate of the school. She would fine from there. Besides, I had more pressing matters on my mind, namely her, the girl. How many days has it been now? I can't remember. The concrete pathway around the school loomed before me. It was a mixture, concrete and gravel. I don't know why they do that, but there probably is a good reason. The grass on either side of the pathway was freshly cut, perhaps yesterday or the day before. Details, details, I was all about details. Ever since I could remember, I would pick up the smallest of details, find patterns in the world around me, and try to control them. It annoyed me to no end when things weren't right. Why can't people hang pictures straight? It's not that hard. Why can't people use the soap dispensers evenly? The one closest to the door always has the least soap in it. These things annoyed me.

Another annoyance, our school didn't have a uniform. The kids walking past me were wearing what they wanted to wear. Every day they wore something different, something to catch the eye. My clothes were the same day in and day out, green raincoat, grey jumper, plain black pants, and t-shirt. This was my uniform. A world needs order, and uniforms are a part of that order. My internet friends couldn't understand this concept. My parents couldn't understand this concept. My teachers couldn't understand this concept. They called me strange, or weird, or difficult, but I believed in my system. Uniforms gave me a sense of belonging, but everyone else wanted to be an individual, a world of individuals. My own bag, my own pencil case, everything is my own. I stopped walking and shook my head. I was doing it again, the endless spiral of thoughts. I couldn't turn it off. Sometimes I would stare out a window, or just stop, and thoughts would come crashing in, taking over completely. I had to be careful.

It wasn't only during the day. At night, when I got into bed and closed my eyes, thoughts continued to plague me. Often I would lie there the entire night without sleeping an hour. My parents tried to send me to a psychiatrist, who prescribed some pills. I didn't take them. I don't solve my problems with pills. Only weak willed people do that. I was better than that. I had come up with my own strategies of coping with my problems. I closed my eyes and counted to 10. The thoughts subsided. I opened my eyes and thrust my hands forward, forming a triangle with my thumbs and index fingers.

"Focus," I said under my breath.

Two kids were walking past me. I heard them sniggering. So what if they didn't understand psychosomatics. I learned that word in a book. I liked reading books, different kinds of books, science, philosophy, medicine. I didn't understand everything, but some things were interesting, and I learned new things. But my mind was wandering again.

Since that fateful day, I had based my morning routine on waiting in the same spot, every morning, without fail. Our school had three gates, the north gate, the west gate, and the south gate. The school was not accessible by the eastern side, which was covered in a thick Eucalypt forest, but many students would sneak into the forested undergrowth to smoke or do other things. The southern gate was usually accessed by teachers, because it was near the teacher's car park. The western gate, or the gate mother always dropped us off at, was accessed by students whose parents took them to school. It was a public road and connected to the highway, so it was always very busy and dangerous to cross. The gate I was heading to, the waiting gate was the northern gate. Students who accessed the northern gate were either brought by their parents or by bus. These were private school buses, not the public bus. The public bus stop, which we took home, was about five blocks west of the school, across an intersecting highway. Vicky and I had always taken the bus, even in the country we immigrated from. In that country it was very dangerous for two young children to walk home, but there was no other choice, both my parents had always worked. It was just the way it was.

The white buses were lined up, unloading kid after kid. They weren't real buses, like the public buses, I think they called them mini-coaches. They could seat no more than 30 and were, in my experience, quite cramped. There was really no way to tell them apart, except for their position in the queue. I guess kids learned who their bus drivers were, and knew which mini-coach to take, but I had never taken them, so I didn't really know. I was looking for, what I called, coach three. Coach three parked, maybe, 100 metres from the north gate, and always arrived at 8:37am sharp. I checked my wrist-watch; it was a digital, because I couldn't read analogue. The display showed 8:34am. I rubbed my hands together, crossed my arms, and put my hands back under my armpits. My breath frosted the air, another miserable cold morning.

Two mini-coaches arrived simultaneously. By my estimation, a few minutes had passed. It was almost time. The first coach pulled into the bay reserved for coach two and the other coach pulled in behind it. The drivers opened the doors and kids started piling out of both coaches. I recognized a few of them, but I still hadn't seen the face I was waiting for. I considered this the best part of the day and my anticipation was palpable. My heart was beating a little faster. The cold was forgotten. First I saw a leg, wrapped in khaki denim, and then the unmistakable black hair. Then it hit me. I couldn't say it was a pleasant feeling. I was clutching my heart in pain. It was a difficult pain to describe, like the heart had jumped and refused to keep beating. I didn't long for this pain, but if it was the price I had to pay to look at her beautiful face, I would pay it ten times over until the end of days.