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

Chapter 9

My class was designated as 7-B. Our school had around 500 students from K-12, which meant there was only two year seven classes, 7-A and 7-B. Year 11s and 12s were separated by another building and the Kindergarten wasn't on the same property as the rest of the school. Year 1s to year 10s mingled freely with each other. The main wing of the school was made up of a two-story 'L' shaped building and several residential properties on the same land served as the teacher's office, the nurse's office, and the library. Year 6 to 10 was on the top floors, and year 1 to 5 on the bottom floors. My classroom was located on the corner of the 'L', facing outward, with window panels spread across the entire length of the classroom. It was, without doubt, the most well lit classroom in the entire building. It didn't get any of the morning sun, but from lunchtime onwards, sunlight spilled in from windows. Twice a week we would have afternoon classes that ran to 6pm. Their purpose was a mystery, but I had a sneaking suspicion that the extended lunch breaks, of which we had two a day, were the culprit. Ironically, on these longer days, we would have an hour break after 3pm.

Fortunately, today was not one of those days. I climbed the cool stone staircase which would lead me to the classroom. I was really late. 10 minutes would have been forgivable, but 25 minutes would need some explaining. Mr.Devlin and Mr.Williams were on good terms, and Mr.Williams would certainly tell Mr.Devlin about the kid that almost got hit by a car this morning, and the useless student, namely me, who was asking questions about last week's homework at the bus stop. Mr.Devlin was not as sharp as Mr.Williams, but he could put two and two together. Placing me at the bus stop at 8:45am and then arriving at 9:25am in his class was going to raise questions. For all her naivety, Ms.Hockney was not a gossiper and kept her students issues confidential. She would not share this morning's incident with anyone but the student's parents. I had to give her a little credit for that. The classroom door loomed before me. The door handle was cold to the touch. I turned it carefully, trying not to make a noise. If Mr.Devlin had his back turned to the class it was possible to sneak in. Our school was too small for roll-calls and it was not the first time a student had snuck into class.

The classroom was completely empty, no students, no teacher. I had to admit that this outcome was not in the list of scenarios I had run through my head before coming to class. The blackboard, or whiteboard, was clean; no note, no evidence. The other classes I had passed on my way here were full of students who were in their first periods. I closed my eyes thinking back to the last few days, I couldn't remember Mr.Devlin having said anything about any special events. I put my schoolbag next to my desk and took off my raincoat. I usually had to rinse it in the basin, but today there were no stains or foodstuffs stuck to it. The other desks all had schoolbags next to them or under them, and Mr.Devlin's black briefcase was next to his desk at the front of the classroom. Stealing and theft wasn't as bad in Australia as the country I had immigrated from, but it was not unheard of in our school. Classrooms were usually locked for lunchtime and breaks, and kids weren't allowed to walk around the school grounds without a permission slip. I checked Mr.Devlin's desk for any clues that could lead me to them.

His desk was in disarray. As well as being our homeroom teacher, Mr.Devlin also taught social science and music. Teacher versions of the prescribed textbooks were haphazardly stacked, one atop another, on a pile of papers. The mess was annoying me. I had to physically look away. There was no way I could go through his things without putting everything in the right place. The number one rule of thievery was to leave everything in the place you found it. Like lying, stealing had come naturally to me. I had learned sleight of hand from a book and had used those concepts for pick pocketing. I had learned how to scope out cameras in shopping centres and convenience stores, and to take advantage of blind spots. I had even learned how to distract and misdirect store clerks and take things while they weren't looking. Although I was very good at stealing, I believed stealing was wrong. Stealing, like lying, disrupted order. Stealing was necessary in the country I immigrated from, because there was no way to make money for someone my age, but in Australia, even young kids could work if they wanted to. A few hours mowing the neighbour's lawns could make enough money to buy anything a kid could desire.

The messy desk was too much for me. I had to clean it up. I picked up all the books and put them in their proper shelves. I sorted the stacks of papers by topic. All his pens and other stationary were returned to his desk. One of Mr.Devlin's worst habits was sticky notes. He put them everywhere. I couldn't stand the yellow squares of paper; they were the epitome of disorder. Unlike a diary or a schedule that were in chronological order, a sticky note was a stand-alone memo. You couldn't sort or file them away. They were just there until they had fulfilled their purpose. I started to gather them up when one of them caught my eye. It was dated for today.