Figuring You Out

Chapter Fifteen

"So, let's start up with some warm up exercises," I shout to a group of distracted Year Eights all kicking mud about.

"BOYS!" Pope screams at the squabbling school boys, silence prevails instantly. I give him a thankful look as he scowls at them.

"Split into groups of fives and one of you will lead entertaining a simple warm up of running and stretching," I command to a now forced calm, they nod under the watchful eye of Mr Pope they divide and start jogging lazily around the dampening pitch. I approach Sir, feeling a little overwhelmed and stressed at it all, I didn't think it would be this difficult to order a few thirteen year olds to run about.

"Are they always like this?" I ask, he chuckles.

"No," he says, I relax slightly, "They're worse," he sighs walking away and beginning to scream at the stragglers.

"God," I mutter, observing the rest of the group who are gradually picking up speed that could maybe beat a tortoise in a race. It's going to be the longest hour of my life.

After a torturous hour of demonstrating, encouraging and a fair bit of shouting it was finally over and I was fixing my hair in the teacher toilet. I sigh leaning against the porcelain sink, I have got to get over this guy. But I had A- Level Sport next with Pope so it should be an easy lesson where I don't have to think so much. I return out to Pop sitting and biting into an apple, "How did you find it then?"

"I have a new found respect for PE teachers," I say, taking a seat in the middle of the office, he chuckles softly.

"Does that mean you will be paying more attention to Mr Fryday?" he smiles, somewhat hopefully.

"I said PE teachers not maths teachers," I reply, pointedly, finally letting myself relax and tipping my head back, I hear him laugh at me a second time.

"Seriously, Oliver, I need you to start paying more attention, I can't support you being here otherwise," he says seriously, I nod knowing what was at stake. 

"I know, and I will, sir. I won't let you down,"

"It's not about me, I'm here to make sure you don't let yourself down," he says, I tip my head up to him and nod again seriously this time, trying to take it all in.

"Thank you, sir," I say, standing.

"It was my pleasure, Oliver," he replies, as I step out of the office and into the corridor of squealing Year Eights, "now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go and shout at some insufferable twelve year olds,"

I shake my head laughing and make my way to the benches where there are only about half the group are there considering that Fryday had cancelled all his classes for the day.

"Hey," I say to Bram, who's musing a football between his feet, he nods and kicks it to me and soon we are moving around with it. We stop, half panting, half laughing and lean against the bench, where my eye lands on Red who was sitting reading whilst a load of other boys from our year were jeering at him.

"What's the deal with him anyway?" Bram asks, following my eye line, I shrug unable to form words. My instinct is to get up and intervene but at the risk of being found out? At the risk of losing my friends? At the risk of losing my team? I couldn't. I wouldn't. Yet every ounce of my being wanted me to, pleaded with me to because I can't stand the fact he isn't valued at anything less than what he truly is. I follow with a rising chest as Red gets up and leaves, the jeers shadowing him but ultimately ending there. I turn back around to the rest of the group but something is deeply unsettled in me; it wasn't right what just happened, no. But equally, I'm just as bad, if not worse because I stood and watched it all unfold without moving a muscle.

"You alright?" Danvesh asks.

"Yeah, fine," I dismiss, "Look, I'm going to head to Sport,"

"We've still got like ten minutes," he laughs.

"I need to hand in something at reception," I lie, turning without another word and slipping out of there earshot and onto the English corridor where the nearest toilets were. I shut the door after checking no one elese was in there and twist the lock, knowing everyone will assume it's the cleaners.

"Fuck," I curse, staring at the mess of a man in the reflection, "What have I done?"

I slam my palms at the sink and let out a strained groan before splashing my face with cold water, I notice my knuckles turning a concerning white and unclench my hands just as someone was banging on the door.

"For fuck sake," I mutter, I slip my bag on again and adjust my hair a final time before unlocking the door and letting in a few confused students.

"Maintenance should really get that fixed," I comment, to a particularly sceptical boy who must have been in Year Nine or Ten.