For the Love of Tennis | ✅

Chapter 08

Something’s wrong as soon as I enter the school gates the next day.

I don’t know. I can feel it.

I glance around the courtyard; nothing seems out of place. Yet there’s still this tightness in my stomach.
Kylie isn’t at the lockers. Sighing, I reach into my jacket and, upon finding the phone gone, I sigh even harder.

“Chands.”

She appears round the corner. Her fringe is still blonde, contrasting with the rest of her dark hair. Her eyes aren’t filled with their usual mischief. Today they’re full of warning.

“Mrs Barnett called you,” she blurts. “I think… I think it was about yesterday.”

My blood runs cold. And yet I find I can still speak.

“Okay.”

“You have to go to her office. Now. No hanging around, she said.”

I force myself to move even though my muscles seem to freeze in their place. Kylie gives me a small push in the right direction.

“Go on,” she urges. Then her voice lowers to a soft whisper. “I don’t want to dress up as your dead Nan!”

Her joke that normally sparks a smile in me falls flat.

I propel myself down the hallway, down the stairs, down. Is it coincidental that the headmistress’ office is in the basement? Maybe she wants punished students to think they’re travelling to the fiery pits of hell.

The cold air con blasts in my face as I open the door. Despite it, my hands are clammy.

Mrs Barnett is an elderly woman. Her round spectacles perch on the edge of her nose and her eyes bore into you like a drill piece. Her wispy hair lies atop her head in a neat bun, and wrinkles make her skin sag.

“Chandy Dixon,” she says. “Take a seat.”

Tentatively, I sit myself down in the plush chair.

“Your mother will be arriving soon, I expect.”

My heart skips.

What?

Why Mum?

I open my mouth to ask why when the door behind me opens and Mrs Barnett goes:

“Ah, Mrs Dixon. Take a seat next to Chandy here, if you don’t mind.”

I can feel Mum’s nerves. The way her hands clutch at her handbag, the darting of her eyes around the room and finally at me. Her eyes narrow when she sees me, and I clamp my mouth firmly shut.

“We have a few things to discuss,” Mrs Barnett begins. “We all know of the incident that occurred yesterday, do we not?”

Tersely, Mum and I nod.

“Well, let me say it again to clarify any misconceptions.” She wrings her hands out in front of her. “Mrs Dixon, your daughter here attacked another student during the recreational luncheon break yesterday afternoon. Megan Arenas was badly injured in the process.”

I give a small snort. Mrs Barnett’s glare silences me.

“Statements from other students have been taken, Mrs Dixon, and it seems both children – your daughter and Miss Arenas – were to blame. They will both be punished accordingly.”

At this, my Mum tenses.

“And what’s the punishment?” she breathes.

“A one-week temporary suspension for the two of them,” replies Mrs Barnett. “Classwork and homework will be issued to them via email. All teachers have been notified, and she is expected to complete this work within the week. All of it.” She pauses. “You may go.”

Our chairs scrape backwards. I can feel a lump in my throat. Hurrying to the door, I fight to keep it down.

“Ah, Mrs Dixon.”

Mum turns. “Yes?”

Mrs Barnett realigns some papers on her desk. “I would strongly recommend you take your daughter to a child psychologist. I think it would benefit her profusely.”

Mum pauses.

“I think,” she says slowly, “it would benefit you more.”

I have to fight the smile as the door closes.

“Good riddance,” hisses my mother. She doesn’t want to use any curse words in case Mrs Barnett hears her and has even more things against me. A swearing mother.

“To her?”

“To both of you.” Her lips are one line. “You’re suspended. Great, just what I need.”

The lump gets larger.

“Mum, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”

But, despite all my apologies, my Mum’s stony expression doesn’t shift an inch.