Bloody Graduation — Part II

A multi-part short story on teenage drama.

Read Part I here.

Okay, so I’m wearing thicker socks. My mum was right. She’s always right. One day I’m going to be right, and she’s going to feel like me now. I know it. My uniform is pristine today. No blood. No permanent marker. No dirt. It’s almost as if I never wore it.

I can see a sea of red gowns and caps bobbing up and down like the ebb and flow of a river streaming down a hill. Who am I kidding? I’m not a poet.

“Hi, Miss Jackie,” I say.

She’s walking on my right with a short black skirt and black stockings. Her orange blouse is frilly and sleeveless. “Hi, Max. I’m glad you did so well in my class.”

I can feel my cheeks burn. She’s only the hottest teacher in the school, and she’s my English teacher. Everyone does well in her class, and I mean everyone.

“Thank you, Miss Jackie,” my mum says.

Shit. I forgot she’s right beside me. Did she see my cheeks blush? I hope not. That’d be awkward. I turn to look at my mum; just a peek. She’s smiling, but not at me. Good. That’s over.

“Everyone, please take your seats,” Vice Principal Gregory says. He steps forward from behind the microphone and flaps his arms like a helpless turkey to hurry everyone up.

My mum and I take a seat somewhere near the back. My foot’s hurting a little, and I wish I had a painkiller with me now. I gesture to my feet for my mum, but she ignores me and stares up at the stage.

“I’d like to thank all the parents in attendance today,” Gregory says. “It was truly an honour to encourage your children over the last five years at our school.”

Boring. I hate speeches. I hate this school. My toe hurts. I want to get out of here. Please, God, let this be quick. I promise I’ll pray to you more. Maybe. No, scratch that. I won’t. Just let this be over. Okay?


Originally published at www.amaitken.com on May 9, 2017.