I guess I didn’t see that Anita was self-destructing. Or I didn’t want to see it. Maybe I was drawn to her because I wanted to self-sabotage too. Maybe it was because she seemed so alive amidst her destruction. Maybe I wanted to be pulled into her world and break away from normality.
Sometimes I think it was meeting her that opened my mind to the world’s possibilities. Is it far-fetched to think that my life would not be the same now if I hadn’t met her? When the circumstances all connect, it’s hard to believe in anything but fate. Perhaps I’m more willing to believe it now, but I didn’t at the time. She was just a girl at my school, one of the tough ones. One of the popular girls who broke the rules. The first time we met, she was smoking by the tennis courts and I was on my way to class. She looked at me, with these lazy blue eyes, half closed and red rimmed, as though she’d been crying.
“You got a light?” she spoke with the cigarette dangling from her lips.
I stopped in my tracks. I checked behind me to see if she was talking to someone else. Anita had on a mini skirt and thick tights. She wore a buttoned-up cardigan that struggled to contain her chest. Her eyes were framed with thick eyeliner, and her curly red hair was messy from the wind. I, on the other hand, was wearing jeans, a long sleeve top I’d had since I was fourteen, and a rucksack. I was like a child compared to her, despite us both being sixteen. I was unsophisticated and lacking in any real world knowledge.
“What’s up? Can’t speak?” she demanded.
“Umm, no, I don’t have a light.”
“Mary, isn’t it? You’re in Psych with me.”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Miss Bridgewater, do I have to tell you again?” The booming voice made me start. My muscles were rigid as I turned around to face Mr. Turner, the deputy head. “You might be in 6th form now, but there are school rules to be adhered to.”
“Chill, mate. It’s not even lit.” Anita rolled her eyes and lifted the cig from her lips, waggling it in front of her face.
The old man pursed his lips so tight they went white. “And let’s make sure it remains that way, shall we?”
As he strode away, we broke into spontaneous giggles. Turner was like some cartoon villain, or one of those old fashioned teachers from black and white films about boarding schools. He even walked with his hands behind his back, like a professor.
“Tight bastard.” Anita sighed and placed the cigarette back in her pocket. “You want to get out of here?”
“I’m late for chemistry.” I gestured towards the school building.
“Nah, come on. Let’s get butties and sit in the park for a bit.” She shivered. “I need to get away from this place.”
I nodded my head. It was all I could do. I couldn’t speak and my palms were sweating. I’d never skipped a class in my entire life. But when I forced my legs to move—and followed Anita across the Rugby pitch towards the back entrance of the school—I realised that I felt excited, too. In a good way.
“So, you don’t smoke, you go to class, and you don’t get in trouble,” Anita said. “You’re the daughter my parents wish they’d had.” She grinned at me. “Still, I have better fashion sense. What is that top?”
I looked down at the red and white stripes on my shirt. “I’ve had it a long time.”
“You look like Where’s Wally,” she said with a little laugh.
My cheeks flushed, but despite the insult, it didn’t seem malicious. She seemed like a girl trying to be friendly, but ending up blunt. She lacked social skills. She wasn’t spiteful.
“I’ve not been shopping for a while,” I admitted. The truth was that I’d never been bothered before meeting Anita. I had one good friend, Diana, who also didn’t care about fashion, and who was just as geeky as I was back then.
“We’ll go together some day,” she replied.
I nodded eagerly. I assumed everyone meant what they said back then. It wasn’t until a few years later, when I bumped into a girl from my old school and said “we should catch up sometime” without really meaning it, that I realised humans have a sick way of lying to each other. And the worst thing is: we’re supposed to understand these lies. We’re supposed to know what’s real and what’s fake.
It was a cool spring day as we walked into town. At ten in the morning, the streets were fairly quiet. Most people were in work by now, settled into their day. A few young mothers pushed their babies around in prams, some gripping onto squirming toddlers with snotty noses. I’d never been a teenager who found babies cute. They were grubby little crying machines to me. Anita, though, cooed and waved at a giggling baby as we passed a mum coming out of the café.
Henry’s was more of a greasy spoon than a café. On the edge of a South Yorkshire suburb, it was closest to the school, and catered mainly for the sixth formers at lunchtime. You could buy a bag of sweets by the pound, chip butties, and sausage cobs. Henry’s had become a meeting point for fifty-odd sixteen to eighteen year olds shouting “chips and a mars bar, ‘Enry” every lunchtime. Some of the younger kids would sneak out—despite not being allowed off school premises during the day—and try to nick sweets while Henry’s back was turned. But the sharp-eyed mustachio always spotted them, and then there was “Oi, put that back you little shit” and the place would erupt with laughter.
We got our butties, and Anita gestured towards the park, popping a chip into her mouth as we went. As we walked through the town centre, I couldn’t help but look all around us, checking for teachers or parents.
“Stop stressing,” Anita said, nudging me with her elbow. “We’re 6th formers. We could have a free period.” She sank down into a bench and laughed. “It’s your first time wagging off, isn’t it? You’re not going to get into trouble, you know. You’re old enough to make your own decisions. Look, I’ve missed the last five sociology classes in a row, and do you know what old man Robertson said?”
I shrugged and shook my head.
“He said ‘You’re only hurting yourself. If you carry on you’ll fail.’ See, they can’t give us detention or suspend us anymore. We’re old enough to drop out of school and go travel the world. We could be at college voluntarily. School isn’t school anymore. It just feels like it because we’re at the same place we’ve always been. You’re an adult now.”
“I’ve never thought about it like that,” I admitted. “It’s probably because my dad’s a teacher. I guess I’ve had the importance of education drilled into me. It feels weird to think about it your way.”
Anita speaks through a mouthful of chips and bread. “But it feels good, right?”
“Yeah, it does!” I finish off my buttie and throw the wrapper in the bin next to the bench. Truth be told, it was the first time I’d felt relaxed and free in a long time. I’d got great GCSE results, As and Bs everywhere, but it meant the pressure was on for A-Levels. Dad had already started coaching me for my Oxbridge interview, and we hadn’t even got through the first year. I kept finding myself freezing up at night, unable to sleep, staring at the ceiling with all my muscles rigid and my heart beating fast.
Anita reached into her coat pocket and winked at me. She produced a small bottle of gin, a quarter of it empty. “Well, now we’re going to make today even more interesting. Come on.” She jumped to her feet and took my hand, half dragging me off the bench.
The park was pretty small, but it was big enough for a duck pond with some pedal boats on it. I saw what Anita was pulling me towards and laughed out loud.
“Seriously? The pedal boats?” I said.
“Damn right! I’ve never been on them.” She grinned.
If the guy running the pedal boats was surprised by two teenagers turning up in the middle of the day, he didn’t show it. He took our money with utter disinterest. Anita picked a bright red boat and climbed in. I got in next to her, my heart pumping and a grin on my face. We started pedalling and Anita pulled out the bottle of gin, which was my first taste of the stuff. It was bitter, but warming, so I drank it down.
“This is better,” she said.
“Better than what?” I asked.
“Than real life.”
*
I had to walk all the way home that day. Not because I couldn’t get a bus, but because I had to sober up. Luckily, I managed to get up to my room straight away, and then I had an evening shower to wash away the gin. Even still, all through dinner, I felt my parents’ eyes watching me. I still had the fuzzy taste of alcohol on my tongue, and without Anita there to reassure me that everything was cool, I started to feel really bad about skipping school and drinking in the day. What was I thinking? I wasn’t like that. I wasn’t “that sort”, as Mum would say.
So I spent the evening on coursework, hoping to atone for my bad behaviour. The guilt was only amplified when Mum popped in to share a bar of Galaxy with me.
“You’re working hard,” she said, smiling. “We’re proud of you, you know.” Then she disappeared from the gap in the door and went back downstairs to watch TV with Dad. The chocolate made me feel sick, but I ate it anyway.
The last of the gin in my system helped me off into an early sleep, and I woke the next day at 6:30 with a strange ache in my stomach. I ignored it, went to shower, and then got dressed. After breakfast, the stomach ache went, so I figured it was a combination of the gin and the early morning. Both parents commented on my early rising—which was a novelty—and said goodbye with a smile as they went to work and I made my way to the bus stop.
It’s only when I got to my seat that I realised what I’d done. I’d got away with it. I broke the rules, and had a good time, and nothing happened. I let out a giggle. The girl sat next to me turned and gave me a strange smile. I didn’t even care. I felt like today was going to be good. I still wasn’t sure if I was actually friends with Anita now, but I liked the idea that I had options, that I wasn’t just stuck on the exam treadmill working toward University and everything beyond. I could live life now, too. It felt great.
First period was chemistry—my worst subject—but one I’d taken because Dad persuaded me that an A-Level in chemistry “proved character”. What he didn’t know was that I was already considering dropping it. But chemistry was one class that, despite being my worst subject, I actually looked forward to going. That was because of one person: Mike Parkinson, or “Parky” as everyone knew him.
I’d had a crush on him for years. Half the school had a crush on him. He was the kind of guy who had everything going for him; bright blue eyes, a great smile, wealthy parents, brains, sports, and actual kindness. He knew everyone’s names, even the geeks. He was never one of the bullies. In fact he prevented a lot of tension between the nerds and the sporty. He was a favourite among the teachers, but still well liked by all the students. He was the golden boy of our school, and everyone wanted to be near him, like he was some sort of Brad Pitt icon.
Of course, I never had a chance. We’d never even spoken before.
When I walked into the chemistry lab, I stopped one pace into the doorway and rubbed my arms through my top. It was like walking into a fridge. I frowned and glanced around me but no one else seemed to notice the change in temperature. I shrugged, and made my way to my usual seat near Gary Jones and Louise Mack. I nodded to Louise—who was a mouse-like girl that rarely spoke—and took my exercise book out of my bag. I couldn’t help glancing behind my shoulder at Mike, who offered a little smile when he saw me looking at him. I turned back, quickly, my heart beating and a flush working its way up my neck. He saw me looking, but he smiled. That was something, right?
But as Mr. Qureshi strode into the classroom with his papers piled high, that chill on the air penetrated my cotton sleeves. I had the strangest feeling that someone was watching me from outside the room, but when I gazed out of the window towards the sports field, there was nothing there.
“Quiet please,” Mr. Qureshi said. “I want you to take notes from page fifty. Then there’s an experiment detailed on page fifty-one. You’ll need a Bunsen burner, goggles, and two beakers. Work in pairs. When your experiment starts I’ll walk around the class and see how you’re getting on.”
That was typical of his style—as little teaching as possible. Still, Mr. Qureshi was okay. He actually helped me quite a bit when I was struggling at GCSE. He helped me get a B overall, even though it was my lowest grade.
“Want to work together?” Louise asked.
I couldn’t help daydreaming about working with Mike, like a cheesy teen Hollywood movie where the geeky girl is paired up with the Jock and they have to work on a project out of school time. He always started out as a jerk, and she was always supposed to be ugly. At the end of the film she was beautiful—well, duh, she took her glasses off—and he revealed his human side. I guess that’s not real. Louise Mack was real. Spots and a bad haircut.
“Sure.”
For the first thirty minutes half the class became progressively louder, while the other half diligently made notes. I was in the latter part. Next to me, Gary Jones was one of the progressively louder students. I felt him fidgeting around on his stool, laughing and screwing up paper to throw at the back row. I had thought that 6th form would be different, more grown up. On the whole it was, but Gary never got the memo. Louise rolled her eyes.
We were the first to move onto the experiment. We hooked up our Bunsen burners to the gas, being careful not to open the valve too far, and making sure that the tube was connected properly. We never talked about anything but chemistry. I knew nothing about Louise except that she had a little brother a few years below.
Mr. Qureshi disappeared next door for more safety goggles, and the opening of the door must have created another draft, because our Bunsen burner went out half way through the experiment. Louise groaned, because it meant we’d have to start again. We shut off the gas, rinsed out the beakers and were about to start again, when movement from the window caught my attention.
I gasped. My stomach dropped. Then I laughed.
“There’s someone out there in a Halloween costume,” I said. “It’s only March, what are they playing at?”
Louise followed my gaze. “What are you on about? There’s no one there.”
I turned to look at Louise, then back to the window. The person had disappeared.
My entire face went hot with embarrassment. Had I imagined it? Only a few seconds ago, I saw some sort of zombie out of the window. I closed my eyes for a moment and tried to picture everything I could remember. It had green tinged skin. There seemed to be the shape of a skull shining through its face. It wore tattered, grey clothing. Its hair was brittle and balding. Its lips were red and slimy, as though smeared with blood. And its eyes were bloodshot. I opened my eyes again. Nothing was there, but my heart was beating faster.
Next to me, Gary Jones knocked over his Bunsen burner while turning around to talk to Mike. He picked it up and hooked it up to the gas. There was movement at the front of the room, and I assumed Mr. Qureshi had come back from the storage room. But he hadn’t.
It was the zombie again.
I looked around me. No one reacted. It was me, just me. I was the only one who could see it. I started to sweat, and I longed to run away from the class, but I stayed sat there, my feet twitching against the legs of the stool. I couldn’t just run out of class, everyone would stare at me.
The zombie picked up a piece of chalk and started to write.
Fire.
Blood.
School.
Fire.
Blood.
School.
Then it turned to me and my blood ran cold. It opened its mouth to smile, and I saw its rotting teeth for the first time. My stomach lurched, and for a terrible moment I thought I was going to throw up. But then the zombie started to point, and I saw what it was pointing at.
I shook my head. Louise Mack was busy rearranging our experiment equipment, but I was in hell, squirming, sweating, terrified, yet stuck to my seat. It was coming for me. It walked through the benches towards me, its body moving through the students. My mouth hung open. The noise of the room distorted until all I could hear was my own pulse. The Thing had only one eye. It shushed me, telling me to be quiet. Then it placed its rotting hand over my mouth and I felt nothing. I couldn’t open my mouth to speak or scream, but I felt nothing, no skin on my skin, no scent of flesh, just nothingness. Then it moved my hand.
Fire. Blood. School.
The zombie turned towards Gary’s Bunsen burner. Then my face was free, and it was gone. I sucked in a deep breath and stared down at my shaking hands. What just happened? The writing was still there in my notebook. Fire. Blood. School. I turned towards Gary. He had the gas valve turned right up and was about to light it. Without thinking, I threw myself at Gary just as he lit the Bunsen burner, knocking him to the floor. There was a scream—which I realised a moment later came from Louise—as the burner exploded, sending a wall of flames up to the ceiling.
I rolled off Gary and pulled myself to my feet, aware of the classroom staring at me. Mr. Qureshi came running in with a fire extinguisher, putting out the last of the fire and turning off the gas.
“What happened?” he asked breathlessly.
We all stared at Gary’s Bunsen burner in shock. Mr. Qureshi examined the burner and then the valve.
“Something let too much gas through,” he said. “This has never happened before. Mary, Gary, Louise, you should all go to the nurse to get checked out.”
I was about to protest until I saw that my hand was bleeding.
“That cut looks deep.”
I lifted my head and my heart dropped to my knees. Mike Parkinson was next to me. He reached out and touched my hand, which was cut across the palm from a broken beaker.
“You were seriously brave. How did you know what was going to happen?” he asked.
“I… I don’t know,” I stuttered.
He grinned at me with straight white teeth. “Want me to walk you to the nurse?” he asked.
“Okay,” I said.
Mr. Qureshi handed me some paper towels to stop the bleeding, and I left the room with Gary, Louise, and—most importantly—Mike.
“Thanks, Mary,” Gary said as we walked down the corridor. “You saved my bloody eyebrows there.”
Louise only frowned, possibly annoyed that I dived on Gary but didn’t help her. Gary was closest, so there was only so much I could do. Anyway, I wasn’t paying much attention to Louise. Mike still had his hand over mine.
“Most girls would have fainted with all this blood,” he remarked.
“I’m usually squeamish,” I said. “I guess it’s the adrenaline.” And the fact that you’re holding my hand.
“I’ll stay close just in case you do faint,” he said.
His voice, soft and lilting, is enough to make my knees go weak, but I tell myself to get a grip. The throbbing in my hand actually begins worsen, and by the time we reach the nurse, I’m both relieved to be there, and disappointed that Mike has to go back to class. But as soon as he leaves, and the nurse comes towards me with the dressing for my hand, the adrenaline leaves. I keel over. The last thing I think about is Mike’s face smiling at me, until it morphs into the zombie from the classroom.
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