by Amy Hunter-Pescetto (age 14)
2004 Sense of Mischief winner
Secondary school age group
Of all the schools Melanie Beech had attended, this was by far the worst. Her fingers shook as she fastened the buttons to her bleach white blouse. What was the point? kept wandering across her mind. She never wore a uniform in America. America, that was where she would be; where she should be.
As she stood straight, smoothing out the creases in her trousers, a pair of light grey eyes, framed by wavy chestnut hair streaked with blond, stared back at her from the mirror.
"Melanie!" roared her mother. "You'll miss the bus."
"Yer, yer. I'm coming, I'm coming," she replied softly as she fiddled with the catch on her bag. "Oh, just fasten will you!" Click.
She took a long, deep, steadying breath as she crossed the boundaries of the house and stepped into the outside world. The streets were void of inhabitants. The deserted bus stop loomed ahead. The tips of her designer shoes rubbed slightly against the pavement as she trudged onwards. In between fiddling with the buttons on her stiff black blazer and the stray threads under the hem of her shirt, her fingers wandered to her wrist to check her watch. Silver-plated and square the face read ten minutes past eight. Ten minutes past eight... ten minutes past eight... that's when the bus comes!
Finally, the roar of the enormous engine reached her ears. That's when the bus comes. The bus! Heart hammering, legs pounding, feet thumping against the concrete, she dashed towards the stop. Hands frantically searching her pockets for loose change. Each bound echoed up her body, as the bus moved in. Its shrieking halt sent waves of nausea through her vacant stomach.
Just before she reached the stopped bus, she paused to straighten out her shirt and jacket, calm her trembling breaths, and compose her mind for the task in hand, taking an English bus. Couldn't be much different to an American bus, could it? were her thoughts as she strode up to the driver.
"Mahstone School," she asked, still scrabbling through her pockets.
"What luv," responded the driver.
"Mahstone School" she slowly repeated, and digging out a small piece of paper from her pocket, showed it to the driver. "It's here," pointing to the address.
"0, Marston School."
"Yeh, that's it."
"5Op."
Melanie handed over 50 pence worth of change and made her way to the back seats. As she passed a long fair curly haired girl, she paused. With her slim, well-formed figure that girl could be a model. Oh well got to start somewhere.
Taking a deep breath she said, "Hey, d'ya mind if I sit?"
"Yer sure," she replied. "I'm Ella."
"Ella..."
"...Bell."
"Melanie Beech, I'm new."
"Fab!" There was a short pause before Ella continued. "Mel, are you American?"
"Yeh."
They passed the rest of the journey chatting. Mel leaned against the back of the chair, legs crossed, hands laid down by her sides. Her eyes never left Ella's face, except to glance at the lad in front. His dark eyes and skin made her muscles tense up, and her lips crease into a smile. Every time she glanced in his direction it felt like all her emotions were rising up her body and if she didn't look away quick they would boil over the top.
As they stepped off the bus into the golden sunlight, she stared up the steps at a set of grey doors nestled into yellowing walls. Ella led her towards the door. Glancing around, she noticed that with uniforms she could not immediately determine the different groups of students. But their slowed pace gave her time to study her peers closer.
One group sat on a wall heads buried in books, shirts and blouses tucked into long skirts, or high-waisted trousers. Another, made up of all girls, stood, blouses out, skirts cut short, applying liberal amounts of make-up. A third, mixed, group sat on some benches, all in trousers, a heap of rucksacks strewn haphazardly beside them. I must fit into one group, there were so many she thought, dragging herself through the staring crowds.
Lips faking a neutral state, eyes fixed forward, not desiring to look elsewhere, she reached out a trembling hand to open the door. Her steps seemed to echo in on her from the lonely corridor. As she passed identical doors and lockers, trying to remember the way, she crossed and uncrossed her fingers, occasionally picking at a piece of dry skin by her thumbnail, her eyes alternating between the steel-edged clock on the wall, and the door, above which the dreaded sign RECEPTION hung.
"Well," Ella started to say, breaking the uncomfortable silence, but she was interrupted by the long sonorous sound of the first bell. All she could say, before the crowd, surging forward from the entrance, swept her away, was that she would meet Mel at reception at the start of morning break.
Mel stood there, arms trembling from shoulders to fingers. Slowly she rotated to face the large, slightly intimidating door. Extending her quivering hand to the door, she grasped the handle and hastily flung the door open.
The room itself was friendly looking. Her legs encouraged her body closer and closer to the large front desk, behind which sat a plump lady, smiling gently. Breathe, just breathe she told herself, shuddering.
"Hi..." Mel began, badly.
"Hello, how can I help you?" replied the receptionist.
Think Mel, think. "Ummm... Well, I'm new and I don't know where to go, as it's my first day and I... I..." she struggled, snatching at the edge of the desk for support.
"Just wait there," the receptionist directed sympathetically, "Someone will be here for you shortly." 'Here for me', great, that sounded really promising, she contemplated as she sunk into a soft backed chair.
There she sat, five minutes later, hunched over, elbows propped on her knees, fingers coiling the front tresses of her hair, her feet drumming along to the beat of the large regulation clock on the wall above her. Figures wandering past outside didn't even bare a glance in her direction, but she scrutinised them meticulously. Another five minutes later, however, she still sat. This time she was leaning back chewing at a jaggedly cut fingernail, continuously checking the clock against her watch. Feet no longer drumming, muscles tensed, incessantly crossing and uncrossing her legs, she started, as a shadow sloped towards the door. The handle quivered and quaked before the door finally opened and in stepped Ella!
"Come on Mel, I've got to 'show you around'," she practically sung with glee.
As they exited reception, Mel's shoulders relaxed. She held her head high and sauntered along beside Ella, watching the various parts of the school she was being shown. Only one thought resided in her head: the worst of it was well and truly over.
Read the other winning stories:
| Trollett Towers | Callum Murdo MacDonald and the Pinkish Blotch |
The Magic Place |
Mel is © Amy Hunter-Pescetto 2004
Reproduced here by permission of Amy Hunter-Pescetto, who asserts her moral right to be identified as the author of this work.