“But it’s not.” Jasmine insisted. “It’s not real…
“You understand, though, why we’ve spoken to you?” asked Mr Gotham.
Jasmine nodded, her face flushing crimson again. “I make things up, and I write them down. They’re stories and that’s all they are.”
“Is there anything else you’d like to talk about, Jasmine?” asked Mrs Fitchling, but Jasmine had no intention of talking. She shook her head. “Then you just need to know that we’re always here.”
Jasmine nodded and grabbed her bag from the floor. “Can I go?”
“You can go now,” said Mr Gotham, nodding.
She slung her bag on her shoulder and stood up, pushed the chair back under the desk and began walking out of the room. Jasmine had no intention of talking to anyone, least of all anyone as unintuitive as Mrs Fitchling, but she turned and smiled sweetly at the woman.
“If I had any real problems, I’d find you, Miss, like I did with Tommy’s problems.”
Mrs Fitchling beamed and then frowned, and disappeared behind the classroom door as Jasmine closed it behind her.
Jasmine released a scornful laugh; the school was so intuitive that several pieces of fiction had raised alarm, while her warning of bullying was completely disregarded. Jasmine didn’t trust the school to find a plaster to put on her finger, even less a psychiatric overhaul.
Still seething after her encounter with her teachers, Jasmine stomped down the corridor. She smarted over her English teacher’s comments. Her stories were always filled with imagined reality, but surely that’s what writing at her age was all about? She brushed past a group of lads, who objected noisily to her glare. She shrugged, spun round and scowled in their direction ignoring their jeers. She analysed her last story in her head as she thundered on and mumbled under her breath. “How is writing about abuse in the depression, in the deep south of America, real life?” She shook her head. “Never been to America, and… never in the Thirties!” She chuckled to herself.
Her boots echoed and year eights ducked sideways to avoid confrontation. She barged through the doors beside the cafeteria and the spring breeze wafted her hair. The warmth of the sun beat down upon her head and she swung round the corner to her bench.
Two sixth-formers took up most of the bench, tangled in an elaborate clinch. She stopped and stared as an exasperated sigh escaped her mouth. The couple were lost in their own world and Jasmine watched his hand smooth across the girl’s thigh. Jasmine stifled the growl that rose in her throat, turned abruptly, and stamped away, hooking her bag back up onto her shoulder.
“No respecter of persons!” she muttered as she scanned the playground and field for somewhere to eat, on her own, in privacy. Irritation bubbled as there were no empty benches, no quiet corners, no vacant walls, nothing. No walls…actually, she shifted her weight onto her other foot, there was a low wall, down by the sports equipment shed, and no one had claimed it. Jasmine set off across the grass.
She soon discovered why no one was about. The dingy shed, full of sports apparatus and paraphernalia, stank. It stank to high heaven and Jasmine allowed her growl to boil over. She stamped her foot, and glared out across the field again, but there was nowhere less populated than where she was. Moving to the far end of the wall, she sat down, rubbed her forehead and took her lunch from her bag. Annoyance penetrated her sandwiches and they tasted bland and dry.
The stench was soon too unpleasant and Jasmine packed up her remaining lunch, cursing Mrs Fitchling for ruining her food, and got up off the wall. Maybe the sixth-formers had finished sticking their tongues down each other’s throats and her bench might be free once more.
She wandered back towards the main school building. Nearing the corner she heard giggles and laughter, and slowed, not wanting to walk directly into a coven of girls. The rising voice was venomous and cruel, and it piqued both her curiosity and recognition. She paused as a squeal went up on the other side of the wall.
“Oh, I know, I know!” cried a breathless voice, “We could put a bucket of water by his desk and let his hand drop in then he’ll pee his pants!”
“Don’t be stupid!” She heard the familiar voice of derision. “That only works when someone’s sleeping!”
“Then what?” asked another.
“I say we get his phone,” replied the contemptuous girl. “You can do a lot with a phone.” Jasmine recognised the voice as it continued. “Put out a rumour about his girlfriend—make his life a misery.”
Jasmine’s breath quickened as did her heart. The corner of her lip rose and her stomach rumbled. Her belly’s complaint was nothing to do with lack of food and more to do with the familiar rise of dragon fire. She flexed her fingers, clicking her joints as she futilely attempted to reign in her anger, but her feet raged forward.
She bolted round the corner and came face to face with three girls. Stella at least had the grace to look concerned, worried even.
Jasmine paused for a split second but the apprehensive expression on Stella’s face dissolved into one of self-assurance and Jasmine flew at her.
She knocked one of Stella’s cronies off balance and the other stepped backwards out of the way. “Ooof!” Stella shrieked as Jasmine’s body slammed into her and pinned her to the wall. “What the…!”
Jasmine leaned hard against her, her hand grabbing the girl’s throat, her finger and thumb squeezing Stella’s jaw. She forced the girl’s mouth shut and rammed her head against the bricks. She caught the younger girl’s arm and wrenched it up behind her back. Stella’s face drained of colour. Jasmine leaned close, as close as she could get, cheek-to-cheek, and hissed. “Don’t you ever let me catch you near my cousin again!”
“Your cous…? Who’s… your cousin?” Stella tried to speak.
“Thomas!” snarled Jasmine, “One finger near him, one word even, and I’ll be there!”
Stella tried to respond, but couldn’t move as Jasmine gripped her arm fiercely and her other arm was trapped, pressed hard against the wall.
“You hear that?” growled Jasmine. “I swear you’ll pay if you go anywhere near him, ever again.” As Stella wriggled beneath her grasp, Jasmine released her hold then crushed the girl back up against the wall, scraping her cheek against the bricks. “Did you get that? Don’t ever mess with me, not ever!”
Silent tears streamed down Stella’s face, dripping over Jasmine’s white fingers, and then Jasmine lost her grip. Hands grabbed Jasmine’s shoulders, yanking her away and words finally pierced her ears. “Jasmine, Jasmine Scott, let go, let go NOW!” Jasmine tried to spin round by thrusting back her elbows but the hands holding onto her were too tight, large hands had hold of her arms and a male voice demanded she listen.
Jasmine burned, her cheeks seared and her eyes widened in alarm. Stella dropped, sliding down the wall in front of her, shaking and crying, with blood on her fingers from her skinned cheek. Jasmine’s eyes blurred and her mind whirled with fury. Miss Honeywell wrapped her arms around the injured girl and the accusatory voices of Stella’s friends screamed through Jasmine’s head. Jasmine tried to speak, but her mouth refused to work. She growled and as Mr Harvey approached, hurrying across the playground, she squirmed and twisted beneath the teacher’s firm hold.
“Jasmine, stop!” Mr Fischer’s voice registered, but made no impression. Mr Harvey’s glare and solemnity panicked Jasmine. She fought, she kicked, and she struggled. Words flew out of her mouth, but she had no idea what she was saying. Her eyes darted wildly and the expressions of horror and revulsion on faces around her scared her.
She lost control, wrestling against her restraint, feeling her boots scrabble on the tarmac, her heels connecting with shins and her arms straining to escape. Feral cries filled her head and tears sizzled on her cheeks. Sky blurred above her and clouds, stormy clouds, obscured her view. Mr Harvey caught hold of her arm and Mr Fischer extricated himself to hold more securely to the other, and Jasmine found herself indoors.
The door was shut. Mr Fischer
stood by the window and Mr Harvey stood by the door. She couldn’t remember entering the room or sitting down and there was no way out. There was a knock on the door and Mrs Fitchling came in. She whispered to Mr Harvey, who left the room. Jasmine stared at both teachers, alternately, her eyes wide, her nose running and her shoulders shaking with juddering sobs.
Mrs Fitchling looked stern, so she turned her gaze to Mr Fischer. Mr Fischer stood with his back to the window and Jasmine couldn’t see his face because of the glare behind him, but she knew his eyes met hers. He stepped forward and pulled a chair towards her. He sat down and Jasmine winced. His hands were scratched and his cheek was red. Jasmine shivered and her eyes smarted as she realised what she’d done. He looked serious, and lifted the bottom of his trouser leg. Jasmine swallowed hard as red marks already showed up on his shins where she’d kicked him.
“I’m sorry,” she croaked, shaking her head. “I’m so sorry.”
He offered a small smile and nodded, but didn’t say anything.
“So you should be!” came Mrs Fitchling’s piqued reply.
Jasmine caught Mr Fischer’s frown at the teacher and felt even more ashamed.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“And are you sorry to Stella too?” asked Mrs Fitchling, ignoring Mr Fischer’s warning, “because she may be scarred for life after that little outburst!”
Tears coursed down Jasmine’s face.
“I think it best we don’t talk about this right now, Mrs Fitchling. Better to wait for Mr Harvey and her parents,” said Mr Fischer firmly.
Jasmine stared over his shoulder at the window. The sun shone brightly, as torrential rain filled her soul.
Mr Harvey pushed the door open and allowed Mrs Scott to step inside. Jasmine stared up at her mother and tried to stop her knees from knocking together as her feet tapped rapidly on the floor. Her mum refused to meet her eyes.
Mr Harvey glanced about the room and shared a look with Mr Fischer. “Mrs Fitchling, do you think you could cover Mr Fischer’s class? The bell’s due in about ten minutes.”
Mrs Fitchling’s face dropped into a deep-creased frown, but as she opened her mouth to speak Mr Harvey beat her to it. “It would be helpful. I think Mr Fischer’s insight into this matter would be most useful, especially as he was there when it happened and he’s Miss Scott’s form tutor.” He smiled at Mrs Fitchling and held the door open. Mrs Fitchling hesitated for a moment and then nodded, “Of course,” and walked stiffly out pulling the door closed behind her.
“Mr Fischer, again, thanks for your help. While Mrs Fitchling covers your class, you’ll need to write up your injuries and insights.”
Mr Fischer nodded, and offered Jasmine a sympathetic glance before leaving the room.
Jasmine relaxed a little and pushed back in her chair as her mum took a seat beside her.
“I’m so sorry about all of this,” began Mum shaking her head. “I don’t know what’s got into Jasmine.” She chuckled nervously. “But then I suppose all the parents say that when they’re sitting here like this!”
Mr Harvey smiled and sat down. “This is a serious matter. This is the third time we’ve had to call in your parents, Jasmine.” She wondered if she was supposed to comment during his pause. He kept his eyes on her and she waited until he continued. “The third time this term. And there was your altercation on the netball court in Miss Anderson’s class and a further notation on your file from your French teacher last year.”
“Last year?” Mum’s eyebrows rose.
“We didn’t feel it was sufficient to take any action. Her French teacher felt it must have been a bad day and didn’t want to take it further herself,” said Mr Harvey turning to her mother.
“But it was noted on her school record?” said her mum.
He nodded. “But, only for school, it won’t go any further.” He paused again and Jasmine wondered if it was for effect. “Today is different though. This school has zero tolerance to bullying.” Jasmine seethed. “I had a report this morning from Mrs Fitchling regarding Jasmine.” He looked straight at her. “She found you in a year seven classroom, threatening Stella Connor. What can you tell me about that?”
Jasmine took a deep breath. “I was looking after my cousin.”
“Tommy?” interrupted her mother.
Jasmine nodded. “He’s been bullied by Stella and her friends for ages.”
“He hasn’t said anything about being bullied?” said Mum.
Jasmine shook her head and gave a wry laugh. “Yes, thanks, that helps, Mum—did you ever think he didn’t want to admit it?”
“Jen hasn’t said anything, or Pete?”
“He’s being bullied by girls, in year seven, would you admit it if you were a boy?” she asked.
“Jasmine, what happened this morning?” asked Mr Harvey.
“She had his book and wouldn’t give it back unless he begged. So I went in to stop her.”
“And that’s when Mrs Fitchling found you?”
She nodded. “Yes, and she wouldn’t believe me!”
“Do you understand how it looked to her?”
“I do, but if anyone asks the class, they’ll tell you! You said bullying was zero tolerance, but Thomas is being bullied. That’s why I was mad at Stella!”
“And this afternoon, lunch time, what happened?” Mr Harvey asked, clasping his hands together in his lap.
“I heard them planning what they would do to Thomas next—and, and I lost my temper.”
“That’s some temper you have there.” Mr Harvey sighed. “Do you know what you did?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know! I lost it, I totally lost it!”
Mr Harvey drew in his breath and furrowed his brow. “Have you seen what you did?”
Jasmine stared at him and swallowed hard. “I…I’m not sure…”
“She has a fairly serious facial wound, quite a deep scrape across her cheek. It may scar, we’re not sure. She’s going to need to go to hospital and get the wound looked at.”
“Will there be police charges?” asked her mother.
Jasmine’s mouth dropped open in horror. “Police?”
“Any action taken outside of school will be determined by the girl and her parents. They may choose to press charges.” He flexed his hands. “Inside of school, our responsibility is the safety of our students.”
Her mother sat and crossed her legs, fidgeting with her fingers. “And Jasmine?”
“Yes, Jasmine is our responsibility too, which is actually why one of our teachers spoke to her this afternoon, just before lunch. He had a concern about her work, and wanted to check that all was okay with her.”
Jasmine interrupted. “They thought something was wrong with me, that I’m being abused or something, because of how I am at school and because of the things I wrote in my stories!”
“We have a responsibility…” Mr Harvey began.
“Because I wrote about abuse myself, so I must be being abused? I wrote about aggression and abuse, but that doesn’t mean anything. We’re studying Steinbeck, for goodness sake! It’s part of the curriculum!”
“We have a responsibility to you, to all our students, Jasmine,” he continued. “What if we missed something because we were too scared to ask?” He sighed. “The time for talking is over, Jasmine, this has gone too far. I’d like to ask you to wait outside for a moment, as I’d like to speak with your mother.”
She reluctantly got up, after staring at her mother and getting no response. She shrugged and shook her head. Outside, she rubbed her eyes and smoothed her hair away from her face then leaned against the wall.
She sighed and peered back into the office through the tiny gap at the bottom of the door’s window, beneath the gap under the blind. Her mum sat quiet and self-contained as Mr Harvey spoke, his voice only a low murmur through the door. Jasmine snorted and shook her head again.
“I can’t just stand here!” she mumbled and paced the corridor, her boots rapping against the fl
oor. She walked to the end of the corridor, where the stairwell sat behind the double doors, and back again, then continued down to the other end of the hallway. The foyer and school offices sat, with staff laughing and chatting behind the desk and security windows. She glanced back then stomped round the corner.
A door sat ajar on her left and as she passed she peered in. She stopped dead.
Miss Honeywell sat in the sick room with her arm around a girl. As Jasmine stood there, half hidden by the door, her eyes met the girl’s. The girl was small, in a pristine school uniform, but for the blood on the collar of her white blouse. She held a hand to her face, holding a white pad to her cheek. Tears stained her cheek and her hair fell to one side, out of the way. The girl flinched as she saw Jasmine and fear filled her eyes.
“Stella?” Jasmine said, her voice echoing down the empty corridor. She saw a small year seven sitting in the sick room, a vulnerable girl, and not the girl she thought she’d warned off her cousin. On her own, without her safety net of allies, she looked nervous and frightened, and Jasmine’s stomach turned.
Stella shrank into Miss Honeywell’s side and Jasmine stepped forward to fill the doorway. Miss Honeywell’s eyes bored into her and she shook her head, gently rubbing Stella’s shoulder. “You need to leave, Jasmine, now,” said the teacher.
Jasmine shook her head at the girl and caught the disappointment in Miss Honeywell’s face. As she retreated, a woman ran into the school. “Stella Connor,” she demanded, pale-faced, her hands slamming against the counter. “I’m her mother! She’s been in an accident…”
Jasmine gulped, as, upon hearing her mother, Stella ran out of the sick room and into her mother’s arms. Stella’s sobs rang out. “It’s okay, honey, I’m here. I’m here now—let me look at you…”
Jasmine turned and hurried back down the corridor. There was no swallowing the lump that sat in her throat.
Beneath the Distant Star Page 8