by Manjeet Mann
For me to sign.
Pretending to be a parent.
Pretending they can sign their name.
Pretending they can read.
Pretending to hide their shame.
Correction.
My shame.
Before I started secondary school
Ruby gave me the low-down
on every teacher.
The nice ones
the weird ones
the strict ones
the inspiring ones
the boring ones.
The classes you can mess around in and
the classes where you can’t.
Mr Geography Jones, she said,
is one of the boring ones.
She doesn’t know why he teaches,
he clearly has no passion for it.
Mr History Jones on the other hand
is one of the inspiring ones.
He bounds round the classroom
like an excited puppy.
She insisted he’d make me love history.
He won’t.
No one has
in the last five years.
Learning about king blah-blah
back in the whatever century
bores me to death.
Even with Mr History Jones
and his one-man re-enactments
of Henry VIII and all his wives.
I fail to see what makes it relevant,
how any of it relates to the present
and how any of it relates to me.
My eyelids are already feeling heavy
as I yawn through
the syllabus for the year.
The French revolution of 1789.
The European revolutions of 1848.
The Russian revolution of 1917.
There are two books we need.
The Anatomy of the European Revolutions 1848–1917
by Robert Elderidge.
And
The Art of Revolution
by Mary S. Pierce.
There are a few copies we can borrow.
My eyes fix on the small pile on his desk.
No iPhone, iPad, laptop, iMac.
Nothing worse than spending every lunchtime
on the school computer and there’s no way
I’m asking Mum for money to buy study aids.
I just can’t do it, she said the last time I asked.
Do you want to eat or do you want books?
Mr History Jones begins writing on the board
as sheets of paper are passed round the class.
The handout lands on my desk.
The words sing off the page.
A revolution.
The forcible overthrow of a government
or social order in favour of a new regime.
The anatomy of a revolution, he calls it,
and there are eight stages.
He scribbles them on the board,
simplifying each stage in one word.
We are to elaborate on each stage for homework,
prompting a collective groan
to break out around the class
just as the bell rings for lunch.
One Restlessness
Two Dissatisfaction
Three Control
Four Momentum
Five Honeymoon
Six Terror
Seven Overthrow
Eight Peace
It leaps out
over and over
as I read
down
the
page.
Overthrow
Overthrow
Overthrow
Overthrow
Overthrow.
Something stirs inside,
makes me feel
like I have
superpowers.
I continue scanning
the stages and
my eyes fix
on another word.
One word that
flips
superpower
to powerless.
Terror.
Terror.
TERROR.
There is a queue
for the books
at the end
of class.
I get the last copy
of each one
and stuff them
into my bag.
I walk out into the hall.
Revolution …
Feeling the weight of
the books on my shoulders.
The forcible overthrow …
I can’t help but feel.
A new regime …
They are whispering to me.
Me, Tara and David
sit sharing a family-sized bag of crisps.
I’m convinced he’s sitting
a little closer to Tara,
closer than he used to,
as we watch the cool girls
talking to the cool boys
in the middle of the schoolyard.
We roll our eyes
every time they scream
when a football
comes hurtling
towards them.
We laugh as they
all try to duck
and shield themselves
from getting whacked
on the head,
and the cool boys
puff out their chests
and stick their middle fingers up
at the boys playing football.
The cool girls giggle,
flick their hair
and hitch up
their skirts
a little higher.
The school bell rings
and we crease up
with laughter when
David bleats like a sheep
in their direction.
Straight after lunch,
with my kit bag
swung over my shoulder,
I head towards the minibus
taking us to King Edward’s sports field.
The private school that has it all.
Not a shipping container in sight.
It’s all tennis courts,
football pitches
and athletics track.
It’s the school we all wish
we could drop our anchor in
and be given a chance to thrive
in ways we never knew we could.
Cool girls at the back.
Everyone else,
anywhere else.
School field.
Muddy, damp, cold.
I love it.
I’m on my own,
I get transported,
I feel free.
It’s the only time
I ever really feel FREE.
Team sports don’t appeal.
Hockey at our school is like
gang warfare.
An hour of getting battered and bruised,
girls coming at me with sticks –
aiming for ankles.
But the running track …
Now …
The track is my time.
I shift my thoughts,
try and
make sense of …
stuff.
With each stride
I zoom through anger,
leap through sadness,
tear through loneliness
and
come out
the other side
newer, happier, better.
ALWAYS better
than before.
It feels like
the world
slows down.
Allowing me
to catch up
with thoughts
that usually race.
I go to places in my head
that aren’t here,
of this place,
of this time.
The lines in my head
get tangled, see.
They criss-cross,
get mixed up
.
Running makes the lines
s t r a i g h t e r.
Turns down the rage
in my stomach.
Loosens the phantom grip
on my throat.
Provides respite
from the familiar
urge to
escape.
Running
gives me a purpose.
Running
gives me a reason
to live.
On your marks.
Focus.
Get ready!
Inhale.
Set.
Exhale.
Go.
Run.
Legs rotating,
trainers striking
tarmac beneath
my feet.
Quick breaths,
sharp looks
to my left,
Sarah,
behind
for now.
To my right,
Leanne,
neck
and neck.
Heart pumping,
legs pounding,
arms propelling.
Flashes of last night.
The crying.
I stumble.
Smashed plates.
The blood.
Lines blur.
I weave
in and out
of lanes.
Almost trip
on Leanne’s ankle,
allow Sarah
an advantage
as she closes
the gap between us.
Stay in your lane, Amber!
Miss Sutton’s voice
snaps me back
to the present.
Go, Amber!
Tara shouting
from the sideline,
jumping up and down,
fist pumping the air.
Just the spark I need.
I charge myself up.
Waves of electricity
firing through
arms legs heart veins.
As I cross the finish line
FIRST.
I catch my breath,
high-five
Leanne and Sarah.
Fantastic times, girls.
All three of you impressive.
Especially you, Amber.
Thanks, Miss.
Have you been training over the summer?
No, Miss. I wish.
She raises her eyebrows.
Nods, like she’s impressed
I’ve still got it
and haven’t turned
into some slug
over the summer break.
No time for hanging around.
Two laps of the field.
Go!
Sarah and Leanne aren’t having it.
Pleading with Miss Sutton:
Need to lie down after that
two-hundred-metre sprint, Miss!
I leave the groans behind.
Start lapping up the laps,
wishing I could do this forever.
Runner’s high.
It’s
euphoria.
A cloud-nine
dreamland
that can last
for days.
Non-
stop.
Those days are
rare.
Mostly
it
sticks around
on the track
in the shower
in the changing room.
That’s about it
for it.
That’s usually
as long as it lasts.
When the school bell rings,
I start to sink
as it floats away.
Drowning as I
freestyle panic-crawl
to my estate.
Sometimes
it lingers.
Just long enough
to coax me through the front door
and swift-sprint me to
the sanctuary of my room.
It aids my invisibility.
Allows me to disappear
from the eruption of
household demands
spewing from
beer-stench breath.
I wanted to avoid this conversation
with Miss Sutton.
I wanted to avoid
having to
explain,
lie
and
make excuses.
No such luck.
Your time has improved. Keep that up and it’s enough to get us to the finals of the ESAC. You have a chance of being picked for the under-seventeen British team. I’ve looked at last year’s winning times for the two-hundred metre track and you could beat it, Amber. Do you hear what I’m saying? Don’t let last year’s disappointment hold you back.
I can’t compete this year, Miss.
Why? You’re our star runner!
I shrug.
Look down.
Kick my heels
into grass.
You’ve got a shot at being on the British team, to compete internationally.
Do you know what that could mean for your future?
Don’t you want that?
I shrug, thinking I should
have run slower.
Thinking about how much
I didn’t want to have
this conversation.
It’s not up to me.
I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t encourage my best student to fulfil her potential.
I can’t, Miss. My dad said after last year’s championships that was it.
What about your mum?
She … she tried. But it’s no good.
I’m sorry, Amber, I’m having trouble understanding.
Of course she is.
Because, in Miss Sutton’s
privileged world,
we exist on the same
level playing field.
It’s just his way, Miss.
There’s only one other athlete I’ve taught who’s shown the same talent as you. You know who I’m talking about …
Yes, Miss. Sorry, Miss.
I glance up momentarily.
She looks all hopeful,
like comparing me to Allie Reid
is all it’ll take
to reverse decisions
that are out of my control.
I don’t know what to say. I’m so surprised, I wasn’t expecting this at all.
That’s the problem with privilege.
If you have it,
it can be hard to imagine
why others can’t live as freely as you.
Like I said, not up to me, Miss.
But I thought you wanted to be a professional athlete. What happened to that dream? This could help get you there.
I catch a fleeting look of frustration
sweeping across her face.
That’s the problem with privilege.
If you have it,
the world is your oyster.
Become, do and have
whatever you please.
I keep looking down.
I kick my heels
into grass.
Notice the sole
of my left trainer
breaking free
from the toe.
Flapping like a
giant mouth
doing the talking
I can’t.
I try and hide it,
kicking toe into grass,
but I’m too late.
Sign of a great athlete. A well-worn trainer. We might have some in lost property if that helps.
No, it’s fine. My mum’s buying me new ones.
Both our cheeks
flush red.
I don’t know
which of us
is more embarrassed.
I’ll write a letter to your parents explaining why we need you on the team.
I’m so disappointed
of this idea.
I don’t think that will help, Miss.
The county team managers had their eye on you last year.
They all said you had great promise. We can’t give up!
That’s the thing about privilege.
Those that have it
never fear resistance.
The English Schools’ Athletics Championships.
One of the largest athletics events
in the world.
Nearly all Olympic athletes
have come up through this route.
County team managers scout for the most
promising athletes during the competition.
It is up to them who goes through to the next round.
First you compete in the inter-school games –
the best athletes make it to regional finals.
If you win at regionals you are chosen to
compete at county level and the
honour of being best in the country
in your chosen sport.
Miss Sutton first mentioned it
in Year Eight, after sports day.
I won the school medal for the
one AND two hundred metres.
That’s when she told me about
Allie Reid.
Olympic athlete.
One and two hundred
metres track.
She won gold in the
Commonwealth Games,
the World Championships
and
she’s competed
in the Olympics.
Also,
we share
the same initials.
A. R.
Amber Rai.
Allie Reid.
Miss Sutton coached her.
Said she sees
the same spark
in me
that she saw
in her.
We both
come ALIVE
on the track.
You’re not a little girl any more.
You’re fifteen, nearly sixteen.
You are a woman.
Women don’t run round fields
in little shorts
for the world to stare at.
We allowed you too much freedom.
It ends.
Now.
And when Mum
took my side
he slapped her so hard
she had a bruise for two weeks.
There’s no dream
worth fighting for
if it results in that.
I said, Sorry.
She said, It wasn’t your fault.
But it was,
is,
so now
the dreaming stops.
I missed out on a medal
at last year’s
county championships.
Everyone said it was
bad luck and so close.
They said,
Next time, it’ll be your turn.
I guess I’ll never know.