by , Sammy J;
For Heidi
The night before his first day of high school, Justin Monaghetti discovered he was a loser.
This came as quite a shock to him. At 6.43 pm he had just been an ordinary twelve-year-old boy. He’d had an ordinary face, an ordinary name, and an ordinary chess piece that he carried in his pocket for good luck.
But at 7.07 pm, after the dinner plates had been cleared away, his parents delivered the news.
‘Justin,’ his dad said, ‘there’s no easy way to tell you this.’
‘We were going to wait a few more years,’ continued his mum, ‘but it just feels cruel to keep it a secret.’
Justin gulped. Was his mum having a baby? Or – worse – was his dad having a baby? He stared down at his empty placemat while his father nervously cleared his throat.
‘Son, you are a loser.’
Justin blinked.
‘Before you say anything, we want you to know that we love you,’ his mum jumped in. ‘And we will always love you, but it’s important you know the truth.’
His dad nodded. ‘And we want to reassure you that losers can still enjoy a very good quality of life. You just have to … err …’ He looked at Justin’s mum for help.
‘Manage it,’ she said.
‘That’s right,’ said his dad. ‘Take your grandfather, for example. He was a huge loser, but he still lived until the ripe old age of sixty-two. We even got a photo of him smiling once.’ He gestured to a black-and-white photograph hanging on the wall.
‘That’s actually a grimace,’ said Justin’s mum. ‘The flash hurt his eyes.’
‘The point is,’ Justin’s dad said, turning back to him, ‘you come from a long line of losers. It’s sort of … ah …’
‘Your destiny,’ his mum finished.
His dad nodded again. ‘That’s right. Destiny. And at primary school, these things don’t seem to matter so much. But at high school, well, it’s good to … um …’
‘Know your place,’ offered his mum, squeezing Justin’s shoulder. ‘Love, we know this isn’t the best news to receive. And we’ve seen how excited you are about starting Year Seven.’
‘Practically filled the Officeworks trolley with stationery, didn’t you, kiddo?’ His dad punched Justin playfully on the arm before descending into a coughing fit.
‘But that’s why we need to tell you this, darling,’ his mum continued. ‘So you don’t go getting your hopes up.’
‘Don’t get us wrong, high school can be a lot of fun – for some people,’ his dad spluttered, fishing a cough lozenge out of his shirt pocket. ‘But for losers, well, it’s more like … ah …’
‘Hell on earth,’ his mum concluded.
Justin’s dad was busy trying to unwrap his cough lozenge. The paper wasn’t coming loose. After a momentary struggle, he looked to Justin’s mum.
‘Darling, would you mind passing the scissors?’
‘Only if you don’t cut yourself like last time. We don’t need another hospital visit.’ She plucked a pair of scissors from the kitchen bench and slid them across the table. Justin’s dad held the lozenge up to the light, grimaced, and began snipping the paper off in tiny pieces.
‘Any questions, son?’
Justin sat in silence. Yes, he had questions. Heaps of questions! Like, what on earth just happened? How did his universe turn upside down in five short minutes? Couldn’t they have just told him his dad was having a baby instead?
Justin looked at his father, who was still struggling to free the lozenge, and decided he wasn’t equipped to answer such questions. Instead, he kept it simple.
‘Have I always been a loser?’
His mum glanced briefly at his dad, who kept on snipping as he spoke. ‘Since you were about two years old, I suppose. Isn’t that right, dear?’
Justin’s mum nodded sympathetically. ‘You certainly didn’t have a winning vibe as a toddler. But it was around Grade Three when it became clear you were destined for failure.’
‘When you started carrying that silly chess piece around with you,’ his dad added.
Justin bristled. ‘But that’s my lucky pawn.’
‘Well, it’ll need to work a lot harder from now on,’ said his mum gently. ‘Luck doesn’t really run in this family.’
As if on cue, Justin’s dad accidentally snipped his finger with the scissors and let out a high-pitched squeal as blood began spraying across the table.
His mum sighed. ‘I’ll fetch a bandaid. Justin, love – wrap a hanky around your dad’s finger, would you?’
Justin pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and reached across the table, bundling it awkwardly around his father’s hand. When he looked up, his dad’s eyes were fixed on him in desperation.
‘Justin, listen to me. If you want to survive high school, you need to protect yourself. Keep your head down. Blend in with the crowd. It’s only six years. And then another few, if you go to university. Actually, just keep your head down for the rest of your life. But pop it up occasionally to check for enemies.’ He winced in pain. ‘Don’t hold it so tight.’
Justin loosened his grip. ‘What sort of enemies?’
‘Bullies. Bosses. Real estate agents. You’ll find them wherever you go. And you can never escape them. Trust me, I’ve tried. You can change schools, change jobs, change towns. But you can’t change your destiny.’
At that moment, Justin’s mum returned with a bandaid and began wrapping it around his dad’s finger. Justin slumped back in his chair.
It’s not true, he thought. I’m nothing like my dad. And I’m nothing like my grandfather.
He stared at the light on the ceiling until it hurt his eyes, then turned away with a grimace.
‘Now, darling, you’re likely to experience a sense of loss, followed by denial, then anger,’ said his mum soothingly. ‘But the quicker you can work through those emotions, the sooner you’ll arrive at a state of …’
‘Acceptance!’ proclaimed his dad, brandishing his bandaged finger.
His parents grinned at Justin, as if the last ten minutes had never even happened. Justin stared back at them, wishing that was the case.
‘That reminds me,’ said his mum, reaching under the table. ‘We got you a gift for your first day of high school.’ She handed Justin a parcel wrapped in cellophane.
‘Wedgie-proof underpants, darling. Just for you.’
‘German-made,’ said his dad proudly. ‘Reinforced around the buttocks. I wore these well into my thirties. Hopefully you won’t need them, but you never know. Wedgies are making a bit of a comeback from what I hear.’
‘Although it’ll probably start with spitballs,’ said his mum. ‘That’s what they did to you, isn’t it dear?’
‘That’s right,’ replied his dad. ‘Spitballs in Year Seven, shin-kicking in Year Eight, wedgies in Year Nine, and then …’ His face became hollow.
Justin’s mum put a hand on her husband’s shoulder. ‘Shhh. No need to talk about Year Ten. We don’t want to frighten the poor boy.’
‘You’re right,’ his dad agreed. ‘Anyway, best you get some sleep. Big day tomorrow!’ With that, he scraped the last bit of paper off his cough lozenge, popped it into his mouth, and promptly began to choke.
Justin trudged upstairs to his bedroom, counting the steps as he went. Then he threw his new underpants on the floor, flopped onto his bed, and plucked his lucky pawn from his pocket.
Was it true? Was he a loser? He thought back over primary school. Sure, he’d once stepped in wet cement and spent four hours calling for help before he was finally rescued by the receptionist. And
sure, he’d once split his trousers open during PE and had to hold them together with bulldog clips for the rest of the day. And sure, he spent most lunchtimes in the library playing chess – but how was that a bad thing? Wasn’t everyone in the world special, in their own unique way?
His lucky pawn stared back at him. It wasn’t equipped to answer such questions.
And so, at 7.18 pm the night before his first day of high school, Justin Monaghetti made a promise to himself.
‘Tomorrow, I’ll forge my own destiny,’ he whispered.
‘I’ll make new friends and learn new things. And there won’t be a spitball in sight.’
The first spitball landed on Justin’s head at 9.47 am.
Can you remember your first day of school? Did you feel nervous? Anxious? Terrified? If so, congratulations! That means you're a fully functioning human being. That feeling – of being totally, utterly, gut-wrenchingly unprepared – is perfectly normal. We feel it when we’re born, we feel it when we start school, and it’s safe to say that adults feel it, too. The truth is, nobody in the history of the world has ever actually been ready for anything. Kids, queens, and presidents; they all just turn up and hope for the best.
Justin Monaghetti turned up to Mount Willow Secondary School hoping for the best, but fearing the worst.
KEEP OFF THE LAWN, said a sign on the gate.
KEEP OFF THE GATE, said a sign on the lawn.
Justin felt a knot in his stomach. He waved his parents goodbye, adjusted his German underpants, and joined the throng of students swarming towards assembly.
As he walked, Justin scanned the faces around him. He didn’t recognise anyone. His only friend from primary school was going to Pine Valley High. Justin had tried desperately to enrol there, but the lady on the phone had told him his house was ‘outside the catchment zone’. Justin had fought back tears and said her heart was outside the catchment zone, at which point she’d hung up on him.
Justin arrived at the school hall. He took a breath, pushed the door open, and nearly burst an eardrum.
Seven hundred high-school students are loud enough at the best of times, let alone when they’re all talking over each other in a cavernous hall. The noise was deafening; Justin felt like he’d stumbled straight onto an airport runway. He stepped down the aisle with his fingers in his ears, as seven hundred jumbo jets roared all around him.
The Year Sevens were sitting up the front. Justin perched himself on a seat, trying to blend in with the crowd. So far, so good. If blending in was an Olympic sport, Justin Monaghetti would have won gold. He took comfort from this. Even at primary school, when kids called him names, they tended to go with ‘Justin Mona-spaghetti’, or other equally idiotic options. They never made fun of his face though – it had, as far as he could tell, no distinguishing features. Dark brown hair, light brown eyes. If pushed, you could say his nose was a tiny bit big, but apart from that Justin’s face was practically insult-proof. Which suited him fine.
The jumbo jets gradually stopped roaring as a thin, long-legged, pointy-faced man marched onto the stage. He looked like he’d been created entirely out of straight lines; there wasn’t a curve to be seen.
‘Welcome, students,’ he boomed into the microphone. ‘And may I say a particular welcome to all our new students in Year Seven. Let’s give them a thunderous Mount Willow round of applause.’
A half-hearted smattering of applause echoed around the hall. It didn’t feel very welcoming to Justin.
‘For those unaware, my name is Dr Featherstone. For those unaware, I am your principal. And for those unaware, you are very lucky to have me at this school.’
Justin heard a groan coming from the older students behind him. He suspected Dr Featherstone had delivered this speech before.
‘I arrived here ten years ago to find this school in ruins. Weak, malnourished students. Tired, crumbling facilities. But did I run?’
He paused for effect, then repeated his question. ‘Did I run?’
Several hundred voices responded, ‘No’.
Featherstone continued. ‘Did I hide?’
‘No,’ groaned the students.
‘That’s right. I got to work. I saw problems, and I fixed them. And in a few short years, what did I do?’
‘You turned this school around,’ replied every student in the hall – except the Year Sevens, who didn’t know the script yet.
‘I TURNED THIS SCHOOL AROUND!’ bellowed Featherstone, jabbing a pointy finger in the air for effect. ‘From chaos to order. From disarray to discipline. Within three years of my arrival we had a brand new gymnasium, a brand new swimming pool, and a brand new tennis court. Of course, it wasn’t easy. It took courage, and tough decisions. But I fought for Mount Willow – and I am rewarded every day when I see the happy, smiling faces of my students.’
Justin glanced back at the haunted, miserable faces of the students behind him.
‘Under your seats,’ continued Featherstone, ‘you will each find a copy of the Mount Willow Secondary School Student Handbook, which sets out the rules and expectations for each and every one of you. I encourage our newest students to learn it back to front. Stick to the rules, stay out of trouble, and your time at this school will run like clockwork.’
The jet engines roared again as seven hundred students hauled their handbooks from under their seats. Justin flicked his open.
RULE 23: Students are to remain at their desks during class unless otherwise instructed.
He flicked to another page.
RULE 57: In summer, socks are to be worn no lower than 10 cm beneath the kneecap.
That rule had another one below it:
RULE 57 (b): Rule 57 does not apply during swimming lessons, or to amputees.
Justin peered around. Most of the other kids had already lost interest, but he did notice one thuggish Year Seven boy tearing pages out of his handbook and stuffing them into his mouth. Justin was fairly sure there’d be a rule against that.
Before we continue, if you have a spare piece of paper handy, tear off a small strip and place it in your mouth. A page from any school book will do, unless you do your reading on an iPad – in which case, ask your parents for the iPad receipt and use that instead. Now, chew the piece of paper over and over until it’s a small ball, and then – when nobody’s looking – spit it as far as you can. How far did it go? Forty centimetres? Fifty? Suffice to say, projecting a spitball three metres across a classroom is a pretty impressive effort.
At 9.39 am, Justin took a seat in Class 7G and looked around the room. A plastic clock hung limply on the wall. The thuggish boy who’d been eating his handbook was sitting exactly three metres behind him.
Justin opened his bag, arranged his highlighters on his desk, then placed his wooden pawn next to them for good luck.
Around him, other students were choosing their seats. A curly-haired boy with glasses smiled at Justin from across the aisle. Justin smiled back.
High school had officially started.
Now he just had to survive his first class, join the Chess Club, make some friends, and prove to his parents that he wasn’t, in fact, a loser.
At 9.45 am, a young woman bounded into the classroom with a smile. She looked half as old as Dr Featherstone, with twice as much energy.
‘Good morning, Class 7G! The G stands for me – Miss Granger – and I’m super excited to be your teacher this year. Although I hope you’ll think of me more as a friend than a teacher.’ She beamed. ‘Hands up if you’d like a jelly snake?’
Hands shot up around the classroom amid general agreement that Miss Granger was The Best Teacher in the World.
‘First things first,’ said Miss Granger, dropping a jelly snake on each desk. ‘I want this classroom to be a happy place for all. That means we support each other, care for each other, and respect each other.’
For the fir
st time that morning, Justin felt himself relaxing.
Three seconds later, he felt the first spitball hit the back of his neck.
Miss Granger continued. ‘High school can be challenging, but my class is your sanctuary.’
Two more spitballs hit Justin in quick succession. He wanted to brush them away, but his arms wouldn’t move. He felt paralysed.
‘Now, before I forget, you all need to sign up for your compulsory extracurricular activities. These will take place on a Wednesday. There’s a form on the back page of your student handbook, so please have a look and fill out your preferences.’
Another spitball landed. This one felt bigger. Justin clenched his teeth as Miss Granger’s voice faded into the distance, replaced by the sound of his heart pounding.
He had no idea how to respond.
He could turn around, but then he’d risk copping a spitball in the eye. He could tell Miss Granger, but no-one liked a dobber. Or he could stay completely frozen, keep his head down, and confront the awful possibility that his parents were right. Perhaps he was a loser, after all.
‘You’re a genius,’ whispered a voice beside him.
Justin looked up to find a girl sitting at a desk. Which was quite odd, as he was fairly certain there hadn’t been a girl there only moments earlier. Or, for that matter, a desk.
‘Pardon?’
‘Ignoring the spitballs. Brilliant move. Your enemy wants a reaction, but if you don’t respond, he has no power.’
Oh dear, thought Justin. She’s mistaken my existential crisis for a gifted battle plan.
The girl gave him a reassuring smile. She had bright eyes, freckled cheeks, and a cluster of thick, dark curls that were treating their single hair tie with very little respect.
‘Of course,’ she continued with a grin, ‘I could always punch him for you.’
‘I’m not really into fighting,’ said Justin, wincing as another spitball hit its target.
‘Fair enough. Good luck, Gandhi.’
Justin looked confused. ‘Who’s that?’