Things We Have in Common. Tasha Kavanagh

      Chocolate Hobnobs

      The first time I saw you, you were standing at the far end of the playing field near the bit of fence that’s trampled down, where the kids that come to school along the wooded path cut across.

      You were looking down at your little brown straggly dog that had its face stuck in the grass, but then you looked up in the direction of the tennis court, your mouth going slack as your eyes clocked her. Even if I hadn’t followed your gaze, I’d have known you were watching Alice Taylor because she had that effect on me too. I used to catch myself gazing at the back of her head in class, at her silky fair hair swaying between her shoulder blades as she looked from her book to the teacher or said something to Katy Ellis next to her.

      At that moment she was turning to walk backwards, saying something to the girls that were following her, the sketchbook she takes everywhere tucked under her arm. She looked so light and easy, it was like she created space around her: not space in the normal sense but something else I can’t explain. Even in our green school uniform it was obvious she was special.

      If you’d glanced just once across the field, you’d have seen me standing in the middle on my own, looking straight at you, and you’d have gone back through the trees to the path quick, tugging your dog after you. You’d have known you’d given yourself away, even if only to me.

      But you didn’t. You only had eyes for Alice.

      I looked round to see who else had spotted you. There were loads of kids on the field, but they were all busy with each other, footballs or their phones.

      I looked back at the windows of the school building. I thought I’d see a teacher behind one of them, fixed on you, like I know your game, sunshine. I saw Mr Matthews walk past the History window reading from a piece of paper and Miss Wilcox one floor down in the staffroom talking to Mrs Henderson.

      Then the bell went.

      I didn’t see your reaction because Robert pushed Dan into me, shouting ‘He wants you, Doner – don’t deny him,’ then staggered backwards, laughing as Dan swore at him and tried to get him in a headlock.

      I caught a glimpse of your blue jacket disappearing between the branches, though. The saying Saved by the bell came into my head because Dad always used to say it, and as I walked back across the field, I whispered the words slowly – ‘Saved by the bell, saved by the bell’ – even though I knew that you weren’t saved by anything, that you’d be back.

      My name’s not really Doner. It’s Yasmin. It’s just Doner at school – which is hilarious by the way because it’s short for Doner Kebab and as well as being overweight I’m half Turkish. It used to be plain ‘Fatty’ at junior school, then ‘Blubber-Butt’ when I came to Ashfield, or ‘Lesbo’ till Mel Raynor and Natalie Simms started publicly making out, making lesbianism à la mode, whatever that means.

      Anyway, I didn’t see you at school the following day, even though I watched for you. At break and lunch I sat against the Games Hut where all the PE stuff like nets and balls and bibs is kept. I could see the whole of the fence that runs alongside the wooded path from there. I ate the chocolate Hobnobs I buy every morning on the way to school, chewing slowly and trying to ignore the fact that my bum was going numb from the concrete, scanning the trees for a bit of your jacket and listening for the kind of bark your little dog might make.

      I was vigilant, and I wouldn’t have missed you because of being distracted by friends because I don’t have any. People look at me and think the same as I thought when I saw you: freak. So I figured, as well as feeling compelled to stare at Alice Taylor, being freaks was something else we had in common.

      English is the only classroom I go to that overlooks the playing field, so I looked out for you there too. I have to sit in the third row from the window, but I could just about see the fence at the bottom of the field if I sat up, except that it was difficult to look without being obvious about it – which I was, because Robert threw a screwed-up piece of paper that hit my ear, and because a few minutes later Miss Frances, my English teacher who’s really a Borg, said ‘Yasmin’ in that sarcastic tone teachers use just to waste everyone’s time because they know you’re not listening and won’t be able to answer whatever it was they asked.

      I looked at her, rolling my biro in my fingers.

      What she was telling me with her ice-blue eyes and black triangular eyebrows was, I hate you Yasmin Laksaris and wish with all my frozen heart that you’d leave this school I have to teach in, but while you’re still here don’t think I won’t make you pay for it. What she said was: ‘Any ideas about why Robert Browning chooses

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