they were amazing. They were ours, and no matter how much we drifted apart in our later childhood years, they remained on my ceiling as a reminder of the memories we built together. Now, they reminded me of the lives that were lost that June day and of the earsplitting gunshots I heard in my head at night.
‘What Would the Community Think?’ (Cat Power, Autumn 1996)
The weekend flew by in a hazy stream of contorted nightmares and news headlines. My mum remained in her room for most of it. Occasionally I could hear her cries seeping in through the thin walls. My dad paced in front of the door trying to gather the strength to walk outside and face the judging looks and intentionally loud whispers of the patrons of his local pub, The Olde Black Lion. But he never left. His feet pounded the wooden floor, only briefly stopping to glance out the window, but he never walked out the door.
Before the panic could sink in, it was already there – my first day at my new school. Mum felt like it was too soon. She was worried it would come across as disrespectful to the community and those in mourning. What did they want from me? Did they want me to complete Charlie’s life sentence? They couldn’t have him – he was smart enough to concoct his own exit plan – so they’d take the next best thing, his brother. An eye for an eye. His blood runs in my veins too so I must be guilty along with him.
I wanted to leave this house more than anything, but my stomach churned just thinking of setting foot outside the front door. My first day at Knightsbridge Academy had thankfully been kept out of the papers, for my first week anyway. But Pembrook was a small town and in small towns people talk too much. That fact had become glaringly obvious over the past couple of months.
The cereal bowl sat full in front of me, the spoon still clean. I picked it up, scooping out the contents into the rubbish bin and placed it down into the sink, being careful not to wake my dad who snored on the living room sofa. He had slept there since it had happened, although the irreparable distance between them had grown long before the shootings.
I glanced up the stairs briefly – no one to say goodbye to. As I reached for my school bag, my hands trembled and a warm sensation filled my insides. I couldn’t bring this bag today. This was the oversize rucksack that had cradled my body through my Pembrook years. This was a bag with a past, with an emotional baggage tag labelled ‘heavy’. I slid it gently off the bannister and walked with it to the bin. Fabric and contents swaying gently over the lid, I opened the lid and smashed it down deep inside.
Sliding a hand into my trouser pocket, I looped some loose lining fabric around my finger like an infant searching for its comfort blanket, and stepped through the front door. A mix of rain and light mist trickled from the sky leaving a faint glistening on the grass. Snow would fall from that very sky in only a few months. That was Charlie’s favourite time of the year. He loved painting the streets blanketed in soft white. I wondered if his paintings were still in the art room. I bet they were dry by now, but there would be no one to bring them home.
Pushing away memories of the winters past, I hurried down the street to the bus stop on the corner of Windham Drive. I had been told in the orientation letter that bus 09 would go right to the new school. Seventeen miles and 40 minutes later, the bus flew past the tall black gates of Knightsbridge Academy.
‘Excuse me?’ I leaned forward and loudly cleared my throat. ‘This is my stop,’ I called out. No response. I stood up and shuffled to the front, my legs wobbling underneath me as I shifted from side to side. ‘That was my stop,’ I said again, pointing to the school in the rear-view mirror.
As the brakes suddenly slammed on, my body hurtled forwards, hitting a silver pole. The driver turned around to face me. ‘Sorry, didn’t see you sitting way back there…’
When I looked up, I saw him staring at me with wide eyes and a gaping mouth, like I was an animal at the zoo. Interesting, amusing, but unpredictable and therefore dangerous. Does everyone know my face? Do I look like my brother?
Scrambling to my feet, I hurried down the stairs hearing the squeak of my soles on the wet rubber lining. When my shoes touched the slippery concrete, I felt the urge to look back. I couldn’t help it. I needed to know. So I did.
‘My neighbour’s grandson went to Pembrook Academy,’ he said, his eyes suddenly dark. Then he spat on the steps of the bus, shut the doors and drove away, leaving me standing there in my shame and confusion.
By the time I got to Knightsbridge Academy, it was 8.40am. I would need to leave earlier the next day. Maybe if I walked a little further from the house I could take a different bus. I would wear my hood up over my face so the new driver wouldn’t recognise me. Who knows how he would be connected – maybe his daughter’s friend went to Pembrook Academy, or his postman’s nephew taught there. Everyone seemed to be just one more piece of this intricate puzzle, waiting for their turn to be noticed and slotted into the big picture.
When I got to school, the main doors were already locked. I had to use a buzzer to get inside and when I did I had to go through a metal detector like at the airport. Knightsbridge Academy had clearly stepped up its security since June. Or, perhaps it was only installed after they heard of my enrollment here.
A stout secretary with curls on her head and above her upper lip greeted me in the office with a forced smile. ‘Samuel Macmillan?’
‘Yeah,’ I said, gripping the strap on my bag until the fabric pinched my palm.
‘You’re late.’
I nodded, noticing how her voice quivered slightly when she addressed me. Was she scared of me?
Quickly averting her eyes, she handed me a white envelope. ‘School begins promptly at 8.05am but since this is your first day, we’ll give you a pass. Here is your timetable. English has already started so show your late pass to the teacher. Room 212.’
Beyond the office, the building opened up into a large hall with high ceilings. Peach tiled flooring stretched out and disappeared under several closed doors that were interspersed around the hall. The ceiling was comprised of long glass panels angled into a peak, like the steeple of a church. The walls were dotted with framed awards, certificates and the occasional art project. It didn’t look much different to Pembrook Academy.
Seeing a student come out of one of the classroom doors, I hurried towards him. ‘Excuse me, where’s the stairs?’
He opened his mouth to respond then his eyes darted to the white envelope in my hand, and my name written in bold font across it.
‘Find it yourself,’ he said, gently pushing past me.
After several loops around the hall, I finally found the stairwell. Peering into classrooms, the envelope already damp from my sweaty hands, I tiptoed down the hall on the second floor. Each step mimicked the wild pounding of my heartbeat and every room I passed seemed to shift towards me, as if the walls were slowly closing in. By the time I had reached room 212, I had sweated through my T-shirt and my flannel shirt. My breathing was heavy and loud, and alarmingly erratic. I hadn’t realised that I would be this nervous. If I had, I probably wouldn’t have left the house.
Palm slick on the shiny silver doorknob, I opened the door and cautiously stepped over the threshold. Fourteen heads instantly spun around to look at me. I opened my mouth to weakly announce myself, but the teacher stopped me.
‘We’ve been
