All the Small Things

So, naturally, I got teased for my MSN name. I mean, all boys school? Calling yourself a fairy?
Er, hello?
Not gonna work.

Now, September is rolling on, like a combine harvester that bears its hallmark, (wow. I like that. Essay, anyone?) and we’re all going back to school. I dwelled on this fact as I fed the dog toast.
There was a sound like a car crash and Davie walked into the room.

“Arrive by Lambo?” I asked, still eating toast.

“What?”

“Don’t worry. And I’m going in a few minutes.”

“Whatever.”

You see, this is where I don’t understand my brother. I’m in my blazer and tie (yes,, now be quiet) actually willing to make an effort during my GCSE years and he’s still in his boxers.

“I’m serious. Scotty’ll be here soon.”

Cueing that, Scotty knocked on the kitchen window.
I looked over and he waved like the queen.
He does that.

“Bye, Davie!”

Grunt.

“So why is your brother standing in what is clearly your kitchen in boxers several sizes too big for him?” Scotty leapt over a stone.

“He just woke up. He has this thing about wearing pyjamas.” I rubbed the bridge of my nose.

“But I’m assuming anyone whose brother wears Hello Kitty jammies may have some kind of mortal
fear?”

“Scotty, be quiet.” I gave him a friendly hit with my bag.

“Oww! Bugger it, Fe!”

We stopped to let a trickle of first years run by into the school gates.

“Bless ‘em. Such dedication to the job. How long will it be before they’re dangling from coat pegs by
their knicker elastic?”

“And robbed.”

“Indeed.” Scotty found a wall and stood on it. “Hang on to your calculators, boys! Guard them with your
life!”

Many, me included looked at him oddly.

“What? Bit of friendly advice for the future.”

I sighed. “Oh joy. Another year of cut throat hierarchy and failed sports teams.”

“It could be worse. You could have your teeth kicked in by the football team. This is a language
college. No-one cares. Unless you’re simultaneously writing Latin and Greek with separate hands or
getting the French teachers into bed, you’re a lost cause.”

“Scotty! Fe! Over here!”

Jamsie’s voice floated from over the courtyard. He was sitting on Rhys.

“Hey guys!”

“Honestly, they get smaller every year” Ollie tittered disapprovingly.

“Yeah, you too Ols, but ya don’t hear us complaining.”

“Shup. And why do they run everywhere? I was half an hour late for Latin prep once because I couldn’t
find the bloody place and McFarlane didn’t care.
Ollie flicked his fringe out of his eyes.
Then he broke out a Lion bar.

This was too much for me.

“Put it away, Young! You’re reminding me of better times!”

“I have to eat! I’m growing!”

Benji, Scotty, Matthew Harris, Toby, Rhys and I all turned and looked at him in a weirdly synchronised manner.

Mattie snorted. “I wouldn’t have noticed.”

“Shup, it’s true. Grew an inch over the summer.”

I find this hard to believe.

“Are you sure you weren’t holding you tape measure an inch off the ground or, I dunno, standing on a
nun or something?” I suggested helpfully.

From six people away, Rhys mouthed ‘standing on a nun?’ with a slight trace of WTF? in his face.

Ollie stopped dead. “No! Guys! Serious! I have short man disease. Maybe. I know I’m vertically
challenged.

“Alright mate, keep yer wig on! We’re only joking and”- Toby’s entire face then went slack.
(Not attractive).
“Is that who I think it is?”

Everyone went synchronising again and looked in the general direction Toby was being shocked in.

“Oh my God it is!”

“Fleet Feet Engels!”

“The man….” Someone began

“..the myth….” Some other loser continued

“.. the legend” we all finished together.

“Seriously though, I can’t see him.”

“Felix! Look, over there, with The Davis.”

Mattie stuck a bitten nail towards some lockers to the left of him. I took my chance and leapt on his
back.

“Ow! Felix, that the hell?”

“I can’t see!”

I couldn’t, as well. I could see sixth formers, year sevens with middle partings and bags big enough to
carry each other in and…

Ohmyholymotherfuckingmotherofchristthejesuslord, that’s Angel Engels?