Edenham Comprehensive

When Casey walks out of the block of flats on Monday morning, she’s greeted by a less than unpleasant surprise by the gate.

“’Morning,” Reuben greets her, lifting his hand in a casual wave.

“’Morning,” she replies, stifling a yawn.

“Want to walk to school together?” he suggests.

She merely shrugs, and he falls into step beside her.

After a few minutes, her phone buzzes and, with an irritated frown, she pulls it out of her pockets, glancing carelessly at the screen. Nobody texts her. Not any more.

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Snorting with derision, she replaces her phone in her pocket. Stupid phone tariffs, tricking you into thinking someone cares enough about you to text you when they’re only trying to con you out of more money.

Reuben cracks a grin at the look on her face. “Hey, can I have your number?” he asks.

“Why?” she inquires, her eyebrow arched suspiciously.

“So I can prank call you in the middle of the night pretending to be a gigolo,” he replies, deadpan.

She shakes her head at him. “Hilarious.”

"I know. So why aren't you laughing?"

Pulling out her phone, she tosses it to him, taking his in return. She punches in her number and saves it in his phone before handing it back to him. Smirking, he raises his phone towards her and she cringes.

“No,” she says firmly. “No pictures.”

“But Casey,” he whines, sounding very much like a five-year-old, “I need a picture for your contact details.”

“You’ll survive,” she mutters, shielding her face with her hair.

They walk in silence for a few seconds, neither of them saying anything.

“Casey,” Reuben says suddenly, and something in his voice makes her turn. She's caught off-guard and he snaps a picture, grinning triumphantly.

She lets out a groan at her gullibility. Peering at the phone, she groans again. It looks awful; her hair is blowing around her face in windswept spikes, her face is red with the cold and she looks distinctly vulnerable, her trademark glare nowhere to be seen.

“Delete it, please,” she pleads, grabbing for the phone. He merely holds it high out of reach, and she scowls. “That’s not fair. You’re too tall.”

He smirks. “Suck it, Casey.”

“But I look awful,” she appeals.

“You look fine,” he assures her. “Besides, you can take one of me if you want.”

“Because that’s going to make me feel so much better,” she mutters, but she takes one anyway, cheesy grin and all.

“Lovely,” he says. “Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” she replies sarcastically.

They turn into the school, and as they pass each group, they fall deathly silent. Casey’s used to it by now, but Reuben finds it distinctly unsettling as everywhere he turns people stare unashamedly back at him, whispering behind their hands.

“Why are they staring at us?” he mutters nervously.

“We’re Grade 3s,” is her calm reply. “You’ll get used to it.”

Biting his lip, he follows the more confident-looking girl inside to their form room. It’s virtually empty when they get there; they barely even notice their arrival. Casey sits in her usual seat, motioning for Reuben to sit next to her.

“Why do you always come in late?” he asks curiously.

She just looks at him. “Would you want to be here any longer than you had to?”

He shrugs, acknowledging her point. Placing her bag on the table, Casey rests her head on it, looking across at Reuben and watching him intently.

He pulls out his sketchbook and a pen, flicking through it quickly. She gets a brief glimpse of blurring shades of grey and black, before he rests on a clean, off-white canvas. Absentmindedly, he starts clicking his pen, staring thoughtfully at the empty space.

“Don’t do that,” Casey says automatically.

Reuben looks up, startled, and stops clicking his pen. Realisation dawns on his face and he shuts the book abruptly, a flush entering his cheeks.

“So,” she says slowly, “you’re an artist?” He merely nods dumbly. “Cool. My artistic ability is pretty much limited to doodling on my exercise books.” She looks closely at him. “Can I see?”

He snatches it abruptly out of reach, stuffing it back into his bag quickly. “No,” he says shortly.

“Fine,” she mutters, leaning back on her chair. “Touchy, much?”

He doesn’t say anything. She looks at him curiously, but shakes her head, turning back to her own thoughts.

“Casey,” Reuben says carefully, “can I ask you something?”

She narrows her eyes. “Depends what it is.”

He bites his lip, hesitant. “Have you ever- have you ever done something you know is wrong, but gone along with it because of the pure buzz of it?”

Casey smiles grimly. “I think I know what you mean, yeah. Why?”

He nearly tells her. The confession is on the end of his tongue. But he chickens out at the last second and smiles thinly.

“Nothing,” he replies lamely. “Just wondering.”

***

Casey and Reuben’s first lesson is Chemistry. He can’t sit by her because they already have an assigned seating plan, but when it comes to the experiments, and the teacher ‘generously’ allows them to choose their own pairs, he surprises her by sitting down next to her amiably and breaking into a discussion about the different ways of increasing the rate of a chemical reaction.

The boy’s like glue, she muses as she makes her way to her next lesson of the day – P.E. – shaking her head as she goes. All the classes for each year do P.E. at the same time, and girls and boys do P.E. separately. This term the girls are indoors while the boys are outdoors. Casey doesn’t really mind; she doesn’t like P.E. at the best of times, so it really doesn’t make a difference if she’s freezing her arse off and making a fool out of herself inside or outside.

Ducking into the changing rooms, she makes her way to a free space in the corner of the room away from everybody else. Self-consciously, she slips off her shirt and skirt, pulling on the red P.E. shirt and shorts that made up their kit. It could be worse, she sighs as she sticks her feet in her trainers and ties her laces, a motion she’s performed so often she could do it in her sleep.

The teacher, a likeable enough woman called Mrs. Bodalia, arrives, register in hand. After all the names have been called, the class files out, the sporty, popular girls pushing in front of the grumbling, mumbling girls who’d rather be anywhere but where they are. Casey follows, a little bit apart from the group as always.

“Alright!” Mrs. Bodalia announces once all the girls are in the hall. “What do we want to do this week?”

Immediately, people start calling out suggestions, but Mrs. Bodalia holds up her hands and they slowly fall silent.

“Let’s go with a democratic vote,” she says firmly. “Who wants to do netball?”

A couple of girls put their hands up, but not very many. Most are still chatting, ignoring the teacher at the front.

“Miss,” someone calls, “can we do dodgeball?”

The girl who’s spoken is a perky, pretty, popular Grade 1: Nicole Weatherfield. Her suggestion is met with much enthusiasm, from everyone except Casey.

“I don’t see why not,” Mrs. Bodalia replies. “Who wants to do dodgeball?”

Virtually every hand in the class goes up. Casey’s heart sinks as Mrs. Bodalia beams. At least with netball, the risk of her getting injured by a classmate or a passing ball or falling flat on her face is minimal. With dodgeball, there’s no way she’s getting out of this without some bruises.

“That’s settled, then,” she says. “We’re doing dodgeball. Does everyone know how to play?”

Everyone nods their agreement, Casey with distinct glumness.

Mrs. O’Grady smiles. “Nicole and Georgia, you two can be captains.” She turns to the two girls who, by some extraordinary miracle, happen to be both Grade 1s. “I’ll let you pick your own teams.”

Casey’s heart sinks even further into her chest. Now she has to suffer the humiliation of being picked last. Wonderful.

But, it slowly becomes apparent to her that this may not be the case. As the class is slowly filtered into two separate groups, Casey’s finally left with one other girl: Martha Stewart. Fat, lisping, permanently red-faced Martha. She stands a little taller, hopeful; she doesn't think she’s going to be picked last. Not this time. Not next to Martha.

Georgia and Nicole look at each other instantaneously. “I want Martha!” they cry at the same time.

The two girls are left stunned. Martha’s feeling pleasantly surprised; they’re fighting over her? She can hardly believe it.

Neither, however, can Casey. Her surprise is far from pleasant, though. This revelation, that she’s lower than a fat girl with a lisp, is a major blow to her self-esteem. They must hate her more than she thought.

“You can have her,” Georgia says reluctantly, narrowing her eyes at Casey. “I’ll have the weirdo.”

The class sniggers; Mrs. Bodalia doesn't seem to hear. Casey trudges over to Georgia's team, trying to avoid the resentful glares of her team mates, and resists the urge to sigh, choosing instead to wrap her arms around herself. Nicole may be pretty and popular, but there’s one thing she isn’t: mean. Georgia is a nasty, self-serving, two-faced cow who’d smile at you one second and then turn and stab you in the back.

Casey knows this all too well, and winces at the memories. Georgia’s also fantastic at virtually every sport going, including, Casey guesses, dodgeball. She can just tell that this lesson is going to be even more excruciating than normal.

“Okay,” Georgia announces, her loud, annoying voice permeating through Casey’s protective shell. “We need a team plan. Basically, all the good people stay at the front and everyone else-” she casts a disdainful glance around, her eyes resting on Casey for a fraction of a second before moving on “-stay near the back. And for God’s sake, don’t just dodge the ball. Try and catch it too, yeah? We have to win this. We have to.” She glances round at everyone, her eyes narrowed. “You know what’ll happen otherwise.”

No one dares argue with her. Georgia is terrifying, and that’s an understatement. Casey remembers her beating up a Year Ten boy at the start of Year Seven for trying to look down her shirt. Poor boy.

“Okay, girls!” Mrs. Bodalia shouts, motioning for their attention. “I want you to lie face down on the white line, and no cheating. When I blow the whistle, run towards the centre and grab the pink ball. I’m going to enforce a few rules: you can’t hold the ball for longer than three seconds, and if you throw a ball and someone catches it, you’re out. If it hits them in the face, you’re out. We don’t want anyone fouling each other.” Her voice is stern. “This is not a place to solve your personal problems with each other.”

Casey lies down on the floor, eying the balls in front warily. They’re bright pink and – she thinks – fairly soft, so theoretically, they shouldn’t hurt too much. Theoretically. She’s not willing to bet on it, though.

“Ready? Set? Go!” The teacher blows the whistle and instantly, the girls are off, running towards the centre like their lives depend on it.

In actual fact, it does.

Georgia hurls her ball at Nicole but she dodges it gracefully and it rebounds off the back wall. As if a switch has been tripped, balls start flying everywhere. Offering up a prayer to whoever might be listening, Casey concentrates as hard as she can on not getting hit by any stray balls, stepping nimbly out of the way every time one flies in her direction.

But good fortune can only last so long. Out of nowhere, a ball flies towards her. Her eyes widening, Casey ducks, and the ball smacks into the person standing behind her. She turns around to see a fuming Georgia, glaring daggers back at her. Her eyes roar the threats she won’t dare to with Mrs. Bodalia listening as she stalks towards the ‘out’ bench, but Casey knows she’s not getting off easily.

Dread settling in the pit of her stomach, she turns back to the game. Things are going marginally well until someone miraculously catches a ball and Georgia comes running back on. The next thing Casey knows, a ball smacks into the back of her head, causing her to pitch forward.

“Sorry!” Georgia cries gleefully, running over to collect the ball and stamping on Casey’s toes in the process.

She hurls it deftly across the room and it connects with its target, causing her to whoop with delight. Giving Casey a contemptuous look, Georgia heads for a free ball lying around and throws herself back into the game.

The rest of the game continues in much the same fashion, with balls flying backwards and forwards like heat-seeking missiles. When Mrs. Bodalia finally blows the whistle, Georgia’s on her own, against five of Nicole’s team.

“Come in!” she ushers them, so everyone’s sitting around in a circle. “Very well played, girls. You stopped being so scared of the ball after a while, and really got into the game.” She smiles approvingly round at everyone. “Nicole’s team win.”

Nicole’s team breathe a sigh of relief, congratulating each other. Georgia’s face is ashen.

“But Miss,” she argues, “I never got out. Technically, we didn't lose.”

Mrs. Bodalia points apologetically to the clock. “You’ve got to get changed for your next lesson now. As it stands, Nicole’s team had more players, so they win.”

Georgia’s eyes narrow and they search for someone to blame. They finally rest on Casey, and her stomach lurches. “You,” she whispers.

“Relax, Georgia,” Mrs. Bodalia laughs. “It’s only a game. Now, back to the changing rooms.”

If you only knew, Casey thinks wistfully as she stares at her teacher’s retreating back. She hurries off after the other girls, but suddenly, strong hands grab her by the shoulders and whirl her round.

“You’re taking responsibility for this, midget,” Georgia snarls, towering over her threateningly. “I name you.”

Casey’s heart sinks, but she only nods bleakly. Snorting contemptuously, Georgia stomps off to the changing rooms, catching up with her friends.

Casey’s reluctant to go, now that she knows what’ll be waiting for her. But she has to. Her feet start moving almost of their own accord and suddenly, she finds herself back at the changing rooms. The talking ceases as soon as she steps quietly through the door, and instantly, every pair of eyes is staring right at her.

Georgia’s the first to step apart from the mob, fixing Casey with a cold, hard stare. “You know the rules, midget. You know what you have to do.”

Biting her lip to stop herself from crying out, Casey nods, unable to form comprehensible speech. She kicks off her shoes and socks, the easy part. Her fingers tug at her P.E. shirt, slipping it off her head, letting it drop to the floor and moving onto her shorts.

Finally, she’s standing in front of the female half of her year, wearing nothing but her bra and knickers. She’s sure her face is flaming; it feels it. Squeezing her eyes shut, she hugs her arms across her chest as if to protect herself, but they provide little defence against the brutal onslaught waiting to happen.

The taunting starts almost immediately, with an unfortunately familiar voice leading the way:

“Oh my God,” Georgia sneers, snickering. “Look at her. She’s so fat. Look at those thighs.”

Casey winces imperceptibly as Georgia grabs for her legs, pinching the skin between her thumb and forefinger. Others slowly join in, calling out insults and grabbing at her. But then she can feel their confidence growing and they start whipping her with their shirts, blazers, skirts – anything they can get their hands on. Someone gets out a bottle of something and empties the contents over her head.

She doesn't even react; she’s numb to the pain, to the humiliation. It’s the only way she can bear it.

But then someone kicks her and she collapses to the floor, curling instinctively into the foetal position to protect herself from the blows to her face, stomach, knees – anywhere exposed. This lot are looking for blood, and they’re going to get it.

Casey risks opening an eye, and she catches sight of Nicole on the other side of the room, cringing with disgust at what’s happening to her. She’s not alone; there are a few girls just watching, revulsion etched in every line on their faces. But they won’t try and stop it. They won’t try and do something. They won’t risk the mob turning on them.

So they just watch, silenced by their own fear.

It seems like an age later that they finally stop, culled by some invisible force none of them can name. Georgia’s the only one still going, spitting her insults by this point.

“Georgia,” Nicole says quietly.

Georgia stops momentarily, her foot hovering above Casey’s chest. For a second, Casey thinks Nicole is going to defend her, but then the other girl only sighs.

“We’re going to be late for English,” is all she says, lamely.

It’s a rescue in disguise, but it’s all Nicole can manage. Throwing a pitiful look over her shoulder that Casey misses, she follows the rest of the class out, wracked with a guilt she buries deep inside of her for fear of having to confront it.

Finally alone, Casey lets out a whimper, hugging herself because no one else will. The hum of the heating is all she can hear, offering her a gentle, sympathetic sigh, as she brings herself to a sitting position and rocks gently backwards and forwards, pain shooting in her ribs. It's only then, when she's absolutely sure she's alone, that the tears start to fall.