Metropolitan Lines Issue 2 - Brunel University

“Shall we retire to the bedroom?”
She nodded dutifully and followed
him. Before exiting the room she
turned and mouthed ‘sorry’.
I feel alone, miserable and sad.
Now, in bed, I can’t sleep. Partly
because I feel sorry for myself and
am worried about my first day back
at school tomorrow, but mainly
because I can hear them shagging.
I have never liked the first day of a
new school year and the thought of
a brand new class is always
daunting.
Three: Class Rules
The school gate has received a
fresh lick of blue paint during
the 6 weeks I have been away and
the wisteria over the entrance is
slowly shedding its spongy summer
leaves. The staff room is humming
with talk of expensive holidays, new
cars, and new homes. I have
nothing to say; over the summer
break I have done zilch but put on
10 pounds and watch TV. I scurry
to the corner of the room and sit
with my tea and biscuits avoiding
the gaze of everyone.
“ Good morning, Lindsey, have
a nice break?”
I know the voice before I see the
face.
“ Lovely, yourself?” I ask, not
really wanting to hear the answer.
“Wonderful, wonderful. David
proposed in Dubai and the sale
went through on the 4-bed in
Chalfont. So not a lot really.” She
trails off to a titter. I look up at the
fresh blonde highlights of the
bobbing head above me and realise
that I haven’t answered.
“That’s great for you, how
fantastic”. I try to say the words
without sarcasm.
“I know, it’s a dream come true.”
She walks off in the direction of
another sucker willing to hear her
‘wonderful’ news. I remember the
days in college when I helped her
pass her exams. Now, she has been
promoted over me, is marrying a
music industry mogul, and has a
lovely house in the suburbs. Not
that I’m envious. I, on the other
hand, haven’t had a proper
boyfriend in three years, live in a
rented flat, and am professionally
overlooked. I have a feeling the day
is set to get worse.
My new classroom is bigger than
my last one, and is flooded with
light from a large window that
overlooks the school playing field.
As yet the walls are white and
empty, awaiting decoration. I barely
have a minute of contemplation
before the room is heaving with
boisterous 8 year olds. I enjoy the
happy hubbub. On first impression
they don’t seem like a bad bunch.
The girls are chatting in intimate
groups and the boys are playfully
kicking one another. But one boy in
particular is standing completely
alone. Sam has a reputation
throughout the
school as being
disruptive in
lessons and
anti-social
towards other
pupils. Even
though I can’t
see his face, I
know it’s him. I
call his name
and he turns
round and
stares at me
dolefully from a
lowered head.
He has the
features of a
cherub; golden
blonde curly
locks frame his
plump face and
48
Paranoia
undergraduate fiction
large sad blue eyes that he stares at
me with. Everyone is seated apart
from him.
“Can you sit down please, Sam?”
I instruct him firmly.
He takes no notice and continues
to stare out of the window.
“Something worth looking at
outside?” I ask, walking closer to
him.
Still he gives no answer.
Running out of the classroom, he
slams the door. Maria, my
classroom assistant, goes after him.
Within minutes he is back, sitting at
his desk, refusing to work. Playing
with the lid of his pen, he is already
wearing my patience.
At lunchtime I purposely sit with
Mr Trent, a small German man
with black hair styled in a slick side
parting. Rude and unwelcoming, he
has few friends among the staff. As
he stares down my top, I ask him
questions about Sam’s behaviour
last year. In between taking large
bites of a greasy sausage sandwich,
the only explanation he can offer for
Paranoia is whispers on the back of hands,
Paranoia is clutching a plane seat before it lands.
Paranoia is feeling watched as you walk upstairs,
Paranoia is finding three grey hairs,
Paranoia is checking your teeth when someone stares.
Paranoia is walking home late at night,
Paranoia is flight over fight.
Paranoia is smoking spliffs on your own,
Paranoia is acid changing music’s tone,
Paranoia is God talking on the phone.
Paranoia is a knife shining bright,
Paranoia is when your throat gets tight.
undergraduate poetry
Kerry Williams
Metropolitan Lines Summer 2008
A Lesson Learned
Laura Brown