Bren waited to enter the classroom at the start of the new school year. She was starting year ten and was looking forward to the subject choices she had made. She hoped that the unwanted attention would finally go elsewhere.
But hoping was just a dream as she looked down at her uniform. She wore last year's school blouse, more grey than white due to a mishap with the washing machine. The colour contrasted greatly with the crisp white material of the other pupils surrounding her. The buttons strained against her developing breasts. The collar and cuffs frayed through continual wear.
At fourteen she was acutely aware that she was different to the rest of the girls in her classes. The summer holidays had been a welcome respite from the continual harassment she received from the popular crowd, who took great delight in commenting on her hair, clothes, and general demeanour. She tried to hide away, lurking on the outside of the thronging mass. And knew to keep her mouth shut if she was to last the lesson, let alone the day.
Despite all her attempts to merge into the background, the bullying had started virtually straight away. She could hear the comments, could see both pity and glee in the eyes of her tormentors, knowing they had a ready-made victim waiting. She steeled herself, ready for the mental onslaught of jibes that would be coming her way when the teachers weren’t around to keep it in check.
The class was ushered into the room and Bren was thankful that the seat next to her remained empty. She took out the French textbook and opened it to the page indicated on the whiteboard. She finished writing the title, date, and objectives of the lesson. She placed the pen on the table and waited.
The classroom door re-opened and the head of year escorted a new girl into the room. The HOY spoke quickly to the French teacher and left.
Bren looked at the girl standing at the front of the class. She had short spiky hair, and a barely perceptible streak of burgundy in it caught the light. She wore the school uniform as a challenge, with Doc Martins on her feet, skinny black trousers, and a blouse, undone more than the regulatory two buttons, covering a black t-shirt underneath.
Bren wished she had the girl’s confidence, as she stood with her hands on her hips. The girl eyed the other students, daring anyone to even look at her funny, let alone comment.
Bren noticed the French teacher pointed at the spare chair next to her, and Bren allowed a quiet groan to escape.
As the girl pulled out the chair, Bren overcame her reticence and welcomed, “Hi, I’m Bren.”
“Rachel,” was the curt reply, but straight away the girl gave her a winsome smile.
A sense of awkwardness overshadowed them as shyness took over. They worked through the lesson with barely a word spoken.
“Where’s your next lesson?” Bren asked as they were packing away their books.
Rachel got out her timetable and handed it to Bren.
“Would you like me to take you there?” Bren asked. Then, expecting rejection, continued, “Or you can ask someone else.”
“I’d be honoured if you would show me.” Rachel said.
The easy smile pulled Bren in.
Gradually, over the next few lessons, an understanding developed, and the closeness that was to grow between the two girls started to emerge.
A couple of weeks later Bren found two brand new school blouses on the doormat of her house. Of course Rachel firmly denied all knowledge, but her eyes smiled the truth. And during moments between lessons, Rachel stood beside her, making sure the constant bullying all but disappeared. And for the first time since her mum had left, Bren didn't feel so alone. ◆◆◆
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