Week 20: Agonising Wait

Type of writing: Internal monologue about being outside the principal's office.

So here I am. Aged four months outside the headteacher’s office. Mum never said anything about this. She said that she had to speak to the headteacher about her timetable, about her return to work. She said that her colleagues wanted to see me: to coo my cuteness, to aah my adorability. Well, been there, done that, been sick over my bib. So why are we still here?

I saw another boy in this seat earlier. He was crying, screaming, “I don’t want to see the headteacher.” I don’t blame him. Even my mum had to knock on the door to be let in. They must be really scary. The boy cried, “I know what I should have done now; don’t make me go in there.”

A little while after, another boy sat down, as pleased as milk. He looked so happy. Like he’d been rubbed and raspberried all his life. He rocked his legs back and forth as though he were on a swing. He told the lady behind the desk, “I’m going to get a sticker. I’ve been a good boy.”

Two different boys. Two different states. Two different fates.

What will be mine?

I reflect on my actions. Earlier in the week, I was sick on my dad’s suit. He’d just spent £8 getting it dry cleaned. (I don’t know why he didn’t put it in the wheel like the other clothes – would have saved him £8 pounds). I also wet my dad’s trousers. What can I say: they put too much trust in me? Like washing, they let me all hang out, then they’re surprised when it rains. I mean, we live in England. You should expect to get wet even indoors.

As for my mum, I pulled her hair this week. I say I pulled her hair this week; I pull it every week. She grimaces when I do it, says she doesn’t like it. But I like doing it, so I do it anyway. Is that selfish? Also, I haven’t moved my bowels. I have to move my bum every three days, otherwise I can’t carry on with my medicine. Maybe that’s why I’m here. For the headteacher to scare the poo out of me.

But my mum and dad kiss me all the time. Tell me how beautiful I am. They smile constantly and cuddle me tight. When I do something, even the smallest thing, like sit up, they applaud me as though I’ve come up with a vaccine.

So I don’t know if I’m here to be punished or celebrated. I know I’ve done wrong this week. I should have waited until my dad had worn his suit in for a bit before I sicked on it. Appreciated that my mum goes to a building for a hair cut so maybe I’m not the best person qualified to do it. I just don't know what will happen to me.

Will I be made a sticker of or an example?

The door opens.

And so I step into the darkness within; or else the light.