Summer-1
Summer
Three twenty-two in the afternoon on a Friday afternoon in sweltering thirty-two degree July heat and the unforgiving linen of a poorly-made school uniform. The rambling, distracted, droning rambling of Mr. Burke on his interpretation—because nobody cares enough to offer an alternative—of Conan Doyle’s narrative in The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes creates a stupor in the room.
If they do not move soon, they will drown.
Danny, at Ryan’s left, is already asleep. He is even snoring quietly, but the hum of the bees under the open window detracts from the noise, and little else can be heard over Mr. Burke’s stutter anyway. Tom is texting openly, not even hiding the phone, and probably arranging a date with the latest conquest to fall victim to his swaggering charm. Even Maria Marquez, she of the endless poise, grace, and triple-sized cleavage, sags in her chair.
It is the last day of school, and they all regret agreeing to take A-levels.
The school has its policy—those to take A-levels return after the GCSEs to get the first few weeks of work done. Then they can go to summer break. It is by no means the first time they have been in classrooms in early July, but it has to be the most torturous.
“And I think that-at—think that—Conan Doyle, or W-Watson, is trying to-to-to—to—remind us th-tha-that…”
There is no energy in the room, save for the perpetual nervous fumbling of Mr. Burke. He is the kind of teacher that hates his job because of the children: they mercilessly tear him to shreds, eight hours a day, for the stammer that they themselves make worse. It is their sport: English Lit, under Mr. Burke’s ineffective rule, is a favourite subject across the entire spread of the school. Ryan knows of no one that listens to, much less respects, the bumbling man.
But in July, even with the stutter at its worst, they cannot muster up the energy to so much as smirk. It is too hot: a wet, heavy heat sinking through their clothes and melting in their bones. It is so hot that the act of thinking is a sin in itself. Ignorance is the only escape, and as his stammer creates a terrible counterpoint to the endless ticking of the classroom clock, Ryan realises that it isn’t much of an escape at all.
Three twenty-four, and time seems to want to go backwards.
Ryan already knows that he will be dropping A-level English. There is simply no way he can tolerate two more years of that stammer, and of the general uproar that trails in the wake of Mr. Burke’s teaching style. In the winter, they practically riot, just to keep warm. He is a hopeless teacher, only clinging to his job out of fear, with the tenacity of a man afraid of unemployment. He is more afraid of the dole office than the children, and that is his saving grace—or his damnation.
Ryan will take history, he thinks, and endure the endless drone and sharp commands of Mrs. Kelly over this.
A bee bounces off Danny’s ear, and he wakes with a snort.
“…W-Wa—Watson—has r-realised tha-tha—that –”
Danny’s head hits the table again, and he is gone. Ryan wishes vaguely that he could do the same.
“…life d-doesn’t st-sto-stop b-because we want it t-to.”
The bell explodes into the room.
Summer breaks.
