Jukkie.
But then Leon was up in my face and I stepped back until I could feel the school wall behind me. It was hard and rough, and I thought to myself, ‘Anyhow this damages my leather
jacket...’ But before I could tell Leon to take it easy on the garmz, he grabbed my jacket and hoisted me higher up against the wall. “He’s goin’ down for what he did to my
cousin,” he hissed, and his breath stank like he hadn’t brushed his teeth in at least two weeks.
“Your cousin? Who’s your cousin, man? I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“He knows.” Leon clenched his jaw and brought his face so close to mine that I could see the blackheads on his nose. “You tell your mandem,” he growled, “that
we’re coming for them. They picked the wrong crew to mess with.” Then I felt something cold and sharp press into my cheek. I couldn’t stop myself shuddering as I realised what it
was. It was a tiny switch-blade. “Do I need to give you a little reminder, blud?”
I shook my head, trying not to show how scared I was. “Nah, man, it’s safe,” I said hoarsely. “I...I’ll pass the message... I’ll pass the message!”
Gathering up my strength, I shoved Leon off me and the boys all shifted, ready for Leon’s signal. But Leon just smirked and put his knife into his pocket.
“Yeah,” he sneered. “I know you will. Coz you’s a batty man like that best mate of yours, Jukkie.” The other boys all sniggered as I scrambled for my bag. “Go
on, run, run like a bitch!”
Boy, I wasn’t about to stick around! I grabbed my bag and legged it, in through the school gates and all the way to the toilets, where I spent a few minutes heaving. Knives, man. Knives
and I just were not meant to be together. If I didn’t know better, I would think I was allergic to them.
As I washed my face and looked in the mirror at the water dripping down on to my school shirt, I heard Leon’s voice: ‘You’s a batty man, like your best mate, Jukkie.’
I shook my head and wiped a tissue over my face. This beef with Larkside was getting proper ugly.
Circles
DWAYNE
Third lesson was Maths with Mr Dawson, my worst teacher. I actually wasn’t too bad at Maths but I couldn’t stick that Mr Dawson. I’d started off the year all
right, but there was just something about him that put me right off. By the third week, I was like everyone else in the class: sending text messages, throwing spit balls, drawing tags in their
Maths books or bustin’ joke behind Dawson’s back.
But that day, I just wasn’t in the mood for the madness. I was thinking about Misha and what she would think if she saw this crappy classroom with its busted chairs and graffiti carved
into the desks. Misha’s school sounded proper posh. I imagined it all big and stately-home-looking, with green lawns all around it. All the girls would be wearing them old-fashioned blazers
and be able to speak at least three languages.
Misha was always asking me about school – what could I tell her? That I hated it and couldn’t wait for the year to be over so that I could hit the road and make some serious Ps? Nah,
that would be a disaster. Misha
believed
in school. She believed them when they told her that all she had to do was study hard, go university, get a good job and buy a house. And maybe it
was true – for her and people like her. As for me, I knew that it was all a big lie.
“School’s just a holding cell for us black boys,” Tony used to say. “Just a place for them to keep us until we’re old enough to go jail. But not us, eh, guys?
We’re smarter than that. We ain’t never gonna get so cocky that we let the 5-0 take us down.”
But what was it Misha had said? ‘Rewrite the script, Dee. If you don’t, who will?’
I looked up to see Mr Dawson handing out sheets of paper for a pop quiz.
I cracked up when Mr Beanpole himself, Greg Tiller, screwed up the piece of paper and threw it into the bin. “Oh, look, sir!” he
But then Leon was up in my face and I stepped back until I could feel the school wall behind me. It was hard and rough, and I thought to myself, ‘Anyhow this damages my leather
jacket...’ But before I could tell Leon to take it easy on the garmz, he grabbed my jacket and hoisted me higher up against the wall. “He’s goin’ down for what he did to my
cousin,” he hissed, and his breath stank like he hadn’t brushed his teeth in at least two weeks.
“Your cousin? Who’s your cousin, man? I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“He knows.” Leon clenched his jaw and brought his face so close to mine that I could see the blackheads on his nose. “You tell your mandem,” he growled, “that
we’re coming for them. They picked the wrong crew to mess with.” Then I felt something cold and sharp press into my cheek. I couldn’t stop myself shuddering as I realised what it
was. It was a tiny switch-blade. “Do I need to give you a little reminder, blud?”
I shook my head, trying not to show how scared I was. “Nah, man, it’s safe,” I said hoarsely. “I...I’ll pass the message... I’ll pass the message!”
Gathering up my strength, I shoved Leon off me and the boys all shifted, ready for Leon’s signal. But Leon just smirked and put his knife into his pocket.
“Yeah,” he sneered. “I know you will. Coz you’s a batty man like that best mate of yours, Jukkie.” The other boys all sniggered as I scrambled for my bag. “Go
on, run, run like a bitch!”
Boy, I wasn’t about to stick around! I grabbed my bag and legged it, in through the school gates and all the way to the toilets, where I spent a few minutes heaving. Knives, man. Knives
and I just were not meant to be together. If I didn’t know better, I would think I was allergic to them.
As I washed my face and looked in the mirror at the water dripping down on to my school shirt, I heard Leon’s voice: ‘You’s a batty man, like your best mate, Jukkie.’
I shook my head and wiped a tissue over my face. This beef with Larkside was getting proper ugly.
Circles
DWAYNE
Third lesson was Maths with Mr Dawson, my worst teacher. I actually wasn’t too bad at Maths but I couldn’t stick that Mr Dawson. I’d started off the year all
right, but there was just something about him that put me right off. By the third week, I was like everyone else in the class: sending text messages, throwing spit balls, drawing tags in their
Maths books or bustin’ joke behind Dawson’s back.
But that day, I just wasn’t in the mood for the madness. I was thinking about Misha and what she would think if she saw this crappy classroom with its busted chairs and graffiti carved
into the desks. Misha’s school sounded proper posh. I imagined it all big and stately-home-looking, with green lawns all around it. All the girls would be wearing them old-fashioned blazers
and be able to speak at least three languages.
Misha was always asking me about school – what could I tell her? That I hated it and couldn’t wait for the year to be over so that I could hit the road and make some serious Ps? Nah,
that would be a disaster. Misha
believed
in school. She believed them when they told her that all she had to do was study hard, go university, get a good job and buy a house. And maybe it
was true – for her and people like her. As for me, I knew that it was all a big lie.
“School’s just a holding cell for us black boys,” Tony used to say. “Just a place for them to keep us until we’re old enough to go jail. But not us, eh, guys?
We’re smarter than that. We ain’t never gonna get so cocky that we let the 5-0 take us down.”
But what was it Misha had said? ‘Rewrite the script, Dee. If you don’t, who will?’
I looked up to see Mr Dawson handing out sheets of paper for a pop quiz.
I cracked up when Mr Beanpole himself, Greg Tiller, screwed up the piece of paper and threw it into the bin. “Oh, look, sir!” he
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