It's not a difficult concept to grasp, is it? Our new column, Schoolgirl Diaries, is written by an IRL schoolgirl. She will bring you the days and weeks of insignificant drama that you are either currently going through yourself and despise or else desperately long for. Her real name is not "Berlinder Shepherd" (whose fucking is?).
It’s my first day back at school, and instead of, uh, I don’t know, steering all the teen mums in the direction of the school crèche, or working on the fact that half the year got Es in their A-levels, the head of sixth form is smacking my thigh with a ruler as she pretends to measure my skirt.
It's not very impressive, really; especially because said skirt is imitation leather, so I’m marinating in my own thigh sweat as Mrs Bennett basically performs a sexual assault on me. (I’d be justified in calling ChildLine, right?) Despite this rigorous approach to the appearance of the student body, I’m sad to say that nothing the teachers can do can rid the sixth form of the steady stomp-stomp-stomp of fake creepers and Odd Future sweaters, so walking into the common room is kind of like walking into a low-calibre Tumblr, but with less eating disorders and bongs.
As 9.15AM draws closer, everyone trickles in, eyeing up the new year twelves with the kind of predatory zeal you usually only see on the Discovery Channel. Those poor, poor girls. As they fumble with the shiny-new packets of Cutters Choice hidden away in their packed lunches, you just know they have no absolutely idea of the "fun" that awaits them. I hope they like watching teachers have nervous breakdowns, nightmarish debuts in the world of hard drugs and getting finger-banged in the toilets of Yates’s at the school social, ‘cos all these treats are firmly set on the agenda (if you squint real hard, you can see them faintly pre-pencilled in on the term planner).
Oh, school! Are you getting nostalgic? You should be, hombre. For all my grizzling about the 9-3 grind, I know that school in the suburbs isn’t all skirt-fascism and predatory 17-year-olds. It can also be the stimulating conversation and the consummate wit of your local sociopath. Brett walks in as he always does; with the calm tread and darting eyes of the terror he was born to be. The guy who hacked into the school’s data system, during break, on a BlackBerry. For fun. He became an urban legend at his old school after he wrote his entire history GCSE paper in defence of Hitler, later crying on results day because he only got an A. I heard he only bathes once a week and sleeps every other night, because anything else is “inefficient”. We're snuggled up together on the sofas.
“How was your holiday, Berlinder? Perfectly adequate, I trust?” I don't want to talk about holidays. I want to talk about school. It's cosier. “You gonna do astrophysics and blow up the school, Brett?” He sucks his teeth, looking coyer than anyone in hiking boots has any right to look. “I already know how, Berlinder. It’s amazing what you can find on the internet." I peer around for nearby friends (or, in Brett-terms, collateral damage) to come to my aid and whisk me away to the safety of the smokers’ wall. Should I delete him on Facebook? He’s already divulged that I’m his “special favourite”, which is definitely concerning. Mrs Bennett will really struggle to measure my skirt if all that's left of me is chopped-up bits in a bin liner, you know?
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Despite the sudden influx of “fresh meat” (thanks boys, you vile, sexist shits), the first week has sped by in a dull flurry of homework and Pot Noodle, with no Brett-based bomb scares whatsoever. To my friends’ endless amusement, the only revelation to speak of is that Mrs Bennett retains a greater interest in my side-boob than the red-eyed shotter who’s taken to standing outside the gates hollering “PUKKA HAZE?” as he waits to drive his lower-sixth sweetheart off to some country lane on the edge of town.
The only feasible explanation for this academic oversight is that Mrs Bennett is blinded by her unquenched lust for my body. However gross this is, I guess a Sapphic student-teacher relationship would at least spice things up a bit. I’ve taken to praying to Winona Ryder that some serious Heathers-esque girl wars kick off soon, just to alleviate the monotony. Stop being such sissies about bullying, you guys!
Luckily, suburbia’s resident siren/sexual predator, Rebecca Knadwell, has returned from her year-long bong and cock-induced hiatus from education and is ready to drop a bombshell of pheromones and low self-esteem into sixth form life. Are you excited? You should be, reader. You’re the one who’s going to be privy to all her sexcapades, as well as the inevitable punch-up when she finally gets me back for cooling the ardour between her and some dude with a Super Soaker at Reading last year. But that's for another time; I’ve got to go buy a skirt that won’t get me sexually assaulted again and write a history essay. See you next week!
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