The low monotone of Mr Larkins is somewhere in the far reaches of your subconscious. Daydreaming has been your go of late. You'd take in the first few minutes of each class and then drift away into a land of emptiness. Mr Larkins knows you aren't concentrating but leaves you alone, then extends a helping hand when work is due. You don't accept; don't want his pity.
The bell for lunch goes and your heart sinks. The other kids start filing out of the classroom, excitable and jerky in their movements, like they've dunked their heads in vats of red cordial. You on the other hand, take your time packing up your things – your 'map of the world' exercise book, your pencil case with your name on golden cardboard in western-style font, your tattered white folder with inane red scribblings all along its front – you have an hour to kill and no-one to kill it with.
You walk outside, hesitant in your movements as always. Students roam the oval in groups large and small. Some sit on the cricket pitch in the middle. It's crowded as always on the basketball courts, with several different games of downball and cricket in progress. You see a few of your classmates involved; you'll smell their sweaty bodies this afternoon. Your stomach rumbles and you think of your home-packed ham and cheese sandwiches – wrapped in aluminium foil today because the gladwrap ran out – in a lunchbox in your school bag. It's too hot to sit out on the oval, and besides, you look like a loser sitting by yourself.
You notice the seat under the large oak tree at the back of the oval, on the partially-hidden far right side, is vacant. That was where you used to sit each day. That was until the gang from Year 10 started using it to smoke cigarettes. The kids from the Bronx. They got you out of there quick smart. But they aren't there today. You decide to risk it, even though you know it's pathetic, that you'll just relinquish it on their return. Today you have a backup plan. A full deck of Benson and Hedges eights. You pocketed them from the Woolworths in town, the adrenalin rushing as you did so. The manager of the store your father’s friend; he nodded and smiled when you walked in. The gold packaging wasn’t hard to find. It was the brand they had on them the day they told you to fuck off. That's all Troy, their leader, said to you, tapping a cigarette against his pack as he did so. Fuck off.
You get to the oak tree, sit down on the seat. Cigarette butts are all over the ground. A few beer cans, crushed into the thinnest of wedges, are embedded in the dirt. A gust of wind blows and the thick branches creak, and then whisper quietly. Even though it's the middle of summer you feel a shudder of cold permeate through your body. You can't help feeling sorry for yourself in the deathly cold of this deep shade, particularly now as you watch Dylan, the most popular kid in class, holding hands with a pretty girl from the year above, walking towards the back of the oval on the other side, his cool undercut blowing in the breeze.
You reach into your school bag; feel around for your lunchbox. You grab on to it, but it feels empty. The dread in your stomach is thick, sickly. You pull out the empty lunchbox, tears now filling your eyes. You let them out, a low moaning noise accompanies them. After a minute or so an old female voice from over the fence behind you calls out: 'are you alright?’ This shakes you a little. You take a deep breath, stop crying, sit quietly. Silence fills the air for a few moments. You hear the sound of thong clap against heel, then a door shutting. You pull the cigarettes out of your pocket; think to yourself how lucky it was that you didn't have them in your bag. You take one out; roll it back and forth between your thumb and index finger. Again that shiver of loneliness washes over you. You think: this little thing, this is what all the fuss is about?
A warm gust of wind finds its way into the shade. You scan the large area in front of you again. Mr Larkins is on lunch duty, patrolling the southern end of the oval. You put the cigarette in your mouth; let it sit there for a few minutes. Your bottom lip, bereft of saliva, sticks to it. You take it out, run your tongue along your lips and then put it back in. Your stomach growls. Not even a fucking apple or muesli bar today. You pull out the box of matches you'd found in your father's tackle box. The wind dies down, as if it's inviting you to light up. In the distance you see the Year 10 boys, walking in your direction. Shaking a little, you strike the match, cupping the flame in your hand, and move the cigarette toward it…
