The English school system is stupid. You learn how to speak in the early years of primary school, yet they insist you take English Language as a graded subject once you’re 15 - 16 years old. Utter madness it is - especially as you have to analyse texts. Persuasive writing too, like we’d be particularly keen on writing to politicians at our age. The only considerably fun part would be creative writing - at least, that’s what I once thought. Oh, and on the same note, English Literature can shove itself too.
-–
I grew up in a family with many children, and as the second to last kid my parents were too tired to teach or look after me much. What few words I did know at age 2 became the basis of what I said throughout the year, and I hardly knew how to even put pen to paper, be it a scribble or what else. It was at age 3 - the start of nursery - when I was given a pen or pencil, and some paper to attempt writing something on. I still remember the face of the teacher encouraging me.
“OK darling, put your pencil onto the paper.. yep, just like that, now draw down…I’ll hold the paper for you.”
She was kind, and it made learning much easier. By age 4/5 I could read basic sentences, and by 6 I was able to write some of my own properly. Properly, as in staying-in-the-lines proper. I would often look for and greet that same teacher in the mornings or afterschool, and boast of what I’d achieved that day. Why? Because I couldn’t really at home. Home where parents don’t really care for the young ones unless you’re A) the youngest, or B) the sister above me in the chain: my older sister Layla.
You see, she’s really pretty. With long shiny black hair and eyes she claimed was different to mine (“yours are brown, mine are hazel”), she was the little darling at home. Combined with praise from teachers, the cogs were set. She had her place and I had mine.
I thought I at least had someone at school. Those days stopped by the end of year 2 however, when that nice teacher left. I took that as my first heartbreak. I also found I didn’t really care for complex sentences or English whatsoever from then on. Quite frankly, I think I was just living off praise. So I admit I had a little fit in some classes. Paid less attention in others. There were times my parents were called to for meetings - and half the times they’d actually come in. They’d repeat again and again that: “we’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again.” Yet at home nothing was done, besides a glare.
I mellowed out eventually, though it was only until Year 4 that I renewed my interest in writing. This was the fault of a children’s book company, which campaigned that they’d select a primary school aged child’s creative story for publication. I was excited, and started actually participating in some of my English lessons. I - alongside others - found that I was quite good actually at writing. Thus I was now most likely to be picked to represent my school in the creative writing contest. This time, my phone call home was for different reasons. When I came home I was greeted by a bearhug from my father, plus my favourite food from my mother. I was finally noticed.
So I behaved well. I practised much and got into a routine as organised as an 8 year old could be until that golden day. The day where mum dressed me up in nice, new clothes, and dad picked me up in his van. I sat, with my own table and chair for about 20 minutes before the prompt was announced.
“Write a story of a person who was lonely”
‘Huh, that’s me’ was my first thought. I was lonely, but now I have mama and papa looking out for me, and being nominated came with some new friends at school, and even my older siblings’ interest.
So I wanted to write something special. Part of being a good writer - I thought at least - was writing something unexpected. I thought, no, knew, that everyone else would go for something heart-warming, a fairy tale where the person gets friends/family by the end. So I wrote something different,.
I remember these next steps as crisp as a cold winter’s day, or cold water being drenched all over you from a sister that hates you. I breathed in and out, then wove a story. I imagined some girl - lonely like I was, but a bully - unlike me. She had long, thick black hair and the prettiest hazel eyes. She was horrible to everyone, her family, her schoolmates - thus it was fair that she was lonely. How would she have friends if she told them they stank as bad as the PE teacher? Or told her mother to fall over a cliff? I ended it with her being oh-so rude that she got crushed with no one to help her by a faulty roof tile in one of the school classrooms.
I was all bright-smile by the time dad came to pick me up.
~
Results came out after 3 months, and by then we were nearing the summer holidays. I remember just arriving to school when a teacher came to take me into her office. I knew it was about the results. I smiled and asked.
“Darling, unfortunately you did not win the first prize for this contest. You did however get a medal for your hard work!”
What happened next went by quickly.
The teacher smiled at me. I didn’t respond. She tried wrapping the medal around my neck, I eyed the ‘participation award’ certificate from behind her back and slapped her arm away. She then called my parents. I was picked up with a mix of disappointment and anger. At the end of the school day Layla came back skipping, flicking her long hair this way and that. She stood at the top of the stairs before winking at me. I just knew she heard the news.
“Oooh, why that face Mimi?”
I threw the medal in my hand at her. My arm was yanked back by my dad father. “What’s wrong with you?!”
“I think there’s something wrong with YOU. You saw Layla taunting me!”
And with that, the dam broke, and I was grounded. For apparently ever thinking I was worth more than I was, or more than 1 piece of Layla’s shiny silk hair.
~
I had mentioned before that Layla was the clear golden child. Not just at home, but at school too - teachers sing her praise. Then why was it that - 2 days later - she was not allowed to spend lunch on the playground?
I spotted her when I walked by a classroom, a ball to catch in my hand, and saw her scarcely eating with 2 of her teachers. She glared at me right back. “Watch it freak,”’ was the first thing she scowled at me after school when we made our way to our usual spot, waiting for our parents. But that was usual of her, to me. At home however..
“Go away mum! I hate you! You never listen to me!”
Mother sobbed as to where she went wrong whilst father consoled her. I never saw my father in such a state before either: large reddened eyes, his forehead wrinkles deep-set above his brow. “Go to your room now!”
“Like I care!” Layla sauntered to her room.
I was honestly confused about the situation, but I couldn’t help having a little déjà vu. I was sure I saw something similar play out before. But I didn’t really get it until it was a whole lot worse, and way too late.
~
The next day, Layla’s friends sat down on a bench near me. They sat silent for a moment, eyeing each other, before opening their mouths.
“What’s up with your sister today?”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“She’s all moody! We went up to her to ask what’s wrong and she told us not to go near her because we stank! God she’s rude!”
My eyes flew wide open the same time they stood up, already done with their mini-speech. “She said that?!”
Another friend sniggered. “Yeah she said that Lola smelt like that nasty P-Mmph!” a glance was exchanged, “err…just that she stinks.”
“But yeah, I don’t think we can be friends with her anymore.”
The bell rang, and that was the end of break. Layla’s friends promised they’d give me updates on how Layla was acting, but it turned out they needn’t do anything, Why? Because rumours spread. And the latest? That our parents were called, and Layla in her unknown irrational state told our mother to jump off a cliff - through the phone, with teachers watching her. She then ran. A few teachers were now looking for her.
My footsteps pedalled through the halls looking for Layla. I didn’t go to my later lessons that day. That afternoon, I ran off looking for my sister.
I, I…I knew, at that point what the cause was. I knew. It came to my mind to find my paper and rip it in two, but how? Where was it? In the midst of my crying as ambulances and police were called, as fake parents with real tears came hugging me, as a stiff prone body was wheeled off, a surge of why swelled inside me. I’d often wished for Layla to go away yes, but w-why then? Why in my story? I hadn’t even realised who I used as the muse for my final piece.
After all, I was 8. And Layla… poor Layla was 9 when she died, the last memory of her a bully to all her friends and family.
~
It took a short while for the pain to subside in Layla’s friends, a greater while for my parents and siblings. It never did fully subside in me. Because I was reminded of what I’d done every time I took a pen in my hands, be it at school or home. I hated it though, when others thought it did you good to remind you - at a time you aren’t being reminded - of the hole in your spirit. Example A?
“You loved writing. Wouldn’t your sister want you to continue doing so in her honour?”
A random teacher in the first few months of Year 6.
I had no regrets projectile vomiting over them as a response. Especially when I had already tried. Already attempted to weave a story with my sister, eyes shining bright. Her play-fighting me, actually attacking me and more - she did not come back. The reality was an empty bed-space beside mine when I woke up, and when I’d go to sleep.
Soon enough though, I had to join secondary school. And this meant more classwork, more homework. Revision. I picked up a pen day and night. I put it to paper. What I stayed clear of was writing - especially stories. I refused to do any, which was absurd to all of my teachers. Entering my GCSE years though made it clear my behaviour was no longer tolerated. It was a topic in the Language exam after all.
So my parents were called in, as well as my Head of Year, and the Headteacher himself. Contrary to before, my parents pay more attention, and - with bittersweet smiles and the minutest of tears - ask us if anything is wrong when they sense something. Not that I cared much. This time it was my mother who showed up to the meeting. I thought it had gone smoothly. We were walking back home though when she grabbed hold of me. Her face, once turned the other way, was now clear to me: anguished. Hopeless.
“Don’t do this ok? I-I’ve lost one, please don’t make me lose another, hmm? What do you - sniff - what do you say? You can tell me all about how you’re feeling once we’re home-”
“Mum, I’m fine.” She stopped dead in her tracks. “No. No you’re not fine - La-she wasn’t fine, she changed in behaviour instead, I-”
I surprised myself that day by hugging my mother. I couldn’t tell you when I last did. It worked somewhat though: her shoulders - once trembling, slowly stopped shaking. Her deep breaths eased up. I was about to let her go when she - slightly teary - requested one thing:
“Please, please Mimi. Please do well. We - your dad and I - would like it if you passed comfortably, if you gave yourself a good chance in life. It’s English isn’t it? It’s not like it’s food studies. Don’t get too worried about the others. Just pp-please try on this one”
-–
That is the memory that reverberates in my mind. I’m honestly back to square one. I’m sitting here in this hall, and on my desk lies my English exam. The clock has recently been started for 1 hour and 45 minutes. That means go time, yet I’ve been sitting like a framed picture. I eye the first 4 questions again, all based on an older text. I might’ve had a chance if the text was recent, but this thing? I barely wrote at all in English class for years - terrified I’d include a description of someone’s face, someone’s personality (who knows if it would go that far?). I hated texts - especially older ones, but now I try to analyse what I can. I know I’d never be able to score particularly highly in this part though. From early childhood I’ve only favoured one thing. I turn a few pages to look for question 5: the creative writing section. I hesitantly look at the image on the paper that they’d like us to draw inspiration from. This year’s shows a frightened face. No good. I look over at the other question prompt I could base my answer on.
‘Write about a time you felt devastated’
Oh oh. That’s not good either. Or..is it? I think I owe it to everyone. To - Layla’s face flashed in my head, permanently nine years of age. I sit here older than she ever was. At least this way, I guess, I can fulfil that wish of my - our - parents. Writing this way… I honestly don’t know what will happen. But just as long as I don’t involve anyone else-
The clock ticks. I remove my pen cap.
And I put my pen to paper.