High school Blues
A Diary of Despair
This diary is a waste of time. I don’t see the point of writing down my thoughts when they are so obvious. I wouldn’t say I like this school. I hate these people. They are all bigger and stronger than me. They make fun of me for being skinny and smart. They think they are better than me because they can play cricket and rugby and throw punches. They are wrong.
In the boarding school, it is even worse. I must share the dormitory with giants who snore like a tractor there. They take up all the space and leave me with a tiny corner. Some eat my food and steal my money. Some call me names and try to drown me while swimming when they feel like it. That is the worst thing that ever happened to me.
I wish I could escape from this hell. I wish I could go back to my home, where I was happy and free and had my own room and my things. Where I had friends who liked me for who I was. Where I had teachers who knew me.
But I can’t. I am stuck here. I must endure this torture. I must survive. I must prove them wrong. I must show them that I am better than them. That I am not a kid.
High school is a stupid thing. They put you with big hairy boys who look like men and small boys who look like girls. They should make the classes by size, not by age. That way I would not be in the same class as these big boys.
We are sitting here waiting for the teacher to come. He is always late. Let me tell you something. You must be careful where you sit. If you sit anywhere, the teacher will tell you to move to the front. And then you are stuck with the small boys like me in the front rows. Game over!
In this class, 9B, I must share a long desk in the front row with Gerard and Paul Patrick. They are both small, smaller than me. Joseph Nihal tried to sit next to me, but I stopped him. Maybe he is a copycat, and he wanted to copy my study books.
Next period, I will sit in the middle row. That way, I can avoid the big boys and the small boys.
I don’t understand these boys who talk about girls. In middle school, we never talked about girls. We talked about cricket and comics and movies.
Now, it is all different. Now it is about what clothes you wear, how much money you have, what kind of underwear you have, and if you wear long or short pants.
The most popular boy in 9B is Rohan Dias. He is tall and rich and wears long pants. I like Shirley, but he is the class monitor. He has to do what the teacher can’t do, like keeping the class quiet. Some boys hate him because they can’t do what they want when he is around. And they are afraid of him. I think they should make him the class master. But who is going to listen to me? If it were up to me, he would be teaching this goddamn class.
Yesterday was a terrible day. My braces snapped. The only good thing is that nobody will make fun of me from today. But I am afraid to tell my father. I don’t think he has money to bring me to the dentist again and get me another set of braces. Now that everybody can see my teeth, I may be more liked and go up the popularity ladder.
I tried to explain these popularity ranks to my neighbour Linton. Poor soul, he goes to the village school. But he doesn’t care. He says yes and remembers nothing. But I had fun with him during the last school holidays. We flew kites and played ball almost every day.
Memory is a tricky thing. It slips away like water in your hand. That’s why I keep a record of everything in my monitor books, those red ones. They are so good that even the boys who hate Physics and Chemistry want to copy from them. I have a fine hand, you see. The Prep captain noticed it and asked me to write for the school magazine.
I agreed, of course, but I need a new pen. A Cial pen, the best kind, costs three rupees and I don’t have that kind of money. I also need a bottle of Quink ink, the blue-black one that makes your writing look great. I should send a note to my father through Elmo, the neighbour and my schoolmate and ask him to send me some money.
There is a boy in my class called Martin De Porres. He always brings his soccer boots to school. He says he was born in Peru, far away from Ceylon. How did he get a saint’s name? Is he related to the saint? Did the saint play soccer for Peru? I should ask Martin De Porres.
I find it hard to get up every morning. I must walk from Mutwal to Kotahena, half an hour of dust and noise to get to school. My shoes are too tight. They pinch my toes and make them bleed. I want to buy a pair of pointy boots like the other boys’ shoes. But I can’t wear them to school. They would laugh at me. For now, I have to make do with the DI shoes my father bought from P G Martins, the cheap shop in the Pettah market.
Another thing happened. Mr. Daya Perera chose me to go to the handwriting competition. I was surprised because I never thought my handwriting was anything special, not like my father’s or grandfather’s beautiful letters.
But he is not popular with the other boys. They call him all sorts of names. I don’t understand why. He seems decent to me. But they don’t agree, especially Jayampathi, who once shouted at him with words I didn’t even know existed.
I had a bad day at school. I paid the tailor on Mayfield Road, but he still hadn’t done my shorts when I showed up. He recommended that I should get jock straps, but I am not sure if they made them in my size. Niran mentioned they were Rupees 6.90 at Shanthima, so I plan to get the money to buy one and be like the other boys in my class. But it is scary to walk into Shanthimar and ask for a DIS. The shopkeeper may think I am crazy to wear one.
On my way back from school, I bumped into Calvin at Bloemendhal Road. He did not come to school today. I wonder why. But he seemed happy.
But before that, I met Errol when I passed Wall Street. I like him, although we are not in the same class. He is in the English medium, while I languish in the Sinhala medium. That is okay; after all, I am a Sinhalese, so they say.
This boarding school gives me no peace. I have to manage the library and the English Literacy Union. Some boys are very irresponsible, they keep the books they borrow for too long. And half of them don’t know how to talk in English, so why do they bother with the union? I am the one who has to be the secretary, and I have to record all the nonsense. It is all a waste of time. I should be doing something else, like drawing.
A Tale of Dodging Fights, Hating Rugger, and Reading Magazines
So I was on my way to school, right, and this massive bloke came out of nowhere on Bloemendhal Road. He started dissing me and telling me to fight him. Like, what planet is he on? He must be mental to pick on a little kid like me.
I won’t lie, I felt a bit crap because he made me look like a chicken. At least I dodged him and didn’t get my face smashed in. He was scary as hell, like Mangala, the bully in the school compound. Thank God for Shirley; he’s the only one who can stop him.
Then, after the third period, they said we had to do rugby practice for six weeks. That’s what all the boys in my class care about, rugby. I had no clue what rugby was until I came to high school. They all go on about how Dudley is the best rugby player in our class. Sarathchandra struts around like he owns the place, showing off his jock straps, to show off that he too is one of the best rugby players.
Today, at the interval, I felt very unhappy. The cafeteria was full of noise and confusion. Thank God I got to eat my lunch at the Brother’s house, away from all that noise.
I read the Reader’s Digest that Ravi had lent me during the interval. I may become a better reader or a writer someday.
The school values good grades and sporting achievements more than anything else. Rohan Dias was the Athlete of the Month in the Prep for being the best player, and they put his photograph on the wall with his name on it. But he did not care; these awards meant nothing to him.
We had a maths test today, just a mock one before the real-term tests. Gamini aced it, and I came second. I didn’t care much; these study things are not my cup of tea. Why bother with dumb subjects like Physics and Chemistry? Chemistry is so odd, I don’t get it at all. I would hate to be a scientist when I grow up and have a dull life in a lab.
Yesterday, Bro. Jerome called me into his office, he had a flyer in his hand. I took one look and knew what it was.
It was a stupid flyer for a school play audition. I pleaded with him to leave me out of it. I wouldn’t say I like those musicals they do, I can’t sing for nuts. The worst thing ever would be to croak in front of everyone and make a fool of myself. He wouldn’t listen to me, so now I’m stuck with trying out for the dumb play.
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