One Month Later
CHAPTER 1THE PHYSICS OF BAD LUCK
The roof crackles like hot oil as rain lashes against it. Insides tight and toes curled uncomfortably, I’m daydreaming in the middle of physics and wishing I could be somewhere else. I try staring past my reflection, sulking at me with tired eyes, to the A-road. If I concentrate, I can hear the cars zooming by—hurtling away.
I’d do anything to be in one of them.
Colored pieces of paper swirl in the wind. They zigzag through the air above the front lawn, evading the hands of the groundskeeper—a stooping man with pleasantly wrinkled features. The scraps of paper are what’s left of a now-forgotten sign Leon’s friends put up a few weeks ago to show support for him. I see them still going on lunchtime walks looking for possible clues. Anyone—student or staff—is welcome.
Leon went missing right before I joined. Some people think he ran away. Others whisper and blame the Changing Man—a stupid urban myth that’s apparently been around forever.
“Go on, mate, do it,” the boys behind me whisper, drawing my attention away from the window. The teacher’s back is to the class.
Next to me, Ben—Leon’s younger brother—makes a loud fart noise with his armpit, and his friends, scattered around the class, erupt into giggles. Mr. Morley hushes them with a dull, dark glare.
I go to side-eye Ben, expecting him to be smirking. Instead there’s a tightness in his ocean-blue eyes. I’m trying to work out what it is when Ben turns toward me. I jerk my head back to the window and fix my eyes outside.
A few moments later a sleek car coasts down the driveway, coming to a stop on the side of the front lawn nearest to the school. A burly man steps out holding a coffee cup. The warden of the Nithercott Foundation. He gave a talk a few weeks back about how he, along with the headmaster, is making sure the values of Nithercott are upheld.
The warden hobbles on a jeweled cane that winks with each step. I roll my eyes, thinking about how he called Nithercott a fundamental and accessible institution of education, equipping tomorrow’s leaders for public impact.
A mouthful of nonsense.
Mum and Dad are paying through the nose for me to be here, despite the reduced fees that come with being on the Urban Achievers Program. If I do well academically during my first year, the school’s more likely to match me with a sponsor who’d essentially pay the rest of my school fees, and uni too.
My parents like to pretend there’s no pressure or expectations, but I know that’s not true. When they say they’re proud of me, it’s heavy with pressure. All my life they’ve tried to give me better. So when they asked me to take the entrance exam, I obviously couldn’t say no. And when they asked me to give Nithercott a chance, I did.
A fizz of guilt bubbles in my stomach at my ungratefulness. But a month in, I’m running out of steam and motivation. The demands are higher even than the expectations of my very Nigerian parents, which says a lot. To top it off, even though I got in the program because of my art, they don’t seem all that interested in it now that I’m here.
The art they’ve got me doing is so bland. But apparently it’s the type of art that’s more “esteemed.”
If my bestie, Zanna, were here with me, then everything would be fine. I could be the person I was back at Archbishop’s. Every single day wouldn’t feel like the moment before the roller coaster drops.
Hoping to ease the storm in my stomach, I slouch in my seat, but it makes things worse so I sit up straight again. Through the sliding rain, I spy the centerpiece of Nithercott School—Porthaven House. It’s wearing vines with cerulean flowers, and it’s made of dimpled bricks the color of autumn leaves. I feel nauseous. Everything’s so different here.
As my thoughts stew, I get distracted by the excited way my phone’s vibrating against my chest. Fishing it out, I check the lock screen.
The group chat from my old school is blowing up, giving me a hollow feeling in my chest. I need those girls like I need my eyebrows. Without them backing me up from a distance, I’d feel so weird and out of place. Well, even more out of place.
Joining midway through the first term of year eleven means I’ve missed out on a lot of the schoolwork already. Plus, almost everyone’s been at Nithercott since year seven.
I don’t know where I fit.
I take a deep breath because as stifling as Nithercott is, I have a reason to survive—Malika. She’s the only other Black girl in my year and the closest thing I have to a friend here. We bonded over our mutual dislike of nearly everybody else. The rest is history.
Tomorrow, Malika’s helping me meet Zanna halfway between Nithercott and my old home of Orlingdon. A fluttery feeling drifts through my chest.
“Any of you able to describe to me the interaction responsible for keeping protons and neutrons together in a stable nucleus?” Mr. Morley is asking. With his shirtsleeves rolled up and faded tattoos peeking out from his collar, he’s not the typical Nithercott teacher.
Hands punch upward until they’re high in the air. Mine stays down. I think I know the answer, but this isn’t the kind of school you survive at if you aren’t sure.
My phone vibrates again. I look down and stifle a laugh. Zanna’s sent me a GIF of Taraji P. Henson in the bougiest coat with the caption Ife’s new look.
I mean … Taraji’s killing it, but that’ll never be me. I key a quick response in our made-up language.
Ihnastic. Ownastic chaalsastic, imosastic ldaastic omastic.
LOL really had to check our language rules! *New* elitist school, same old you, you mean. Anyway, can’t wait to hear all about THAT life. Also feel free to bring any friends along. Would love to meet them! Avolastic aeyastic x
My fingers hover over the keyboard, trying to think of the perfect comeback. After a moment I try a few GIF searches but can’t find anything. Moving schools has zapped my GIF-picking superpower.
Stoking the flames of determination in my stomach, I scroll, search, and scan until I find it. Nah, this is it. Holding back a laugh before pressing send is usually a good sign. I win.
Copyright © 2023 by Tomi Oyemakinde
