In Year 3 our groups had animal names. Before that we’d been shapes. I was a hexagon. The more sides you had, the brighter they thought you were. We weren’t supposed to know, but we did. Adam Ball’s mum complained to the Head that it wasn’t right to label us at such an early age. Adam was a circle.
The teacher had moved from the Reception class, and she thought seven going on eight wasn’t that much different from four going on five.
“Bless their little cotton socks,” she’d say, every morning, as we trooped inside.
I said we should be lionesses, because we were all girls, apart from Lewis Bradshaw. The teacher said lions was more inclusive. I let it go, but I wasn’t happy.
With our over-achieving SATS scores, stable backgrounds, private tutors, parents in the PTA and on the Board of Governors, we basked in the warmth of the teacher’s approval, raised our hands with occasional right answers, slouched sleepily across our desks, smirking at the stupidity of the leopards, the zebras, the giraffes, the buffaloes.
In the playground, we came into our own. While Lewis watched our cardigans we marked our territory, stalked our prey, surrounded it, pounced. We weren’t the fastest, but we were clever. Sometimes we let the leopards do the hard work, swept in at the last minute. Zebras, giraffes, buffaloes, they were easy pickings with their snotty noses, second-hand sweatshirts, scabby knees. Eventually we took down the leopards too, because we could, although they weren’t really on our menu.
Adam Ball’s mum said we were predators, and something should be done. The Head said it wasn’t fair to label us, at such a young age.
Bless our little cotton socks.
Alison Wassell is a writer of short and very short fiction from Merseyside, UK. Her work has been published by Fictive Dream, The Phare, Bath Flash Fiction Award, The Disappointed Housewife, Reflex, NFFD and elsewhere. She has no plans whatsoever to write a novel.
Excellent!
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