She had this unruly, black, wiry hair. It fought against conforming to any kind of style and crept in curls around her face. She was only slight in stature, olive-skinned with brown smudges below her eyes. I don’t ever remember seeing her uniform without a stain or a hole or rip. She seemed wild. Untamed.
She was in the year above me. I can’t remember how we first met, but we revelled in unleashing our built-up energy together at lunchtimes in the field. It seemed we were the only two that were able to relate in this respect. How excruciating it could feel to be shackled to a desk. The feeling of fire roaring deep in the pit of your stomach. As though ants scuttled beneath the skin, no amount of itching or fidgeting able to dampen the discomfort. As soon as we were released from our classroom confounds, we would ferociously battle until one of us either wriggled free or cried out in surrender. Such wars tended to end in nervously asking the co-defendant whether we were still friends. Whether one of us had taken it too far. But this never happened. We would violently hurl into each other, returning to our respective classrooms decorated in grass stains, flushed cheeks and panting. It was this release that allowed us to sit at our desks once again without screaming in agonised boredom. It tickles me to imagine how we must have looked to onlookers. Flailing arms, mischievous grins, laboured breathing and heavy tumbles. Usually, we ended these activities lying flat on the grass looking up at the clouds. Our chests rose and fell in synchronicity. Blood coursing through our ears. These were my favourite lunchtimes.
In her, I felt comradery. I felt understanding and unity.
One day, she asked me to come round her house after school. Of course, I said yes.
Her mum took us home. Her mum was very slim in build. Her face was gaunt and her eyes distant. My sprite of a friend had told me about her mum before. She was currently dating a drug dealer that my Sprite didn’t approve of. Although I can’t remember exactly; I know we were between years 4-5. I didn’t entirely know what a drug dealer was. I could infer from the tone that it wasn’t something we approved of, but my sprite seemed to acknowledge it as some mundane fact.
Discarded bikes and abandoned play-things decorated the green outside the flats. Flattened cans and cigarette buts outlined a path for us to march down. Upon arriving at her house, the first thing I noticed was the lack of furniture. Toys and newspapers littered the floors. It wasn’t clear what room was intended to be what. Bedroom and living room seemed to blur the lines of distinction. Nonchalantly stepping over scattered possessions and rubbish, she led me to a room tucked away towards the back of the flat. My sprite wrinkled her nose and sighed in disgust.
“Muuummmm!” she roared.
I peered over her shoulder. In the corner of the room, there appeared to be some human waste atop the newspaper. Her little brother’s gift, apparently.
I assumed this living situation was only temporary. It had to be. How could any child be expected to focus on phonetics and numeracy living like this? It was cold. The smell of cigarettes and scents I had not yet come across hung heavy in the air. I remember wondering whether she breathed differently to me. Whether the swirls of smoke in the air made her more dragon-like than girl.
I have her on Facebook. She posted recently about her descent into addiction and becoming a dealer. A product of her surroundings to put it bluntly. Present day, she seems to be excelling. I told my mum about her success. My mum remembered her immediately. The girl with the untamable hair. My little mate.
I wander down my road during school rush hour and am met with dozens of jostling children, clutching their book bags and eagerly telling parents of the day’s activities. My feet follow each other as I study the little faces. Often caked in snot, remenance of lunchtime brushed around their mouths, but almost always grinning. I wonder whether she too, seemed outwardly as any other child. I wonder how many of these children return to cold homes. I wonder how many of these little ones know what a drug dealer is. Often in my life, I am far too distracted with writing about young adulthood or teenage experiences, I fear I neglect to mention some of our most vulnerable. I remember trapsing down ginnels with my friends when I was just eight years old. Scowering the ground for cigarettes in vengeance after my friend’s mum demanded the local shopkeeper stop selling her packets of tailor-made. Now knowing just how small and fragile an eight-year-old is, these memories haunt me. This year I aim to donate money towards children’s services. Whether ones more close to home such as the YMCA or ones more attuned to my local community. I look forward to documenting this. Children should be allowed to be children.
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