Purgatory
by Jen Hughes
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: Young Bryn is set to learn a lesson in detention.
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: Young Bryn is set to learn a lesson in detention.
Apparently, lunchtime detention is still a thing in the 21st century. At least it was to Miss Déableux. She resented that this and the behavioural monitoring forms were the only weapons she had to enforce the code of conduct.
The classroom was like a desert and I was like an ant under a magnifying glass. I asked her if I could move but she spat, “NON! You weel stay there for thee rest of lunchtime!”
So I wrote in my French jotter: Madame Déableux est un putain. If I flipped her off during detention, she’d just make me stay longer. All I had got to do is a ‘detention worksheet’. Dear Reader, this is what you call purgatory. It doesn’t end until God says you’ve learned a lesson from it. Once you’ve finished one worksheet, there will be another.
I can tell she takes some kind of sick pleasure from stopping us from having our break. I look down at the paper. Vous avez manger ton dejeuner? it asks. Piss off. I can hear my stomach howl with frustration.
Mon francais est mal parceque j’ai un prof mal. What? I’ve got to keep my mind occupied somehow. It’s the last week of school and drawing crude penises on my jotter has somewhat lost its appeal. La Putain has a look of determination you can only find on teachers who don’t get enough sex.
The only form of human life in this room is a chubby emo kid in my year. You know the type – greasy, listens to heavy metal, black eyeliner. Talks about nothing but anime and ‘post hardcore’ bands.
My friends and I call him Weeaboo Jones, after the character in one Filthy Frank episode about people like him. When we first watched it in school, I thought, “That’s familiar…” and glanced across at him, sitting with his music blaring full blast, and laughed out loud. The nickname stuck. It’s kinda funny how he swivels 360 degrees and glares at us when we whisper it at him.
Yesterday he went apeshit, shouting about how we’re a bunch of lame saddos. He was shaking and everything. It was funny at the time. You know how you hear a joke and you know you shouldn’t laugh, but you can’t help it? That was basically it.
I could see his head on the desk, splaying his jet-black greasy, long-ish hair across. The music blaring through his over-sized headphones grinds my gears. I can even hear the lyrics – blab la bla, it’s the only thing that stops the ache, if the pain goes on I’m not gonna make it… rah screamy shit, rah. Not this fucking song again! How I recognize it? Only heard it blaring five hundred times before in the filthy-emo-weeaboo corner of the school playground.
The combined stench of sweat and Lynx deodorant almost makes me gag. Un sal, dégoutant salaud. I had to look that one up in the dictionary. At least it’ll make me look like I give a flying fuck about this worksheet.
There’s only so long I can go silently ripping it out of another pupil. I’ll have to conserve this one. Okay, worksheet. I write:
Non, je n’ai pas le dejeuner car je dois ecriver un (whatever the French word is for ‘worksheet’. Sheet de travaille? Whatever.) ennuyeux.
For those who haven’t learned any French, that essentially said, No I’ve had fuck all because of your stupid worksheets. I wanted to write about how she is a totalitarian cow who kills children for fun, but unfortunately we weren’t taught how to form our own sentences.
The noise from Weeaboo Jones’ headphones cut out suddenly.
Weeaboo Jones growled under his breath. “Stupit fuckin’ phone’s out of battery!”
What a shame! That means you’ll have to actually write out your worksheet instead of sitting wallowing in your own misery.
“You shoouldn’t be on your phone,” La Putain declared, with a smirk.
“But it’s lunchtime!” he vainly protested.
“But notheeng! Head down and get workeeng!”
He grunted huffily and put his head back on the desk. It seems that detention is not the natural habitat of the Weeaboo.
Silence. Much better. I mean, I would have rather listened to the chatter or music of my actual friends. Not that our conversations went further than YouTube videos.
After some stony silence, Weeaboo put his hand up and piped up, “Excuse me, Miss?”
She glanced up from her “markeeng”. “Ouais?”
“Can I- Can I use the toilet?”
“Non! You must stay and work!”
“Please, Miss. I’m burstin’.”
I could see her internally weighing up the pros and cons of giving him his basic human rights. She nodded. She must have only relented because of his anxious moaning and the risk that, if he shat himself, she would be held accountable. There’d be evidence. He shot out of his seat and rushed out of the door. Close call, I thought he wouldn’t make it. The room stank enough as it was.
My stomach grumbled again. Miss Déableux glared at me. I looked back down at my worksheet. I tried to block out the gurgling sounds and pain from my stomach.
Weeaboo Jones came back, and had something bulging in his right pocket. So that’s what you were doing there, you dirty bastard! His hand goes into the pocket, as he passed my desk, he took something out and placed it on my desk.
It was a cheese roll. He went back to his desk, as if nothing had happened.
I held it in my hands. Is this some kind of mistake? I didn’t know what to do. He gave me a brief nod as he went back to his seat.
What the hell? He took the risk of asking for a toilet break, and bought me it. I couldn’t get over how kind that was. But I didn’t know whether I could eat it there. Could I? It was driving me delirious. I didn’t know a cheese roll could have that effect on me, but clearly I was wrong. I peeled the plastic wrapping off carefully, so as to not make a noise. Crinkling. Fuck. I looked at Miss Déableux. Not stirred. Still looking at her phone.
I put the wrapping in my pocket and took a bite. The softness of the roll, the mildness of the cheese, the subtle salt of the butter. Just for a second or two, I thought: I could eat this whole roll. I could get away with it.
But Miss Déableux’s beak rose. She sneered, “Where did you get that, Breen?”
Shit. Busted. “I- I…”
“Miss,” Jones declared. “I bought him it.”
“You?”
“Yes. He was hungry.”
“So? Deetention ees a puneeshment.”
“Come on, Miss Déableux, his mum’s a junkie.”
“Why ees thees relevant?”
Jones’ face turned redder and redder. I could barely utter a word. How- ? How can people know that? And who did he think he was anyway? Did he think he was better than me?
“Lunch is the only meal he’ll fucking get, you heartless bitch! You couldn’t have the human decency to let him out for ten minutes to buy a fucking cheese roll! It’s against the fucking law!”
“Don’t you give me cheek you leetle–”
But Weeaboo Jones kept on yelling, “You know I liked French. I wanted to do Higher! You have no fucking clue how hard things have been for me recently…”
La Putain cackled, “You? You like French? That’s funny, considering you’ve always got your earrpeeces in and you leesten to notheeng I say.”
The rage inside him made him shake.
“It’s part of my Pupil Support plan!”
“Pupeel support, ha. You don’t need Pupeel Support, you just need a good kick een thee ass…”
That was apparently the final straw. He leapt out of his seat and threw the table away from him, grabbed the plastic chair and hurled it at Miss Déableux. She shrieked and flew under her desk. The chair bounced off the cupboard behind her so hard it broke against the door. He went trashing chairs and tables on his way out.
“YOU WILL NEVER SEE ME IN THIS CLASS AGAIN, YOU EVIL BITCH!”
Then the door slammed.
Jesus, I thought I had anger issues! From behind my desk, I could see her crouching under her table, her arms covering her head. I could swear she was snivelling. Fearing for her life? Part of me hoped so. The other part, at least for that moment, ‘almost’ feared for my own.
And there was silence again. There was a pause before we came out from under the desks. I looked at Miss Déableux. She tried for her usual arrogant smirk, but it wasn’t coming. She was far too shocked. I could just hear her stammer as she typed into her phone, “Hm! Meeses Bone weel know about thees!”
The headmistress. She put it to her ear impatiently. Poor bastard could be getting suspended or worse for this.
My head was spinning. I couldn’t get over how the boy had the decency to buy me food when I was hungry- or even noticed I was hungry- and actually stood up for me. Even after how my friends and I bullied him? I wanted to find him, to congratulate him. I wish I could have been the one throwing that chair.
The school bell rang and the detention was over. Her power faded. I set off to my next class.
But I couldn’t even remember his real name. I scanned the corridors on the way to my next class. I had a feeling it might have been in vain, but it was worth a try. Then I saw him outside Mrs Bone’s office. I yelled, “Hey man!”
He looked around before realising it was me. “What is it?” he asked as I came closer.
“Thank you… for everything today. I’m sorry I’ve been so shit to you.”
He looked down and smiled, “It’s okay…”
“No it’s not okay, I know that. I want to make it up to you. What’s your name?”
“My name is Sam Martins.”
Then Mrs Bone appeared to ‘have a word with him’ in her office.
Sam. I think I would use that from now on. If I saw him again.
The classroom was like a desert and I was like an ant under a magnifying glass. I asked her if I could move but she spat, “NON! You weel stay there for thee rest of lunchtime!”
So I wrote in my French jotter: Madame Déableux est un putain. If I flipped her off during detention, she’d just make me stay longer. All I had got to do is a ‘detention worksheet’. Dear Reader, this is what you call purgatory. It doesn’t end until God says you’ve learned a lesson from it. Once you’ve finished one worksheet, there will be another.
I can tell she takes some kind of sick pleasure from stopping us from having our break. I look down at the paper. Vous avez manger ton dejeuner? it asks. Piss off. I can hear my stomach howl with frustration.
Mon francais est mal parceque j’ai un prof mal. What? I’ve got to keep my mind occupied somehow. It’s the last week of school and drawing crude penises on my jotter has somewhat lost its appeal. La Putain has a look of determination you can only find on teachers who don’t get enough sex.
The only form of human life in this room is a chubby emo kid in my year. You know the type – greasy, listens to heavy metal, black eyeliner. Talks about nothing but anime and ‘post hardcore’ bands.
My friends and I call him Weeaboo Jones, after the character in one Filthy Frank episode about people like him. When we first watched it in school, I thought, “That’s familiar…” and glanced across at him, sitting with his music blaring full blast, and laughed out loud. The nickname stuck. It’s kinda funny how he swivels 360 degrees and glares at us when we whisper it at him.
Yesterday he went apeshit, shouting about how we’re a bunch of lame saddos. He was shaking and everything. It was funny at the time. You know how you hear a joke and you know you shouldn’t laugh, but you can’t help it? That was basically it.
I could see his head on the desk, splaying his jet-black greasy, long-ish hair across. The music blaring through his over-sized headphones grinds my gears. I can even hear the lyrics – blab la bla, it’s the only thing that stops the ache, if the pain goes on I’m not gonna make it… rah screamy shit, rah. Not this fucking song again! How I recognize it? Only heard it blaring five hundred times before in the filthy-emo-weeaboo corner of the school playground.
The combined stench of sweat and Lynx deodorant almost makes me gag. Un sal, dégoutant salaud. I had to look that one up in the dictionary. At least it’ll make me look like I give a flying fuck about this worksheet.
There’s only so long I can go silently ripping it out of another pupil. I’ll have to conserve this one. Okay, worksheet. I write:
Non, je n’ai pas le dejeuner car je dois ecriver un (whatever the French word is for ‘worksheet’. Sheet de travaille? Whatever.) ennuyeux.
For those who haven’t learned any French, that essentially said, No I’ve had fuck all because of your stupid worksheets. I wanted to write about how she is a totalitarian cow who kills children for fun, but unfortunately we weren’t taught how to form our own sentences.
The noise from Weeaboo Jones’ headphones cut out suddenly.
Weeaboo Jones growled under his breath. “Stupit fuckin’ phone’s out of battery!”
What a shame! That means you’ll have to actually write out your worksheet instead of sitting wallowing in your own misery.
“You shoouldn’t be on your phone,” La Putain declared, with a smirk.
“But it’s lunchtime!” he vainly protested.
“But notheeng! Head down and get workeeng!”
He grunted huffily and put his head back on the desk. It seems that detention is not the natural habitat of the Weeaboo.
Silence. Much better. I mean, I would have rather listened to the chatter or music of my actual friends. Not that our conversations went further than YouTube videos.
After some stony silence, Weeaboo put his hand up and piped up, “Excuse me, Miss?”
She glanced up from her “markeeng”. “Ouais?”
“Can I- Can I use the toilet?”
“Non! You must stay and work!”
“Please, Miss. I’m burstin’.”
I could see her internally weighing up the pros and cons of giving him his basic human rights. She nodded. She must have only relented because of his anxious moaning and the risk that, if he shat himself, she would be held accountable. There’d be evidence. He shot out of his seat and rushed out of the door. Close call, I thought he wouldn’t make it. The room stank enough as it was.
My stomach grumbled again. Miss Déableux glared at me. I looked back down at my worksheet. I tried to block out the gurgling sounds and pain from my stomach.
Weeaboo Jones came back, and had something bulging in his right pocket. So that’s what you were doing there, you dirty bastard! His hand goes into the pocket, as he passed my desk, he took something out and placed it on my desk.
It was a cheese roll. He went back to his desk, as if nothing had happened.
I held it in my hands. Is this some kind of mistake? I didn’t know what to do. He gave me a brief nod as he went back to his seat.
What the hell? He took the risk of asking for a toilet break, and bought me it. I couldn’t get over how kind that was. But I didn’t know whether I could eat it there. Could I? It was driving me delirious. I didn’t know a cheese roll could have that effect on me, but clearly I was wrong. I peeled the plastic wrapping off carefully, so as to not make a noise. Crinkling. Fuck. I looked at Miss Déableux. Not stirred. Still looking at her phone.
I put the wrapping in my pocket and took a bite. The softness of the roll, the mildness of the cheese, the subtle salt of the butter. Just for a second or two, I thought: I could eat this whole roll. I could get away with it.
But Miss Déableux’s beak rose. She sneered, “Where did you get that, Breen?”
Shit. Busted. “I- I…”
“Miss,” Jones declared. “I bought him it.”
“You?”
“Yes. He was hungry.”
“So? Deetention ees a puneeshment.”
“Come on, Miss Déableux, his mum’s a junkie.”
“Why ees thees relevant?”
Jones’ face turned redder and redder. I could barely utter a word. How- ? How can people know that? And who did he think he was anyway? Did he think he was better than me?
“Lunch is the only meal he’ll fucking get, you heartless bitch! You couldn’t have the human decency to let him out for ten minutes to buy a fucking cheese roll! It’s against the fucking law!”
“Don’t you give me cheek you leetle–”
But Weeaboo Jones kept on yelling, “You know I liked French. I wanted to do Higher! You have no fucking clue how hard things have been for me recently…”
La Putain cackled, “You? You like French? That’s funny, considering you’ve always got your earrpeeces in and you leesten to notheeng I say.”
The rage inside him made him shake.
“It’s part of my Pupil Support plan!”
“Pupeel support, ha. You don’t need Pupeel Support, you just need a good kick een thee ass…”
That was apparently the final straw. He leapt out of his seat and threw the table away from him, grabbed the plastic chair and hurled it at Miss Déableux. She shrieked and flew under her desk. The chair bounced off the cupboard behind her so hard it broke against the door. He went trashing chairs and tables on his way out.
“YOU WILL NEVER SEE ME IN THIS CLASS AGAIN, YOU EVIL BITCH!”
Then the door slammed.
Jesus, I thought I had anger issues! From behind my desk, I could see her crouching under her table, her arms covering her head. I could swear she was snivelling. Fearing for her life? Part of me hoped so. The other part, at least for that moment, ‘almost’ feared for my own.
And there was silence again. There was a pause before we came out from under the desks. I looked at Miss Déableux. She tried for her usual arrogant smirk, but it wasn’t coming. She was far too shocked. I could just hear her stammer as she typed into her phone, “Hm! Meeses Bone weel know about thees!”
The headmistress. She put it to her ear impatiently. Poor bastard could be getting suspended or worse for this.
My head was spinning. I couldn’t get over how the boy had the decency to buy me food when I was hungry- or even noticed I was hungry- and actually stood up for me. Even after how my friends and I bullied him? I wanted to find him, to congratulate him. I wish I could have been the one throwing that chair.
The school bell rang and the detention was over. Her power faded. I set off to my next class.
But I couldn’t even remember his real name. I scanned the corridors on the way to my next class. I had a feeling it might have been in vain, but it was worth a try. Then I saw him outside Mrs Bone’s office. I yelled, “Hey man!”
He looked around before realising it was me. “What is it?” he asked as I came closer.
“Thank you… for everything today. I’m sorry I’ve been so shit to you.”
He looked down and smiled, “It’s okay…”
“No it’s not okay, I know that. I want to make it up to you. What’s your name?”
“My name is Sam Martins.”
Then Mrs Bone appeared to ‘have a word with him’ in her office.
Sam. I think I would use that from now on. If I saw him again.
About the Author
Jen Hughes is a passionately Scottish young writer who lives in Ayrshire. She has been published in various online journals, including Minus Paper and Gaelstrom, and has her own website: dearoctopuswriting.wordpress.com