This one-shot was inspired by a funny story I saw on Pinterest and probably isn't canon, although it could be. Set when they're in Year Eleven (age 15-16). @dedicatedtothereaders, I took artistic licence with your characters and wrote them myself.
(Jesse's P.O.V.)
Nobody in the class is quite sure why the fire alarm might be going off, considering it's a Saturday afternoon and we're only here for this boring extracurricular none of us really wanted to do, so there ain't no point in a drill. The teacher disappeared for a second, and now all we hear is that awful, noisy sound. We're all trying our best to figure out why it might be going off.
"Maybe they're testing us in particular 'cause we're such a shit class," Libby suggests, shrugging a bit, sitting on the floor with Olivia. We're in the gym. Varisha and I have found two chairs and are sitting quietly in the corner, trying to ignore everybody else.
"Maybe someone pressed it by mistake," Jacob suggests.
"Maybe someone pressed it to mess with us," Carsen adds, smirking.
"Maybe-" Olivia begins to say, but is interrupted by (shockingly) Varisha, sat next to me.
"Maybe the building's actually on fire," she says, calmly standing up and heading off, and can't really argue with that, can you, so I also get up and pick up my bag, saying "ta ra" to the rest of the class, who gape at us as we begin walking quietly down the corridor, towards the field where we're meant to gather.
Then we hear the most terrifying sound that we could possibly have heard; the sound of our classmates absolutely fucking BOLTING IT.
Now, one second before, I was calm. Varisha is still calm. But the sound of their absolute panic gets through to me and triggers my fight or flight response, and so I break into a sprint alongside the others for all I'm worth.
There is only one thing in this moment that I know.
For some reason, I have absolutely GOT to be the first person to reach the outside and therefore safety.
Or else I have failed myself. The others were simply running, until they realise that I seem to be treating it as some kind of competition, and then all hell breaks loose (meanwhile Varisha is still nice and calm behind us).
There are kids screaming. Kids shouting. Not sure which girl it is but they sound on the verge of tears, pushing each other aside to get out first.
It is no longer a class trying to reach safety together. No, I have now warped it. This is The Hunger Games, and there can only be one victor. The rest die.
See, we've never had a real fire here before. I can't even smell any smoke but I hope the place burns down.
When we reach the outside, our teacher, Miss Collins, looks genuinely like she might have been worried, but more so she looks annoyed, clearly not worried enough to come in and check we ain't charred meat.
"Where have you all-" Miss Collins begins, in her irritated, exasperated way.
"Ey, miss?" Libby says, as we all glance back at the school to see it OK, fire-less. "Where's the fire?"
"Well, it was more of a false alarm. A mishap in the kitchen set the fire alarm off," she explains, and we all look at each other.
The school won't burn down, then. It really is a shame; I was hopeful. Everybody looks a bit disappointed, actually, save Varisha. Even Miss Collins, but she probably hoped we'd die in there.
You're probably wondering if I run the race to the outside, and you'll get the obvious answer.
Doing a series of writing the students mornings! (All the same morning, just their different experiences of it before they get to school, set on a Monday in November). This is Jesse's! They'll all be tagged #student mornings.
(Jesse's P.O.V.)
I try to look at my alarm every morning in a positive light, even when it brings me nothing but dread. Every time it rings I get closer and closer to being out of school; then, out of sixth form: and then, after that, out of Sheffield entirely.
And so my alarm clock and I have an agreement, really, that keeps me from pressing snooze more once. An agreement that gets me up and out of bed at half six, an hour and, like, forty or something minutes before I actually need to get to the bus, five minutes down the road. I have to leave at 8:15. I have time.
I get up and shower for about five minutes (I had a twenty minute shower last night), brush me teeth and go back into my room to change into my uniform, which is impressively uninspired and difficult to tell apart from every other navy, boring uniform in England. I spice it up a bit with a few pins that look like a laughing emoji, a diamond and my favourite, which is multi coloured and says YAS QUEEN on it, all cluttered around on my top left pocket. Probably shouldn't be wearing them, but I like them. I have quite a few more on my backpack, which is- oh my God, I left it downstairs.
I do my hair and pull on a pair of my mum's silver heels, which she don't wear anymore and passed along to me so I could wear them for no reason when we're alone in the house, and which I'll obviously take off before I leave, and go downstairs with my books in my arms to put in my bag.
"Morning, Muuuuum," I sing as I get into the kitchen, where she's sipping a cup of coffee. I spin around in the heels after dumping my books on the table. "Look, I am fabulous."
Mum looks up from her coffee and grins at me. "You look fantastic, love."
"Yayyy," I say, grinning back and beginning to move my books into my bag. The shoes feel like confidence. I wish I had the courage to wear them outside. I suppose I still couldn't at school. "So, what's for breakfast?"
"Uhh, you alright with toast?"
I sit down at the table, getting me phone out from where I'd slung it in my pocket, not glancing up when I say, "with strawberry jam?"
"'Course, I'll have it ready in a minute."
I scroll through me socials but honestly, I don't really care what anybody was doing over the weekend except Varisha, who never posts, and only has an account so she can follow me on it and see what people are up to, even though I'm not sure she really cares either. Maybe she's on it 'cause she just feels like she should be. I never asked her to (I knew she wouldn't post even when she told me she was getting it).
I take a selfie, tilting my head to the side a bit and pulling an annoyed expression, and caption it school is gonna regret forcing me to go to it one day underneath, and then add #nofliter 'cause there's no filter, and then post it with satisfaction. There's now, technically, a picture of me in heels posted on my social media. And I look so cute in it, too, but one day I'll be truly sickening. When I feel comfortable unleashing my true soul.
I add a few ideas to my pin board on Pinterest that's based on this dress I wanna try and make, so there's a few ideas on there, and then my toast lands right in front of me, along with a tea I don't remember asking for, but whatever, I'm glad it's there.
"Mum, if I just don't go to school today," I begin, putting me phone on the table to begin to eat, "I won't tell anybody that you knew about it."
Mum shoots me a look. "Don't be daft. You've got to, Jess. Mocks are coming up."
"Ugh, but Mum," I argue, pausing to have some of my toast, "school's the most boring thing ever and I don't like anyone. I can just revise with Varisha on weekends or whatever."
Varisha would be happy to help. She really don't mind revising, which never ceases to amaze me, 'cause surely people who don't find revision boring have an unfair advantage? It ain't my fault I find it boring and difficult. If I could enjoy it I would. It would make everything such easier.
I'm doing OK in Textiles and Drama, at least (which are my options, so obviously I like them best), but even though I like making clothes and doing theatre, doing it in my awful school makes me lose passion for it a bit. I don't wanna be controlled or given projects in textiles; I wanna create what I want to. Not what they want me to. It's slightly easier in drama but I still feel restricted 'cause I hate the environment I'm doing it in.
Mum just looks at me sympathetically. "Holidays are soon. Couple weeks, now. It'll go by fast."
"That's after the mocks, which will no doubt take their time, though," I point out. I bet you anything that that week will feel like it's lasting actual real centuries. "Will we be seeing Dad for Christmas?"
I feel bad for asking. I wanna see him for Christmas but he left Mum, so like, she might not. But he's my dad, and I feel like I should see him on Christmas. And my stupid half-brother Darren who "likes football" and always looks at me with judgement, like I'm doing everything wrong.
"Oh... I dunno, love. Maybe. We'll see," Mum answers, very vaguely. Maybe I should, like, text Dad and ask? Maybe ask if he could see only me and not Mum? Maybe it upsets her, 'cause he has that new wife now. Who he got pregnant while still married to Mum. Ugh, God.
I stare at her for a second, arching my brow, and then sip some of my tea while I pick up my phone, 'cause it just buzzed for some reason. For a second I think, maybe it's Dad, suggesting something we could do this next Saturday (he couldn't make the last one), but it's Varisha. My heart sinks a bit but I love Varisha so I try to cheer up about it.
Morning sunshine lol! I'm just arriving at school for this hour long thing I'm doing before form time so can't text long but just wanted to say hi, wasn't sure when you'd be up. Try and bring some extra money because there's those snacks on at break time today since it's Monday, we could go get some.
I smile at my phone and type out an answer telling her good morning, and that I'll try and bring some extra money so we can have the snacks. Usually I just bring the bare minimum for my bus fare and for lunch.
"Hey, Mum," I say, as I type out an answer, "can I have some extra money for the snacks on at break?"
"How much?" Mum replies, going to her wallet.
"Four quid?" I ask, making a bit of an apologetic face. Since it's extra it's all unnecessarily expensive. "Pretty please?"
We don't have much money. Nobody in my school does really, 'cause it's such shit, but we really are scant. Dad used to support us better, but when he left five years ago he took most of our money with him, and Mum only works at the cafe at the hospital which seems, to me, to pay almost literally nothing, even though she does it full-time. She don't have much room for anything else, but she sometimes does extra little jobs for money I think (like walking somebody's dog or whatever), but I feel like we could use more money and when I'm a bit older, there's no choice but to become a stripper (obviously I'm joking. It ain't quite that dire).
Despite all this, she smiles a bit and says, "'Course you can," and passes me it, rubbing me shoulder for a second and giving me a fond look. Now I have money for a good snack and maybe some spice at lunch.
I now have more time than I need before I go to school and I'm bored, 'cause I feel like I'm on pause until school's over, and all I have to do is dread going on the bus with Carsen already on it, since he gets on ahead of me. I ain't scared of Carsen (I actually only just got over this terrible crush-on-him phase that I think I was using to cope with his asshole-ness), but it's not nice to be called out at insultingly, in front of everybody. I get over it fast but it's humiliating. Especially considering that people usually laugh, either 'cause they genuinely think he's funny (unlikely, since he ain't), or just 'cause they're scared of him.
I get out me English homework and read over it but it's a mess, and I'm in the bottom set. I'm dyslexic, which don't help. I don't wanna fail everything.
"Mum, me homework's a disaster," I tell her, groaning a bit as I read over it.
"I weren't much better in my day," she says, then, "Think I can help you with it, by any chance? Can try if you like."
"Don't think there's time. It's an essay so you gotta have the context and whatever," I say, and rest my forehead on it, groaning again. "It ain't fair, it's all so hard and the letters all move around. I just wrote it in a frenzy last night. A frenzy of not caring. But now I kind of care."
"Just tell your teacher you need more time to finish it, maybe?"
"But then she'll think I just couldn't be bothered," I point out. A lot of my teachers think I can't be bothered, mostly 'cause I act like I can't, and until this year I couldn't. And I've failed almost every exam I've ever taken.
"Tell her you're struggling and sometimes you need extra time. Want me to write a note for you?" Mum suggests, which maybe could help.
I consider this. I did try to start this essay so many times over the weekend and couldn't. I forced meself to last night. But it is difficult.
"Can you, like... yeah, OK," I say, nodding a bit and smiling at her. "Thanks, Mum."
She nods and mutters to herself, "Pen," before holding up a finger and walking out the room.
I watch her go and then smile down at my shoes, tapping them together like they're the red slippers in The Wizard of Oz and are gonna make my dreams come true. They don't but I love them anyway. I can't wait until I have me own pair. Maybe at Christmas? Maybe Mum will buy me a pair?
When she comes back in I've almost forgotten what it is she was doing, 'cause I've trapped myself in a daydream of owning me very own pair of bright red stilettos, which is what I want, I decide. Flashy. Unafraid. To strike terror into my enemies with the sharpness of the heel.
Mum writes me the note and I thank her, and put it and my homework in my bag together. There's still twenty minutes until I have to leave.
"Just going upstairs," I tell Mum, and run up there, taking them off the heels and putting them in front of me wardrobe, putting in an alarm for fifteen minutes time, and hopping back into bed, hugging a pillow. Quick nap, but I'll still in time for school. It's so comfy and warm taking a nap.
When my alarm goes off fifteen minutes later, though, it's entirely unwelcome, and I just groan into my pillow for a moment, switching it off. I just lie there for a minute or two, and then I realise that there's almost no time before my bus arrives and leaves, so I rush right downstairs in a panic, much to my mum's amusement, pulling on my normal school shoes.
"Bye, Mum," I say, kissing her cheek. Gotta be quick. Gotta go fast or I'll miss the stupid bus, ughhhh.
"Bye, love. Enjoy your day," she says, watching me go, as I rush to pick up my bag, dropping my phone inside it and then actually running down the road to catch the bus. I manage to make it.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry," I say to the bus driver as I get in, trying to ignore Carsen sat at the back and sitting at one of the seats where I can be alone. He doesn't say anything, which is a relief, but I can feel his eyes on me back. Ugh, whatever. I get out my phone and go back to my pin board. I text Varisha to tell her I'm on the bus, even though I know she's busy, and try and zone out back into me daydream.
Doing a series of writing the students mornings! (All the same morning, just their different experiences of it before they get to school, set on a Monday in November). This is Olivia's! They'll all be tagged #student mornings.
(Olivia's P.O.V.)
My alarm goes off an hour and a half before I have to leave for school. I hit snooze. Five minutes later it goes off again. I hit snooze.
Then, before it can go off again, I'm suddenly spurred by panic and sit up, dismissing the next alarm and running to the bathroom, feeling sick from sitting up too fast. Gotta be fast, though, or I'll be late meeting Libby to walk to school (although she's often late—she often runs down to my house to wait outside, but obviously I don't like to be late and keep her waiting. She can always come in, though, my parents get on with her).
I brush my teeth and wash my face, and then run back into my bedroom to brush my freaking hair, which is always a nightmare because I have a head full of curls that absolutely never behave. I always manage to style it out, though, when I'm having a bad hair day (like just tying it back). Luckily it don't cause me much trouble today, though, but I tie the front of it back.
Shit, Eleanor's calling me. I pick it up while I'm getting out my uniform, which is this boring navy blue that every school seems to be.
"What is it, Ella?" I ask her, pulling on black thigh-high socks and rolling up my skirt as high as I can. Eleanor's in my social group but mostly because she forces herself there, uninvited, and is always trying to elbow her way into being my "best friend." I never say anything and Libby just sits there completely non-threatened, with an attitude.
"Just wondering if we were gonna walk to school together this morning, that's all. We could do it every day now," Eleanor answers brightly, her voice annoyingly perky. "Maybe just blow off school some days."
"Walking to school with Libby today," I answer, carrying the phone with me into the bathroom to start with my makeup.
"I could join you guys," Eleanor says. "We could meet at the bus stop five minutes from your house, all walk there together. Like, meet there in fifteen minutes?"
"Not sure I can today, Ella. Meet you at school, yeah? Maybe tomorrow," I say, and hang up on her as I put on my foundation. It's NARS and I got it for me last birthday. New Caledonia, or something, I wish they'd give them normal, simple-to-follow names. Like peach and deep cream and dark bronze. And I wish there was some magic way to apply it that didn't eat up my morning.
I finish with makeup and get meself some chuddy, mostly to help out with my breath, just as I hear the door open and Libby calling from downstairs. She just walked in, but she does tend to have a whole lot of audacity, which I admire about her. I still manage to get more detentions somehow.
I hear my mum greet her as I shout that I'll be right down, and quickly shove my unfinished homework in my bags. Whatever. I guess that's why I get detentions?
"God, sorry, lost me homework," I say as I get to the front door where Libby is leaning against the wall, talking to my mum, who shoots me a scolding look.
"Be more careful next time," Mum says. "Get it in the night before."
"Mm-hmm, sure," I say, kissing her cheek and calling bye to my stepdad (who's been around, like, since I were a little kid but moved in when I was, like, eight), and Libby smirks a bit and waves at Mum in that surprisingly friendly-seeming way she does, following me outside and closing the door, linking arms with me.
"I cannot be bothered with Miss Collins this morning," she says, immediately conversational. "She always acts like we forced her to be there—umm, miss, it's the other way around? Let us go? Shhh, we won't tell."
I roll my eyes a bit and laugh, adjusting my bag on my shoulder. None of us in the class get along with Miss Collins (except Varisha, who's a swot), and she doesn't get along with us. She just thinks we're working-class kids who are gonna achieve nothing and have an average, working-class life as, like, a cashier or something. She thinks we're hopeless (but Varisha wants to go into politics or science or something smart like that, and so she has hope for her).
"She's a judgemental bitch," I say. Lower middle class and always seems to dress like she's going to work in a bank instead of a school. It's not like she's achieved anything important in life either, teaching at some shitty public school.
"I think she does revenge teaching, like, she takes the job in order to fuck up student's lives. Is Eleanor gonna join us this morning?"
"Not this morning. Maybe tomorrow," I answer, shrugging a bit. "She should text the morning before instead of ambushing me on the phone while I'm doing me makeup. Talk about a lack of notice."
Libby laughs. "Not much bother, innit really."
"Stresses me out. We have to time manage," I point out. No, she drives me mad. She's clingy. Not sure what she thinks I'm gonna give her, but she wants to date my boyfriend's best friend (but then, that's only so we can go on double dates).
Libby smiles at me mischievously and says, "Better just me, eh?"
"Duh," I answer, and we start discussing shit that happened over the weekend (not much, really). I tell her that Carsen and I stayed out until almost nine on Saturday, and then I stayed over at his house (our parents don't mind "but be safe," blah, blah, blah. We've been dating for like a year and we're both sixteen so, like, age of consent and Carsen is nothing new or scary), and then we discuss the shopping trip we had yesterday and this cute top she bought (she wears pink so well) and how it fit her perfectly even when she got home and tried it on again.
We're almost at the school and I check my phone just before I get in, only to be faced with a text from Eleanor from two minutes ago: I'm here! I'm waiting near the bikes, come meet me. Btw I forgot the homework!!
I stare at it for a second and then put my phone away, turning to Libby, who's still chatting on about some conversation she had with Jacob, an asshole from our form who we don't like that much.
"We've got to meet Ella at the bikes," I tell her when she's stopped talking for a second. "Did you remember the homework for English?" There are three sets and she, Ella and I are all in the same one.
"Yeah, it were a nightmare. Did you?"
"No." Wow, she actually did it. I didn't do the last homework either, so I'm already on a warning. "Neither did Ella. I'd ask you to let us copy but I think we might as well write gibberish."
Libby sticks her tongue at out at me playfully, then, "I didn't read any of the material, so I were basically just bullshitting the whole thing."
Typical. No point in copying from her, then. I'll just own up to not doing it. Don't really care. I've always thought to myself that Miss Collins is probably right: most of us won't amount to anything. We will be average, below it, even, forever. Pretty sure I will be, anyway.
Quick one-shot of Jess the night before he gets his mock results! Ft Varisha on the phone.
(Jesse's P.O.V.)
It's exam day tomorrow and I'm nervous, sitting up in bed at 2am in the morning. It's only our mocks, I remind meself. Not the be-all and end-all, but like, what if I do badly? Does that mean I'll fail my GCSEs and then, like, not have a backup for if me drag career doesn't work out? I guess I can still be a waiter with no Maths GCSE, right? In London, though. Drag or not, I'm leaving. Ta ra to Sheffield.
Ugh, exams, though. Feel like I didn't study that well. Varisha told me to, but like, I didn't. I was distracted by this video series I found on YouTube that teaches voguing, and then makeup tutorials, and then Carsen and the guys being awful to me so I didn't really wanna be sitting in a class room studying, where they could find me. Cishet men are a hassle as far as I see and need to gently move out of my way so I can bore myself to death appropriately.
Ugh, I'm gonna have failed. I always fail. I know Mum won't be too mad: I've told her my struggles and she understands them, the school won't do anything to help with me dyslexia, all the bullying. My real exams I'll do properly, though, Varisha can help me revise. I want my grades to be good even if I don't need them for me career. It would be nice to pass, be proud of how I did.
But tomorrow? Doubt I'm gonna be proud.
"You still up?" I whisper.
"If I wasn't, Jess, how would I have answered the phone?" Varisha points out to me, sounding less worried than I am.
"OK, good. To the important bit, then. Exam results."
"I know, I hope I did well. Mocks matter."
"Oh no, really?"
"You'll have done fine. Don't matter that much, anyway."
"Says the straight-A student? Straight A plus student, actually, that's even worse. Well, better."
Varisha sighs on the other end of the phone and she sounds like she's smiling at me and me silly antics. But she always does do well, she's great at revising and, it seems to me, that she barely even needs to revise. It's completely unfair.
"Jess, you know, mocks are important but they're not what matters," Varisha assures me. "I'll help you revise for the real GCSEs."
"Pretty pinky promise?" I whisper, and she giggles.
"Pretty pinky promise. Besides, how much worse can you have done than literally everybody else?" Varisha points out, and she's right.
Class will probably be hell tomorrow. Like, pass out the grades, Varisha and her As, the rest of us getting Cs, probably, if we're really lucky, and failing if we ain't. And then pestering Miss Collins the whole time about being given too little credit, listening to everybody call Vay a suck-up, Carsen will probably be a dick to me 'cause he can't just not for once. Every single class, he has to bother me. I'd rather pretend he doesn't exist but it's pretty hard when he keeps reminding me that he does.
I don't mind people misbehaving in class; I'm not known for my positive, pro-leaning attitude full of enthusiasm. It's just how I feel like it always leads back to Carsen being Carsen, and Jacob too, and all the guys, really. And Miss Collins, she hates me. She has to nitpick at everything I do. I'm not even the worst in the class, so I know that's not it. She's a homophobe, which is partly why she hates me, and she hates me mum, too, 'cause we're so poor, and she thinks Mum isn't conventional enough and lets me do whatever I want, which is basically stay at home and make outfits and watch Drag Race. I never go out, 'cause Varisha ain't allowed to go out after school, or in the evenings—sometimes we go shopping on weekends, though, in the daytime—and I have no other real friends.
"Don't really wanna be bunched in with them," I murmur. They have no dreams, no nothing. They all think they'll all do badly in their exams, have a low-paying job and, like, a sub par life. I don't want that. I have a dream and a plan and I don't wanna be sub par. I don't wanna be like them. Varisha already knows that she won't be.
"You're better than them, then, if that's what you want to hear. Regardless of the exam results today. I'll help you with your GCSE revision and you'll do- great," Varisha promises. I don't know why I'm so worried about the GCSEs. I don't need those exams and they don't say anything about me, anyway. But I feel like I do. I feel like they're a sign of whether or not I'll succeed in life. But not the mocks. Tomorrow doesn't matter.
"Thanks, Varisha," I say. "You're literally the best, y'know?"
"That's me," she says playfully, and giggles a bit again, and then, after a moment, "we should sleep, though, Jess. It's really late and we have school."
"Yeah, OK," I say, even though I don't really wanna hang up or go to sleep. "OK. Night, then, Vay. Sweet dreaaaams."
"Sweet dreams, Jess. Night," Varisha says, and then she hangs up and I'm left with my thoughts, which I don't really wanna be. Definitely time to go to sleep, then. Night-night, me xoxo.
