Violet Ink (2 page)

I
have certain expectations when it comes to PE lessons at school. I
expect
them to be excruciatingly awful and, in all fairness, I'm not often proved wrong. That's why today's lesson is coming as such a shock. I've been dreading it for ages. We spent absolutely weeks and weeks working on our ball ‘skills' last term and today, as a grand finale, Miss Lane has planned a huge basketball tournament. It was supposed to happen at the end of term, but it got cancelled because of the Christmas music assembly. I thought we'd escaped it, but sadly not.

Virtually all of Year 7 have been crammed into the hall and put into teams. Our sports hall is quite small so there can only be one game going on at a time, which means that everybody else is either squashed on to benches along the sides of the hall,
rammed up against sweaty armpits (the uncool kids, i.e. me) or hanging over the upstairs balcony and yelling words of support and encouragement (a.k.a. abuse). Only the popular, sporty kids ever get to watch from the balcony. I tried to go up there once, but I couldn't get any further than halfway up the stairs – I'm just not cool enough.

We've been here for what feels like hours and unfortunately it's now my turn to play. My desperate pleadings in my head, to whichever god it is that looks out for kids who can't do sport, have failed miserably. The sports hall has not been engulfed by a massive tidal wave, nor has my leg miraculously fallen off. There's nothing for it except to reluctantly put on the bright yellow bib that is being handed to me and take my place on the court.

The game starts out as I expected. I loiter somewhere near the end of the court, trying to make it look like I've got a tactic. The ball heads in my direction a few times and I trot towards it slowly, doing a little shrug of impatience when someone else races in to get it before me. Really, I should be graded for drama in this lesson: I truly think I manage to look convincingly disappointed when Simon Turner cuts in front of me and snatches
the ball as someone foolishly throws it towards me. I even make a little ‘tut' sound – which actually represents my terror at the near proximity of an airborne missile that could easily break my nose if mishandled, but which to everyone else might sound like a sigh of regret.

Halfway through we swap ends. I slope down the court, smiling sympathetically at Hannah as we pass in the middle. Hard to believe, but she's even more hopeless at sport than I am. I wouldn't say that's why we're best friends, but it helps that we understand the trauma of PE lessons.

The whistle blows and we're off again. I start perfecting a little dance routine, taking three steps forward, then one to the side and then reversing the entire movement, taking little bouncing steps on my toes. A glance at the clock on the wall and I can see that our ten minutes of torture are nearly up. I'm congratulating myself on a job well done when disaster strikes. I look up just in time to see the ball winging its way through the air, at extremely high velocity, right towards my face. Without even thinking, I put my hands up to protect myself and feel the ball smack into my palms. My fingers tighten instinctively and I, Izzy Stone, am actually holding the basketball.

I
freeze. It feels like the whole world has stopped turning. I know that I need to act fast, that I need to get rid of this thing before it explodes or something, but my brain is struggling to tell my body what it should do. I'm not sure how long I stand there, but gradually I start to hear sounds. I guess that makes sense. I remember someone telling us in science that your hearing is the last sense to stop working when you die. I feel like I might have actually died of fright, but I can hear yelling and when I focus on the voices I can hear that they're all shouting the same thing. My name.

‘Izzy!'

‘Come on, Izzy!'

I shake my head and drag my attention back to the sports hall, the adrenalin pumping through my body making me feel like I can do anything. I've got the ball. And everyone is cheering my name. I can DO THIS!

Tentatively I try bouncing the ball on the ground. It springs back up to my waiting hand and I bounce it back down again, this time taking a step. Yes! I am moving and bouncing and thinking and breathing all at the same time. Go me, Miss Multitasker! Going slowly at first and then gaining speed, I start to head down the court.

‘Izzy!'

The shouts have suddenly got louder and I can hear Hannah screaming my name as if she's half hysterical. The yells from the spectators seem to have died down – they're probably all in shock that I'm actually doing OK. I'm running now and I can see from the corners of my eyes that nobody is trying to tackle me; in fact, everybody seems to be standing still, which is weird, but there's no time to think about that. I dare to take my eyes off the ball for a second and adjust my direction slightly so that I'm sprinting straight towards the basketball hoop. It's too much to hope that I can actually get the ball in, but I can try. Everyone loves a trier after all.

Time seems to be in slow motion now and I've got plenty of time to think about what's happening. Maybe I'm not completely rubbish at physical activities. Maybe I just needed to find MY sport. Maybe I'll be invited to join the basketball team and will get to hang out with the cool kids.

I can still hear Hannah screeching my name. Her throat is going to really hurt if she keeps that up much longer. I've reached the end of the court and, without a second's hesitation, I throw the ball up, up, up. The hall goes completely silent as
every single person follows the ball's journey towards the hoop. I hold my breath – and it goes in. IT GOES IN!

Turning to face Year 7, I punch my fist in the air. I've never actually done that move before, but it feels right. I'm jubilant! I know now why footballers celebrate their goals and it's all I can do not to pull my PE shirt over my head and run round the hall, whooping.

‘Yes!' I cry, jogging towards the centre of the court, where Hannah is walking quickly towards me. The hall is still silent and I wonder briefly when the cheering will start. And then Hannah is next to me, holding on to my arm.

‘Did you see?' I ask her, starting to laugh. ‘Did you see what I did?'

‘I saw, Izzy,' she says.

‘Wasn't it amazing?' I say, still unable to stop laughing. I actually don't think I'll ever forget this moment.

‘It really was,' Hannah tells me. ‘It was also the wrong hoop.'

I can't actually make sense of what she's saying for a moment, but, as the sound of the rest of my team making horrid muttering noises reaches my ears, I stop laughing and feel my stomach start to
turn over. Howls of surprised laughter start to flood across the court from every side, threatening to drown me. They're loudest of all from the balcony and I keep my eyes low so that I can't see what's going on up there. I don't think I'd like it.

‘What?' I ask her, hoping I've misunderstood.

Hannah starts leading me off the court as Miss Lane yells at everyone to calm down and get changed.

‘We swapped sides at half-time, didn't we?' Hannah whispers, pulling me over to the bench where we've left our bags. She's totally mortified on my behalf, which is small consolation when all I can hear is the hysterical laughter of the rest of Year 7.

I close my eyes and replay the last minute in my head. The silence. The fact that nobody ran after me. They were all in shock that anybody could be so utterly, ridiculously stupid as to run the WRONG WAY.

‘Nice one, Izzy,' someone hisses as they walk past me and I wonder for a second if I keep my eyes closed for the rest of the day then maybe nobody will actually notice me. It used to work when I was little and Alex and I would play hide-and-seek. I used to hide by standing in the middle
of the room with my eyes closed – Mum told me that I was convinced that if I couldn't see Alex then she couldn't see me. Sadly, I'm no longer two years old and, as I feel someone shoulder-barge me, I quickly decide that being able to see could be crucial to my survival.

I open my eyes and look at Hannah. She grimaces at me, a look filled with pity and embarrassment, and picks up her bag.

‘Everyone will have forgotten all about it by lunchtime,' she says unconvincingly. I nod and together we head through the sports hall doors, my face bright red and my head hanging down in total shame.

I'm eating my sandwiches in the hall and trying to ignore the looks that are being directed my way by the rest of the school. I suppose it's good that most people think it's funny – well, everyone except the other people who were on my team. They spent most of maths letting me know just how unfunny they found the entire incident. Apparently, we were only one goal away from winning. Actually, I don't think it's called a goal in basketball. Maybe you score a try if the ball goes in. Or is it a hoop? I have no idea and, as I
have no intention of ever setting foot on a basketball court again, I have no reason to find out. Whatever it is, we could have won if only I hadn't taken it upon myself to randomly run the wrong way and give the point to the other team. I've heard every theory going about why I must have done it.

1. I must fancy a boy on the other team.
   
2. I must hate the people on my own team.
   
3. I am rubbish at PE and therefore enjoy sabotaging PE lessons.
   
4. I am stupid and probably wet the bed at night.
   
5. I was momentarily possessed by aliens who made me run the wrong way.
   

OK, so I made the last one up. It just seems strange that nobody has suggested the real reason, which is:

1. I made a mistake. For which I am now paying. And the price is total humiliation.
   

Anyway, most people seem to have heard about it by now and, contrary to Hannah's theory, it's not
old news. So far this lunchtime I've sat through a
hilarious
re-enactment of me sprinting down the court, complete with sports commentary; several requests from the sportier students to NEVER try out for the basketball team; and an invitation to share my shame with the entire student population by agreeing to be interviewed for the school paper. I ignore the first, reassure them on the second that nothing could be further from my mind and politely decline the third, stating homework as my mitigating circumstance. It'll be all over Facebook by tonight anyway, so there's no need for a formal interview. I'm just keeping my fingers crossed that nobody snuck a mobile phone into the lesson – if video evidence of my shame ends up on YouTube then I might as well stop coming to school altogether.

I finish my sandwich and take a deep breath. I'm not a naturally brave person and all this attention is very unwelcome. I stand up and walk out of the hall as quickly as I can, focusing on not doing anything else that will cause everyone to look at me, for example falling over. As I get to the door, I'm gripped by the terror that my school skirt is tucked in my knickers and I end up scurrying out, one hand reaching behind me,
smoothing down my skirt and hoping that I don't look too weird.

Once out in the corridor, I breathe a sigh of relief. Most people are in the canteen or tucked away in common rooms and the corridors are pretty empty. Hannah is on duty in the school library so I head to my locker to stash my bag. My locker is on the second floor in C Block so it takes me a few minutes to get there. I only pass a couple of people on the way and they ignore me, so I'm feeling a bit more positive by the time I've climbed the stairs. Reaching inside my bag, I grab my key and unlock my locker and a piece of folded-up paper falls out.

Our lockers have all got slits in the front, like air vents. I have absolutely no idea why they're there – it's not like anyone's going to put an animal inside there (although I did hear that this really small boy in Year 8 got rammed into someone's locker at the end of term last year, so I suppose he was quite grateful for the opportunity to have a fresh supply of air to keep him going). Anyway, the slits mean that people can post notes inside the lockers and, as I bend down, I brace myself for something nasty. A hate letter maybe.

But I don't need to worry. As soon as I unfold
the paper, I see a familiar colour. It's from Alex, written with her signature violet ink fountain pen. That's what she calls it: her ‘signature' ink. She says that it helps make her words stand out from the crowd, that everyone else uses blue or black ink, but that she refuses to conform to other people's rules. She says that it makes her distinctive, unique – it shows that she's a true individual. I think that's quite a lot to ask from an ink cartridge, but Alex refuses to use any other colour.

And actually the colour violet really suits Alex. I know quite a lot about colours and what they mean – and people don't seem to realize that you can tell loads about a person by the colours they choose. Violet represents being brave and one of a kind; it means being someone who is good at creating things and has a brilliant imagination. Violet people are independent: they don't need anybody else. All of those things describe Alex completely, so it's good that she writes in violet ink. It's just that Alex thinks it's the colour that makes her BE those things and that's wrong. It's Alex who IS all of those things – the colour just matches her personality.