It was just going on and on and on. A hot afternoon and they were reading at about a zillionth of a mile an hour and they kept stopping ‘cos they couldn't pronounce the words, let alone understand the bleeding things. 

So I spoke. “Well, I wouldn't let no woman talk to me like that." 

The class did that kind of gasp thing. 

I was sat at the back. Some of them were looking at each other and I could hear a giggle. One or two turned round to look at me. Gawping.

So I carried on before Miss could think of what to say. "I mean are you saying that this Lady BigMac is telling him he's a wuss ‘cos he won’t do the deed and he's letting her and he's not given her a good slapping for speaking to him like that?”

They were looking at me and then at her. The stupid sods. All of them - and her, Miss Whatsit.

"No, David, not everyone beats up their wives and anyway, Macbeth is someone, like a lot of young men, I suppose, who needs to prove himself, and Lady Mac knows this and knows what to say to him, how to handle him. That's what women do with their husbands, David.”

She was speaking in that voice. The one that says you're stupid. Just a kid. You don’t know nothing. And anyway I’d never seen my mum with me dad - he’d buggered off just after I was born. So that's when my leg kicked out. There was a shriek from Gabby who was sitting on the chair in front. I guess I must have squashed her into her desk, but she was making a real meal of it. "Boo hoo, boo hoo. Get off, David." I hoped I hadn’t hurt her 'cos I liked her. Though she didn’t know. Or didn’t say she knew.

The class started kicking off, then.

And I was out of the classroom. I could hear Miss telling me to wait there. So I thought sod that for a lark. And I was in the corridor and my hands were thumping into the lockers. Metal. Thin, like Heinz Beans tins. The noise was great and I could tell I was making big dents. And teachers were coming out of their classrooms to see what was going on. “Stop!” David. Stop! Come here.” 

But I was down the stairs and out of the school. 

They were looking at me from the windows as I walked across the playground to the school gates. So I gave them the finger and laughed.


                ____________________

“It’s the last time. Why do I have to put up with it all? I don’t know why you’re like this. Always in trouble. It’s the last time I tell you I’m going to that school. I've told them. I've told them. Nothing I can do. You’re a law unto yourself. I've told them. For God’s sake why do I have to put up with you? It’s the last time … Etc.”
Now that’s my mum. She’s nothing if not repetitive. So I told her. “That’s your fate, ma. Or is it your destiny.” Miss got me all confused about that about that in the Macbeth lessons. Something to do with free will.

                ____________________

And there we were. Trudging into school. Four O’Clock. To meet the Principal, Mr. James. And who should be standing there as we walked through the school gates? Waiting for me. Gabby. ‘Oh I hope he doesn't exclude you, Dave.' And she gave me that look that said, like, 'I'm serious.'

                ___________________


The Principal’s office smelt of Mr Sheen. All shiny wood, gleaming trophies and photos of school teams. Kids all smiley and proud of the sodding place. I mean what is there to be proud about?  Then there are the rubbish paintings from the Year 7’s - here to make visitors go all slushy. 

My fingers felt under the seat and I squidged my bit of chewing gum there. I felt for the others, dry and stuck like those things you get on rocks at the seaside - six, seven, eight. All there - one for each of my visits over the last two terms. My final two terms at this crap place by the sound of what the Principal was booming out to my mum. 

“I’m sorry Mr James. I don't know what gets into him. He won't listen to me. I mean what can I do? I’m at my wits end.” She was blubbing. 

“So what do you have to say for yourself, David?” droned the Principal, “Think carefully. What you say now could change your whole future."

Well, there was nothing to say. I mean, was there?

"Come on, Dave. At least say you're sorry." Mum again, sniffing, her Kleenex all soggy in her clutching, shaking hand. 

She could be really embarrassing, my Mum. 

"I'm sorry, Mrs Smith. He's given no explanation. I think you already know the decision I must make. I have my staff and the other children to think about."

"But he used to be such a ... such a good boy," she gurgled. "I'm sure he can change. I'm sure he will be again.” Then her voice went all wobbly like and there was a long pause.

"Well, that's something to hold on to, I suppose,” he finally said.