The next day seemed like an eternity to Michael, and not just because he had to spend it at school. His first thought when he woke was that he'd had a fantastic dream, but the mud on his running shoes convinced him otherwise. Besides, how many dreams ended with being scolded and sent to bed? That was far too ordinary an event for anyone, and far too common a one for Michael, for it to have been featured in a dream.
The fact was, Michael hadn't dreamt at all. He was exhausted when his father sent him upstairs, what with his excitement and the late hour. He realized as he brushed his teeth that he had no idea what hour it was when his father had asked him whether he knew how late it was, and that his father had never said. Whatever time it was, it was much too late for him to be out and about on a Thursday night. He realized that truth now, as he dressed and made his way down the stairs. He mused on the way that going downstairs the night before was a thrill, and now it was a chore. Now it meant he had to go to school.
At breakfast, he considered speaking to his father, but when he saw Mr. Scott's face, how tired he looked from being up in the middle of the night, and how grumpy he looked because he had needed a lot more sleep before his big meeting that day, Michael realized that the less was said about the night before, the better. Plus, Michael was borderline exhausted himself, so that the cheerful banter that Mrs. Scott and Willow were sharing bothered Michael as much as it seemed to irritate his father. Michael wondered if this was one of those moments when a father and son became closer through sharing a common experience. He decided it would probably be best if he didn't find out. It would be best to finish his breakfast quietly and be on his way.
Michael attended the New Elizabeth Regina Comprehensive School, the newness of which escaped Michael. As far as he could tell, there was nothing new about it. The building was old, probably as old as his father, or older even. Michael was aware that there were many things much older than that, for instance the church behind his house, which was hundreds of years old. His home, in fact, was over one hundred years old. That didn't change the fact that anything as old as his father could hardly qualify as "New."
The building consisted of tawny brick walls and shiny steel window frames and doors, a building that at a distance seemed better suited to automobile production than education. Michael supposed that was the reason some of the school's faculty sometimes referred to his school as a factory. That they only did so when the headmaster was out of earshot made it clear to Michael that the term was not a compliment, but he wasn't sure whether they were simply insulting the building itself, or whether there was a hidden meaning to the term that he detected but didn't fully understand. When he referred to school as The Factory in front of his parents, his father laughed out loud, and his mother pretended to be angry but couldn't hide her amusement, so the family gradually picked up the habit of using the term.
One thing Michael did understand was that, despite everyone's wishes and efforts to the contrary, the New Elizabeth Regina Comprehensive School was not a very good school at all. It wasn't the building, which was dingy, leaky, run down and old, in the way that only a building that was designed to be bright, seamless, energetic and new was able to be. It wasn't the chalk boards, which were permanently dusty, or the tables, desks and chairs, which were universally wobbly. It wasn't the maps, many of which were outdated, or the books, a number of which were full of theories that nobody believed anymore. It wasn't the teachers, some of whom were old and exhausted, others of whom were young and untested, many of whom were entertaining, inspiring and expert. It wasn't the children, who, like most children, were just children like most children. The problem with the New Elizabeth Regina Comprehensive School was that it wasn't new.
The New Elizabeth Regina Comprehensive School was built to always be new, and it no longer was, and everyone in the school knew that it wasn't. It couldn't be. It was just an old school, like any old school, no matter how new everyone tried to pretend it was, with exciting new teaching methods that no one trusted and mind-expanding classes that no one knew how to teach. It was like an old dog on a skateboard. It might be able to remain upright, but it was never going to look right doing it.
Whatever the source of the school's ills, its biggest problem as far as Michael was concerned was that it was a school, and was for Michael all that a school meant.
It meant sitting in a chair instead of running in a field. It meant writing at a desk instead of climbing a rock or a tree. It meant stony, stationary teachers instead of slashing, dashing footballers. True, history class had Sir Walter Raleigh, William the Conqueror, Magellan and Guy Fawkes, but it also had 1066, 1603, 1789 and 1917, or was it 1918? English had Ivanhoe and Robin Hood, but it also had composition and penmanship. Maths had long division and fractions, and, well, that was the problem with Maths. There was drawing, but there was geography. There were sports, but there were sums.
More to the point, sitting in the New Elizabeth Regina Comprehensive School was just that, sitting in the New Elizabeth Regina Comprehensive School, inside, not out. Worst of all, it was sitting in a big, fading-brown-brick-and-steel building, which especially today was not where Michael really wanted to be. Michael wanted to be outside his home, in the back garden, nearly at the back wall, beside the small, white-wood-and-aluminium garden shed.
Michael was madly anxious to be home. That meant, of course, that minutes felt like hours and hours felt like days. If it were possible for a day to last a month, that Friday would have lasted two years. Whatever Michael's teachers told him that day, they may as well have told to the brown-brick walls.
Normally Michael looked forward to Friday, not merely because it marked the end of the week, but because Friday afternoons were filled by Games, a half day of athletics instead of classwork. There was football in the autumn and early winter, there were various indoor sports and swimming in midwinter, and there was football again in the spring and early summer, along with cricket. Michael's father grumbled because there was no rugby at the New Elizabeth Regina Comprehensive School, unlike the Noswaith School, where Mr. Scott was sent away to school when he was young, but Michael didn't mind. Football was just fine with him. Mr. Scott said rugby built character, but Michael was satisfied with kicking, throwing and running for the time being. Character could wait until he was older.
Michael felt that by the time Games were over this Friday, he would be older, much older. Not even football could hold his attention this day. He stood on the pitch, thinking about the night before and wondering what time it was, only joining in the game when the ball was near enough to require some action on his part. The other boys were too excited to notice his distraction, but Mr. Boot, his P.E. teacher, was never satisfied unless all of the boys were running as hard as they could, and Michael obviously wasn't.
"Come on, Scott!" he yelled (he always called the boys by their surnames), "Get your head in the game!" He also yelled things like, "Come on, Scott, tuck in!" and "What was THAT?!"
"What was THAT?!" was Mr. Boot's favorite thing to yell.
"What was THAT?!" he yelled one final time, and then he blew his whistle to mark the end of Games. "All right, lads, into the showers!" The boys all ran as a pack to the dressing rooms, and for the first time that day, Michael ran fastest. Without changing, he gathered up his things and headed for the door. He didn't get there.
"Where do you think you're going?" Mr. Boot demanded.
Michael wanted to pretend he didn't hear and keep going through the doorway, but he was unable to, because the doorway was filled by Mr. Boot.
Mr. Boot was a tall, muscular man who, like Michael's father, put great store in rugby's building character. In fact, Mr. Boot played rugby on weekends, and Michael was aware that Mr. Boot and Mr. Scott had discussed Michael's playing at Mr. Boot's club. It was another of the things people discussed around Michael that he wasn't supposed to know they were discussing. He was sure that Mr. Boot was going to want to discuss rugby with him now. Adults always seemed to want to discuss one thing or another that Michael didn't want to discuss just at the time when discussing it would be least convenient.
"I'm too young to play rugby," Michael blurted out, eye on the door, "My mum says."
Mr. Boot looked down at Michael with an air of disapproval.
"Too young for rugby, eh?" he said, "Well, I'm not so sure about that."
Michael braced himself for a lecture on character.
"Too young for rugby or not, you're not going out this door until you've showered. You know the rules."
Michael stood looking at Mr. Boot, not understanding what showering had to do with character. He waited for an explanation.
"Showers. Now."
Still expecting an explanation, Michael was unsure what to do.
"I don't want to have a discussion with you, Scott. I just want you clean. Now off you go."
He took Michael by the shoulders, turned him and pushed him gently towards the lockers. Michael went, suddenly understanding that there was going to be no lecture. He decided that he liked Mr. Boot. He showered quickly, dressed hurriedly, gathered his books and football kit and bolted for the door. He liked Mr. Boot, but he didn't want to have the doorway blocked again. He heard Mr. Boot calling after him as he hurried down the corridor.
"Have a good weekend, Scott!"
Michael was sure he would have a good weekend, if he could just get home and get it started. He rushed out of the school building and struck out across the school lawn. He didn't have time to keep to the pavement.