We Are Not Okay. Natália Gomes

scoops it up. ‘Here.’

      ‘Thanks.’ But when my fingers latch on, he doesn’t let go.

      ‘You shouldn’t let those girls get away with that.’

      ‘It’s fine. Really. Hardly ever happens.’

      ‘Liar.’ He smiles at me, and slowly I feel the muscles in my face soften.

      I tug at the folder again. This time he releases it, but his fingers brush against mine. It startles me and I look back to see if anyone saw it. Around us, people move in all directions, some darting into classrooms, others hanging out in the hallway. No one is looking at us.

      No one sees us.

      No one sees me.

      I take a deep breath and walk away.

      When I look back, he’s still standing there.

      My shoulder skims the corner of the wall, then I’m in a new hallway and I don’t see him anymore.

      I’m not used to being at a mixed-gender school. Boys sitting beside girls in classes. The girls’ changing room next door to the boys’ changing room. Girls standing in front of or behind boys in the lunch queue. Boys eating with girls they barely know. Nobody else here thinks this is strange but me.

      Room 17 is dark, having not been used for classes all day. It’s stuffy so one of the students cracks open a window. Cool clean air seeps in from the gap and I take a deep breath. The room is full. Classmates sit on desks, in chairs, lean against bookshelves. No one will notice me here.

      I stand by the door in the back. The door handle jabs into my spine a little but I stay. This is the perfect spot. This is my spot. I stand here every week.

      Some people take notes, while others hide their phones under the desks and text their friends. I don’t know why they come. Most won’t be applying to university and some won’t get in even if they do. I know why I come. Not because we’re obligated to sign up to one of the many UCAS sessions held throughout the school week. And not because I don’t know how to navigate the online system, or don’t know what universities are looking for in applicants. My grades are impeccable and I will certainly obtain unconditional offers for all the universities that I apply to. I could probably teach this class. In the second week, the instructor spent an hour walking us through how to complete the first page of the application form – ‘Personal Information’. I’m pretty confident we can all recall our full name, address, date of birth and a contact telephone number.

      That’s not why I come here.

      I wait until the lights dim, then watch as the instructor struggles to bring up the first slide of his PowerPoint presentation. Perfect time to slip out. No one turns. Anyone who does see me leave will probably just assume I’m going to the toilet and not question it.

      The hallway is already quiet, even though it’s only been fifteen minutes since the last bell. Those girls are long gone now. They’re probably shopping for a new eyeliner in Boots on the way home, or picking up the new Glamour or InStyle from WHSmith. Sometimes I dislike them. Other times, I envy them. I don’t have that luxury of ‘free time’. Between waking up and going to sleep, my day is mapped out for me. What I wouldn’t give for one afternoon after school where I could stay out as late as I want, skip dinner with the family, skip my evening readings, skip everything. Maybe I could leave school early, fake a sore belly, and have hours to myself – hours to lose to nothing, to lose to everything. But time slips by me, never glancing back. Time bumps into me in the hallway, and sits too close to me in the cafeteria. Time sits behind me in class, and ticks against my wrist, reminding me that seconds are passing, but that they don’t belong to me. They belong to everyone else. They belong to those girls.

       Time.

      When I reach the top of the hill, I look down at the watch on my wrist and adjust the alarm. I have thirty-five minutes. A deep breath escapes my lips. A flutter in my belly. Heat in my cheeks.

      Boys sitting beside girls.

      Girls meeting boys.

      I bite my lip, feel the pressure between the teeth build.

      And then I see him, waiting for me on the hill. He turns. He sees me. Finally someone sees me.

      Then there comes that smile.

TRINA

      Journal Entry 1: 05.09.2018

      I saw him again this afternoon outside the biology department. I’d been rushing back from having a quick smoke outside the chemistry labs and was on my way to the girls’ toilets to brush my teeth before class, when I turned the corner and saw him. I always seem to see him there in that hallway, so much so that I find myself hanging around and waiting there sometimes in case he passes by. I never used to go down that hallway. It branches off to the Literature & Languages classrooms and since I’m not taking English or French this year there’s no need for me to venture down that way. But I know he has German after lunch period so instead of using the toilets by the chemistry wing, I now intentionally walk an extra four minutes out of my way for a chance of bumping into him. Is that stalking? No…surely not? I’ll Google that later.

      Anyway, today he was leaning against the wall, slapping his right palm against the stone to a particular rhythm like he was hearing a song that no one else could hear but him, while he waited for Mr Fischer to open the classroom door. And when the door did finally open, right before he turned his back on me – again – I could have sworn he looked up at me. Just briefly. Just long enough for me to notice and take a snapshot in my mind of his eyes, his body language, his expression.

      He was kind of happy to see me, but also not wanting to show that he was. Why the games?

      I like him.

      He likes me.

      This is a pretty easy problem to solve, isn’t it?? He’s the smart one, not me, so why isn’t he figuring this out? If he likes me as much as I like him then there’s no need for these mind games. We shouldn’t be avoiding each other or pretending that we’re not happy to see each other at school, in the hallway, outside at lunch, in the car park, when in fact we’re thrilled. He doesn’t have to not let on. He doesn’t have to pretend. Not with me.

      We had an amazing summer together. We spent practically all of our free time hanging out. He acted like we were in a proper relationship, but now this? It’s as if the summer never happened. But it did. I know it did, and so does he. How much longer am I supposed to wait for him?

      We don’t have all the time in the world to take this slowly if this is what is happening. We only have one more year together. He graduates in June and will go off to somewhere else new and exciting no doubt, Edinburgh or London or somewhere, and go to a fancy university that I can’t pronounce the name of let alone ever stand a chance of getting into myself. And even if I did stand a chance – in some crazy universe where I actually got good enough grades and had made Head Girl – I couldn’t afford to go.

      Tuition rates are insane. I know there’s funding, but I likely wouldn’t be eligible for it because it’s probably ‘merit-based’, right? People with bad grades and even worse attendance don’t get funded to go to uni to get more bad grades and skip more classes. No, the government would prefer to spend its money on students who will actually pass the course and graduate to get a job to contribute to society. Me – I’m a risk. No contribution to society so far. Except to the food and drink industry. I do frequent the newsagent down the street quite a bit to get cheap vodka for the weekend. Does that count? No probably not.

      And then there’s the books. A friend of mine in the year above went to Kelvin College this year to do her Access to Nursing and she’s already spent so much on the textbooks. And that’s just for her first semester! One book was apparently forty-five quid! She probably won’t even read it. You know anything that costs forty-five pounds will have tiny writing, graphs no doubt, and not the kinds of glossy colourful photos