ABSTRACT

The bell for next lesson rings loudly, followed by hundreds of pairs of feet hurtling down the corridor. The noise is deafening. ‘Walk slowly! Don’t push, you’ll not get there any quicker!,’ I shout, but there’s no order; I’ve lost the battle. ‘All right, Whitney?’ shouts Tim, the head of department, rudely pushing two boys out of his way to reach my side. ‘Can you manage this lot do you think, being such a youngster? Dance? Well, you’ve got the advantage anyway, natural rhythm, and all that, eh, and especially with your body!’ His eyes sweep slowly down the top of my shirt, then he glances quickly up at me and grins. ‘You’ll love it, won’t you Darren?’, elbowing one of the bigger, stockier boys nearby. I recognize him as the captain from last night’s winning cricket team. His shirt tail hangs out over one side of his trousers, mud colouring both knees, testimony to the morning break kick-about. A large, loose knot on his tie, offering up a defiant challenge to the school’s dress regulations. The team’s win had been announced in assembly. Darren had collected the cup from the Head to loud cheering and clapping. Cricket’s the game here, apparently, and it was the first time we’d won the league. A proud moment for the whole school. … ‘Do we have to, Sir?’ Darren complains loudly. ‘Dance is for puffs! Why can’t I do athletics with you, Sir?’ Tim smacks him playfully on the head, laughing as he responds. ‘You’ll be OK. Miss Whitney knows how to dance, don’t you Miss Whitney? She’ll give you boys a good time I’m sure!’