The end of freedom
It was Saturday morning. Early. Too early, but the time for the crime had already begun in Mum’s book.
Come on, Will, it’s time to go.
She stood in my bedroom doorway dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. At least I could be grateful that she wasn’t wearing that kooky gardening outfit. I was still in my boxers, mucking around with a new tune that had been hanging around in my head.
No it’s not. The auditions don’t start till nine.
Her hands were already on her hips: no chance for negotiation.
I don’t care. You’re going to get there early and you are going to offer any assistance that you can to the teachers, especially Mr. Andrews.
That man was going to die.
Mum, I don’t need to get there this early!
I negotiated my way around her and made it to the bathroom. She followed close behind.
I don’t care. Will. You’re going whether you like it or not. And more to the point, this is the last time I will be dropping you at school. You can ride your bike in future.
Great. Most people were beginning to beg their way into taking their parents’ cars out and I had to ride my bike. Dad’s car sat in the garage waiting for someone to make it useful. But even if I could drive it I probably wouldn’t.
I closed the bathroom door and started to brush my teeth. A sense of dread filled my gut in anticipation of the day’s events. I tried to concentrate on the girl factor. I mean, what girl wouldn’t be interested in a sensitive, guitar-playing guy like me? I love to throw words around, and that’s what girls are meant to like, isn’t it, the fact that a bloke can talk to them? I can talk and play music … and I’m all right at football and soccer.
I’m not ugly either. I mean, I don’t look in the mirror and think, Man, you should lock yourself up you are so damn ugly. I reckon I’m pretty average. Lots of brown happening: brown hair, brown eyes, brown skin. I’ve had the really bad growth spurt that most blokes go through, all legs and arms and not much else. That really is when you’re ugly. When you can barely coordinate your feet with your legs, your arms with your torso, your head with your chin. No, I’ve definitely moved from the my nose doesn’t fit my face stage. Suppose I’m fairly tall, tall but not huge. Mum reckons I’ve got big dreamy brown eyes, but that’s what mums are like.
William!
Her voice came loud and clear through the wooden door.
You have exactly five minutes to get out of that bathroom, get changed and get yourself in the car!
I looked into the mirror. Who was I kidding? My mother was driving me to school on a Saturday morning so I could play music with a bunch of socially retarded geeks.
I may as well have loser printed on my T-shirt ’cause no girl was going to rate a guy like that.