Issues

May 12, 2025 Webmaster

by Dana Maton

She would stay in the toilets for as long as she could before Maths class, ignoring the acrid smell. She leant against the wooden door frame, reading compass-tattooed graffiti. She felt the tender bruise under her hairline, courtesy of her stepmother.

She was always late for Maths. Slumped over her desk, she watched grey whorls of dust breathe in and out, caught on a chair leg, buffeted by the occasional breeze from the open window. She noted a pus-filled pimple on the cheek of a boy, and the ridged texture of her singlet, a reminder she was the only girl still not wearing a bra.

Her maths teacher was cool though. He had a great sense of humour. He was young, with long hair and a beard. He wore platforms and flares. Rumour had it he was living with one of the female teachers.

“Does anyone not get that? Except you Linda, I’ll be with you shortly”. His voice was kind, but she heard his quiet frustration, like slowly scouring a pot with a steelo pad, she was taking too long to learn.

She didn’t get numbers and when she tried they were always wrong numbers. Still, every week after school her teacher would give her extra time. But geometry and algebra might as well have been foreign languages, or Egyptian hieroglyphics.

Fiddling with the kilt pin on the scratchy woollen uniform, sweating from the weight of it in the heat, she noticed the thick black tufts of hair on her teacher’s arms, like a bear. Her dad’s arms were like that. It reminded her of the days when he used to hold her.

One morning, trudging slowly toward class, roman sandals flapping along the corridor, she went to pee and was surprised to see blood on her undies. It had finally arrived and she was at school. Panicking, she packed her undies with toilet paper.

She headed for the office, the ladies there would know, but shame kept her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, much like the communion wafer at mass.

Eventually, she scrawled the word period on a bit of paper and handed it to the office lady, who looked at her downcast eyes and red face and took her aside. Sorted, she was sent back to class.

Head down, face buried in her books, she slunk through the door, hoping her teacher wouldn’t notice. No such luck, even he had his limits.

“Linda, where have you been?”

“I’ve been to the toilet sir”.

“You’ve been to the toilet?” his voice, raised in disbelief.

Quiet laughter started to ripple around the room.

“Well in future, if you can’t control yourself, I recommend you bring a plastic bag to class with you!” Laughter erupted from the class.

Fuschia faced, shaking, she laughed along, sliding into her seat. On the pretext of shielding her eyes from the sun, her hand hid sad tears. She missed her mother.

Heading home after class, she thought about numbers she understood. 11 people, 3 bedrooms, and 2 years before she could move out.