Against the Universe

Birmingham, England. 2009.

A/N: update 1/2

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"God, Mrs, not him."

There's a subtle rumble of laughter from Atticus' table in the otherwise silent classroom. He slides his hands down his face in a dramatic display of frustration, pulling at his skin to reveal more of the whites of his eyes. The gesture makes him resemble one of those Halloween ghost masks. It's unsettling.

Mrs Bashir briefly shoots an annoyed look in their direction. "Quiet, blue table," she instructs, placing a slender finger to her lips, then turns her attention back to Grover. Her face — heart-shaped and warm bronze — appears to soften when she looks at him.

The merciless snickers from the blue table dissipate, but Atticus continues to air his grievances under his breath. His blond curls flop forward as he hangs his head. "Slowest reader on earth," he grumbles.

This time, Mrs Bashir doesn't bother saying anything. "Third paragraph, please," she repeats.

Grover looks down at the paperback in his hands: a copy of Phillip Pullman's Clockwork. The spine is worn down, covered in white lines from being re-read so many times. He's aware that he's probably the only person in the class to have already finished the book. He's also aware that he's definitely the only person to have practiced reading page 70 aloud in front of a mirror.

He knows he can get through it with minimal slip-ups. But right now, with twenty-something pairs of expectant eyes watching him, he feels the pristine cream walls slowly closing in around him. He imagines the words spilling into the stuffy classroom air only to be shattered into fragmented syllables, not unlike the shards of his mother's favourite china mug after being hurled against the kitchen wall — an innocent casualty of last night's screaming match. His tongue knots in self-defence, and the words die in his throat, which he decides is a better fate.

He shakes his head. The movement is small, almost imperceptible, but Mrs Bashir catches it.

She sighs, disappointed.

Grover's shoulders slump in shame. He likes Mrs Bashir, he does, but he wishes she wouldn't keep encouraging him to participate.

When the school day is over, Grover's ears are still buzzing. Everyone else is rushing to leave, hastily grabbing their bags from the coat rack, but he takes his time. He's always the last one out of class. The end of the day is sacred to him, and he wants to drag it out for as long as possible. His sanctuary is not a fixed place but a time frame: the short period in which he's neither in school, nor at home.

As he goes to leave, he barely hears Mrs Bashir calling his name.

He turns back around to see that she has an odd look on her face. Her lips are pinched together in a smile, but she's frowning. It doesn't match up. She bows forward to close the height gap between them, her saddened eyes scanning his face. Eventually, she says to him: "I just wanted to say goodbye."

Grover is confused, to say the least. There's still two weeks until the end of year four, so she doesn't know why she's saying this now.

"Goodbye," he whispers, not quite sure how else to respond. Then he turns to leave again, Kickers squeaking against the marble floor.

The July heat beats down on his flushed skin as he steps outside. A group of older boys rush past with a battered football, jostling him slightly. Their striped ties and untucked shirts flutter in the breeze.

He heads towards his mother, Lakshmi. Recently she's started waiting for him at the gates with the other parents, rather than around the corner with an unfinished cigarette.