Thursday, October 09, 2008
The new girl stood at the edge of the playground, holding her father’s hand and wishing that the maelstrom of whirling figures and noise – her peers and associates for the next decade and a bit – would just give her a glimpse of the eye of the storm. Lucy felt Harold’s hand squeeze hers, the signal for release like the pilot of an aircraft giving the nod for a skydive.
She just hoped the chute opened.
There! By the corner of the building – between the toilets and the recycling bins – a lone figure stood, tiny against the hurricane of older girls. Lucy let go her father’s hand and was swept into the whirlwind of taunts and dares; of crisp wrappers and lollipops and homework excuses. She struggled through the storm to the oasis of the girl she had spied, the last new girl – the one that died.
painting by Mark Ryden