Mira in the Present Tense (2 page)

We have to say what we think of the piece we've been given. What I notice first is the tense it's written in. When I read something in the present tense, I can disappear into it, like I do when I'm painting. It's as if I don't exist anymore; I just get lost somewhere in there among the characters…

It's hard to say exactly what it is that makes me hate school so much. It starts the moment I wake up and realize that I have to step into my bottle-green uniform. That's when it seeps away, what little confidence I have. On with the shirt…I'm slipping away…the jumper to keep me in my place…and now the tie…to knot tight the hard lump of swallowed words swelling my throat. The day drags on…hour after hour until 3:30 p.m.

What is it about me they can detect, even through the armor of this uniform? I've never been able to get a comb through my hair, more frizz than curls—that probably doesn't help. Girls are supposed to have silken locks, aren't they? All I want to do is work on the farm, feed the pigs, climb trees, or just stand on the open moorland, catching the force of the weather and never wear this stupid skirt, never, ever again. Instead, I'm trapped neatly in my row of wooden desks, with the golden-locked Jacky sticking the tip of her freshly sharpened pencil deep into my right thigh.

Pat comes over and asks how I'm getting on. I nod. I tell her I understand this passage…it draws me in. I try to explain the tense thing but somehow it doesn't come out right.

“I'm glad you like that one because it's one of mine. It's a memoir of ‘the happiest days of my life'…Ha! Ha!”

I nod. I want to tell her that I know exactly how she felt, but as usual the words won't come.

“The tense thing is a really complex idea,” she agrees, nudging me for a response.

I just sit in front of her, nodding and looking stupid. I can feel everyone's eyes fixing on me, but luckily so can she, so she stands up and taps on the desk, shifting the spotlight.

“Pick out one line from the passage you've been reading, something that really grabs you, just a line or a phrase…something you would like to have written yourself. It's an exercise I call Stealing Lines.”

I know without even looking again the exact words I'll choose.

“Now, swap them round, so you each read someone else's favorite line,” orders Pat. “Come on then, who's going to kick off?”

“
I am Rajvathan Rathour, ruler of the Ancient Palaces of Patiala,
” booms Ben Gbemi.

Jidé grins as he hears his own favorite line blasted around the room.

“What did you like about that line?” Pat Print asks.

“The character's like a superhero!” Ben shouts. He always shouts, no matter how small the room.

“Anything to add, Jidé?”

“He's a noble character, mythical…from an ancient land,” shrugs Jidé, knowing he's got exactly the right answer, but pretending he doesn't care that much. Jidé tries too hard to hide the fact that he is the brainiest boy in our class…probably in the whole of year seven. It's because his mum's head of history that he's so keen not to look like a creep, so if he's here you know it's because he really wants to be. Probably, he persuaded Ben to tag along with him, just like Millie persuaded me. He catches me watching him and I feel the blood start to snake its way up my neck so that the whole world can track the hot path of my embarrassment up my throat and over my face, and all because I think, just maybe, Jidé Jackson might have smiled at me. I can't even be sure of that though, because I now have my head stuck deep into Pat Print's writing in a pathetic attempt at covering up my blush.

“Exactly, and what was Ben's favorite line?” Pat Print asks Jidé.

I can't even remember what we were talking about now.

“I didn't have one,” interrupts Ben.

“OK, next time,” says Pat Print, not even glancing up at Ben.

“Now, Millie. Let's hear what you've got.”

“
…The tie…to knot tight the hard lump of swallowed words swelling my throat,
” Millie reads.

I keep my eyes trained on Pat Print's beaten-up old satchel. Was that her school bag? I wonder.

“I think it's about someone who finds it hard to speak or say how they're feeling,” Millie answers.

“That was me at school. Now, you can't shut me up!” Pat Print smiles. It's weird because the way she smiles at me makes me feel as if she already knows who I am.

“What about Millie's chosen line, Mira?”

Somehow it's not so bad reading out Millie's line…I suppose it's because I'm not responsible for what it's saying.

“
At the Tate, the modern sun shines through a long winter,
” I read.

“What do you think?” Pat looks to me for an answer.

Millie jumps in like she always does to save me the embarrassment. “I like the ‘modern sun,' because the sun is so old, but in a way it's always new. Every day there's a sunset and a sunrise…Every day you wake up, it's new. I saw that exhibition at the Tate Modern.”

“Wonderful, wasn't it?” Pat agrees and then catches sight of a bored-looking Ben sprawled over his desk doodling graffiti.

“I can see I'll have to find something more interesting for you, Ben. We don't want to bore you senseless. What are you into?”

“Skateboarding!” he booms.

Pat Print is amused. “Not one of my specialist subjects but I'll do some research.”

Then she springs this on us.

“Now you can do something for me! Your ongoing project is to write a diary. We'll call it the May Day Diary—I like that.” Pat Print grins, pleased with herself for coming up with the title.

“Only it's still April,” Ben grunts.

“No need to be pedantic, Ben. It's called ‘artistic license'…a tool of the trade…comes in handy, I can tell you.”

Ben and Jidé shoot each other a sideways glance as if to say, “What have we got ourselves into?”

“Writing is about writing. You can't learn to write if you don't write. If you never keep a diary in your life again, at least you'll have captured a month of your lives to look back on.”

“Why would we want to look back?” mumbles Jidé under his breath.

“One day, you won't need to ask that question.”

“One day when?”

“What's the point of doing it for just one month?” moans Ben, tagging on behind Jidé.

“A lot can happen in a month, Ben.” Pat sighs, as if she's remembering something important.

“Not for me. All my days are the same,” grumbles Ben.

Pat completely ignores him, picks up her bag, and starts to pack her things away. That's it! Ben's been dismissed.

“Mira, would you help me gather up these papers?”

Actually there's hardly anything to clear up, but teachers always do that when they want a private word with you.

Everyone leaves. They know the score.

“I thought what you said about the present tense was fascinating. That passage you read…first time round I wrote the whole thing as a memory…I got to the end and it just didn't work. It took me ages to find out what was wrong, but it wouldn't come alive until I rewrote it in the present tense.”

“I find it easier to paint than write,” I tell her.

“Mira, we can't all be talkers. Think of writing this diary as painting a portrait in words. Make a start in the present tense if it's easier for you, but you can be sure that before long, the past will creep its way in there somewhere. Even at your age, there's plenty of past. Right then! See you next week.” She waves me off without looking up.

As she walks out of school, she leaves a trail of dry mud behind her.

Saturday, 30 April