Revenge

 Slowly, silently, Simon is about to deliver his secret killer blow.

He's been waiting for this moment, almost since he arrived at the school. That's about six months ago now, six months during which he has fervently hoped things might go back to the way they had been. His mother's assurance that they will only solidifies his belief that this is only a temporary move, so his plan today won't backfire into his own face.

As the right moment approaches, Simon can't help but remember ...

~

'Just do your best, Simon,' she had told him. 'It's only until I can get everything sorted and your bastard of a father pisses off to WA like he said he would.'

He'd tried. He really had. He'd listened, cooperated, collaborated, put the effort in, pulled his finger out. He'd even smiled from time to time. For a while it seemed to work. His teachers seemed to like him. His assessment feedback seemed to be more positive. His mother seemed to be nagging him less and less.

Simon seems to have fitted in well since his arrival ... he seems to have a positive attitude to his work and seems able to work in harmony with his peers ... Simon seems to be a polite and likable young man ... Additionally, according to his pastoral leader, Simon seems to display some leadership ability.

But things went to shit after a while. He can still feel the lump on the back of his head from the impact of that cricket ball in the nets one lunchtime. Yadav had eventually apologised, a sort of fuck, sorry that came out of the corner of his mouth. Once they had started bowling bouncers at him, he managed to move on and join the boys who played soccer on the oval. Less dangerous. 

He was wrong. Although the bruising had long disappeared, he can still imagine the pain around his ankles and the split eyebrow with its trickle of blood he had received from a stray elbow. 

But no matter what happened, he held on to the promise of a return to better days and managed to stay under the radar during his classes. He was even befriended by a group of Year Nines who hung around the library most of the time. Not completely cool but at least he belonged somewhere. 

That is, until he found himself in Fogarty's Semester 2  English class. The teacher seemed to take an instant dislike to him and the feeling quickly became mutual. Along with the rest of the class, he was set hugely unreachable expectations and every moment of every lesson was weighed down with rules. Very quickly he began to dread going to English lessons and spent more and more time devising strategies to avoid them, always without success.

His assessments began sliding, his mother began nagging. His Pastoral Leader began showing concern that embarrassed him so much he stopped telling her what was happening.

The weeks and months passed.

Somehow he managed to keep his defenses up. Somehow he completed work. Somehow he managed to avoid Fogarty's eyes most of the time. It was lucky he liked Science so that class was like the river on a hot day. Always something new. Usually something encouraging.

One day, without reason, he realised that it was his old man who had encouraged this curiosity and he began to be known as a very good Humanities student. Yet, a related thought had often intruded. Given that his dad wasn't actually too bad a bloke, why did his mum leave him? But that's a question he didn't even dare ask her ...

~

It feels appropriate somehow that today is the final day of school for the year. He still doesn't know if his mother is going back to their previous home in South Gippsland. She doesn't tell him much. She seems to have become quieter.

'Your father is still looking for a unit in Melbourne,' is almost all he gets. 

'So we'll go back when he does?' he often asks.

'We'll see,' she would say. 'It's his fault so it's his responsibility.' Her anger is always near the surface.

The class has done its duty and cleaned up the room and its surrounds, emptied the lockers and is now shambling into some sort of circle for a final farewell. Simon knows he may never get this opportunity again.

'Come on everyone,' snaps Fogarty. 'Get your act together. You know what a circle is. Just do it.'

The mob of pubescent teenagers eventually arranges itself according to the teacher's edict into some sort of circle. Simon is in his seat and, to his outward horror but secret pleasure, Fogarty sits next to him. The moment has presented itself but he will have to wait, will have to control the urge, hold his built-up repression at bay.

According to the school's tradition, each student in the group says one thing they've learned during their Year 9. Words like collaboration, how rockets work, fun, learning about leadership, friendship, not enough shade, most teachers are okay escape his classmates' mouths until it gets to Fogarty himself.

'You've been an interesting bunch to teach. I think some of you will get where you're going.' He turns to look at the student on either side of him. Simon squirms. His classmate, a girl named Chelsy, grins into her hand. 'Maybe even Simon and Chelsy,' he chuckles at the thought he clearly thinks is clever. There is a faint ripple of polite giggling and some choked Fuckwit from a couple of idiots.

The school bell sends an immediate shaft of energy through the class.

'Wait!' The command spurts from Fogarty's mouth. The circle freezes in mid stance. Fogarty waits for a moment. 'Enjoy your holidays,' he eventually says, a smirk angled across his face.

Simon can't hold back his attack. It's been building for so long, and he knows a perfect moment when he sees one. He has his old man to thank for that. 

As the room empties in a flurry of voices and restrained pandemonium, Simon stands and faces his nemesis. 'Sometimes things happen that you least expect,' he tells him. He risks a silent moment and then turns quickly and leaves.

But not before he lets go a sustained, practised and utterly satisfying fart.