#5 Toast and jam

 I didn't notice it last night, but there is a van parked about ten metres away from me. Now in the clouded morning sun, it is so big and solid I wonder briefly whether it had appeared out of thin air. For surely, even in the blackness, I would've felt it's presence. The van door slides open with a crash and a man lumbers out, barefoot onto the earth. He is brushing his teeth and looking away, away from me out at the sunrise over the low tide. His face is lit up and the toothpaste bubbles delightedly around his mouth. He takes a few steps forwards, towards the horizon as if he might touch it, then stops. He leans against the hood of the van and I look away, back inside. 

I am stretching out my neck, my shoulders, wiggling my toes to revive them from the overnight cold. It has been a long time since I slept in a car, but I remember the cricks and cracks that can follow you around all day. Back then it was different though. Back then I would sleep curled alone on the bench, my head pressing into the seat and my thighs squeezed together. The bends and the curves of my body like a pencil scribble squished into a rectangle. This, after a night of being drawn out all over the lines and edges of the car. Funny how humans will expand and contract. 

It gets awfully cold in a car overnight, I remember that. I remember waking up with a wetness all over my face, my clothes. I remember my tights, they felt sticky on my skin. It felt as if my legs had been doused in slime, and every miniscule movement sent biting cold into my already goosebumped skin. I pulled the sleeves of my blazer as far over my wrists as it would go, and stuffed my hands between my thighs. There, still, was a burn. In some hideous irony, I was grateful that my young, new body was still so violently reacting to the invasion of a man. At least it was somewhere warm. 

I would wait. I would look out through the steamed glass. I would try and count every individual leaf on the trees above me. I would watch my own breath stream out in front of my face like a dragon. If it was a good day, I would watch the little rays of sun make their way across the dashboard to the front seats, getting brighter and heavier as they went. 

Then we would drive. First, the heat would get going and clear the fog from the windows, then the radio would play and I would grin and giggle, then finally the choke of the ignition would set us in motion. I used to sit in the passenger seat hold my feet up to the heater fans singing along, brushing and plaiting my hair carefully. Then, freshly warmed feet stuffed into wet black pumps, I would sling my heavy, tattered bag onto my shoulder and wave goodbye, spinning and heading on through the cold morning air. 

I liked being early, I liked that there was no one there. I liked sitting on the radiator in the girls bathroom and doing whatever equation or essay I had neglected the night before in the car. I liked how quiet it was, how you heard the echo of footsteps or jangling keys or "Want a coffee mate?" from far, far down the vacant corridors. I liked how unimposing and meek it looked like this. A shell of something much bigger. 

Most of all, I liked the toast. Even though no significant number of us would arrive before 8.30am, the canteen was open at 7.45am; toast and jam for 75p. The ladies were busy and loud and happy. Through the little window, I could see people bustle and laugh as steam rose between them. The warmth would envelope me when I opened the door, I'd drink in the smells and sounds of the roasting, boiling, chopping... all that food, and all women. The way I remember the canteen, it is doused in a glowy yellow light, and I myself are unsure if it was really so, or just that way through my eyes. 

One time, I was collected the minute I stepped inside the building. I think it was a coincidence, and the man said I was just the person he was looking for. He walked me past the canteen, past the glowing, warm ladies and past the no entry sign. We went through the kind of narrow, carpeted corridors that only exist in places like this, and then he turned and knocked. There, I was delivered. I was damp, I was hungry and I was also very disappointed by the fact I was now in this office instead of in the second floor girls bathroom drying my tights on the radiator. Whatever this summoning was, it would probably take too long for me to do that now. This was my one and only thought as I sat down in the deputy head teachers office and she began to ask me about my home life. 

 I fell asleep there in that chair. Not at first, obviously. First I sat, while the lady asked me questions in a soft, reassuring tone. I didn't say anything. I don't know why I didn't. I didn't have any words in my head to say. I was still thinking about my tights. I felt like they squelched between my legs. I felt my thighs starting to itch under their fabric. I felt them bunched up around my heel, little drops of moisture releasing as a shifted my weight. I didn't want to fuss and fidget, so I stared at the smudge on her glasses. I know this woman. Years ago she taught my big sister, Katie. Katie used to come home in a huff and say she was a complete bitch. She doesn't seem like a bitch. She seems kind. She seems like a mother. 

At some point she left, she said I would have to wait. That she was going to have a talk with someone. I looked out the window. The blinds were closed but through the teeny vertical slats I could see part of the courtyard. It was full now. I remember it was incredibly warm in this room, and I was in an incredibly comfortable chair. I thought to myself how this corner of the school, the adult territory, was plushy made up with comfort. That in this environment full of cold edges and damp, chilly corners, the grown-ups had made themselves a cosy little den to hide in. It was so incredibly warm and soft. It was sitting in a perfectly full bath. It was lying on soft sand under afternoon sun. I felt like a cloud. 

When I woke up, my tights were dry. There was a mug and a plate on the little table next to me. Whatever talk had happened, whoever had partaken in it, and whatever conclusions had been drawn had fizzled away, it seemed. My eyes went straight to the little table, and I was relieved. 

There, next to the cup of tea, was a small plate holding two slices of toast, and jam.