Never Forget

The back of the bike shed was covered in graffiti. Nadine knew all of it, every heart, every initial, every careless scribble. But then again, she had written most of it. Right down to the smoke-charred cartoon of Mrs Partridge, the slightly deluded new science teacher who had thought she had known better than to give Nadine detention: she was a firm believer in stern looks and the disappointed voice when it came to delinquents. But Nadine was not your average 20-a-day-and-a-bottle-of-beer teenager. To her friends she was the quiet one, but always the rebel. To the teachers Nadine was, well, an anomalous result.

 

Nadine had always lived on the council estate; Westgate Road was all she had known. Grey and dingy blocks of flats and rows of terraces. Not much to look at, but it was home. All her teachers had thought that she was too much trouble to bother with, but when the local comprehensive had suspended her for the sixth time, she knew she was ready for a fresh start.

 

So Green Oaks it was. Here Nadine was welcomed by Mr. Vickers, who showed her to her seat in his English lesson. It was funny; Nadine had always had an aptitude for English. Not that any of her teachers had cared. But Mr. Vickers encouraged Nadine to write: first a story; next a poem; here and there a short dialogue. And soon enough she had caught up to the rest of the class.

 

Steadily Nadine made progress. She was always the one caught with a can of paint, always the one found with a cigarette in her fingers, but she was always the one who scored highest on the tests. The teachers did not know what to make of it; to them she was just the kid in detention.  They could not understand how she was doing so well. There were allegations of cheating; numerous parent phone calls, but all the while Mr. Vickers never changed his mind: Nadine was gifted.

 

So Nadine stood, as she always did at lunchtimes, with a group of giggling girls behind the bike shed. Nevertheless, she somehow seemed strangely separate to the gang. No cigarette, no can of paint in hand. She knew what she had to do.

 

Nine months she’d waited. Nine months she’d wondered. Nine months was a day too late.

 

When the bell rang to signal the end of lunch, Nadine did not follow her friends. No-one saw her all afternoon.

 

Mr. Vickers returned to his office after his last lesson, and he saw, to his surprise, a booklet on the desk. The End of a Journey Too Many, By Nadine Hollowell. A familiar face greeted him at the window, and it misted up the glass. A finger traced the word ‘thanks’ in the condensation. Mr. Vickers stared for a moment at the face, which had become smaller and more childlike in the seconds that passed. It did not smile. The face faded with the writing.

 

On the back of the booklet, there was a single phrase: The words will fade, but we will never forget…