SOMEONE in DOCS thought it was time I tried to live a normal life.
In other words; “kid, you’ve got to get your arse to school instead of raking leaves all day at your foster home.”
I asked to go back to my old school. If DOCS officers were as stupid as I thought they were, they would say “yes, Chris, okay” and I’d say “ha ha! I was home schooled, b–tch. Take me home please!”
It didn’t work.
So I asked to go back to St Josephs, the Catholic school I’d attended before home school.
That’s when I learned being expelled means you can never, ever go back.
The psychologists and my foster mother Hazel decided it would be best if I went to Frederickton Primary. It was only a 20 minute bus ride away.
The night before I was due to start at the new school, I grabbed scissors, retreated to my room and cut all my hair off. I did not show my new hairdo until 15 minutes before I was due to leave for school.
“Taadaah!” I said to my 60-year-old foster mother.
This would give me a day or two at least, I thought.
A DOCS officer took me to town and arranged me to have another haircut at the barbers, to get it evened out. Then I went straight to school.
But it was worse now. Because I was two hours late for school. Instead of easing in at the start of the day, the class’s attention was all on me as I was introduced by the school principal.
I anticipated the taunts.
Psycho! Weirdo! Loser!
Instead they all fought for me. “Sit next to me, Chris! Next to me!”
I picked my spot, confused at the positive attention.