I don’t remember everything from the foster home days. I remember bits and pieces. Sometimes I have blanks in the memories I write about. So I colour them in a little before remembering what really happened.
But I cannot recall why I was crawled up under the table of computers, yelling at everyone. The Principal, Mrs Jackson, had made all the other students leave the room. It was just me, her, deputy principal Mrs Cheers – who was a dyed blonde haired version of Pauline Hanson, and the school captain and my best friend Joel.
Like always, he persuaded me to do the sensible thing, so I crawled from under the table eventually. I was led to the principal’s office and the other students waiting outside the demountable returned to their math class.
“Chris tried to blow up the school!” one kid yelled, and by lunch the next day everyone heard that the psycho kid tried blowing up the school by building a bomb with the computer’s electrical cords.
It could have been easy to transform these taunts into an honour. I should not have taken them so seriously.
The rumour was so ridiculous, but it was a much better story than that the crazy kid had a temper tantrum.