Cootie Shot (Part 1)

When I was in primary school – about Year 4 or 5 – the kids used to believe in cooties. Now, we all know that cooties don't exist; especially those of us who French kiss their boyfriends or girlfriends in front of everyone every day! But when you're little, you think kissing is disgusting. It's unnatural, and so some imbecile invented the theory of cooties – that if you kissed someone, you had them in your system and therefore had to pass them onto someone else.

One boy I knew was called Kevin, and he was an extreme believer in cooties. If a girl tried to kiss him, he would yell, “Ew! Cootie-breath!” and run off. If a girl tried and succeeded, he'd yell, “COOTIES!!!” and run off screaming, grabbing random little girls and kissing them to get the cooties out of himself.

There is one incident I will never forget, which included Kevin, me, – Jade – my best friend Margo and the new boy, Oliver. Margo was much taller than me, and thinner too, with a cloud of almost orange hair that surrounded her oval-shaped head. She wasn't pretty as such – she'd have to wait until high school until she began to become passable in the slightest – but she was much prettier than me. My hair was limp and straggly and my eyes were the dullest puddle-brown you have ever seen. I was plain and shy and Margo was my only friend, so when Oliver arrived it was quite a surprise.

Margo was ill that day, and so the seat next to me was empty. Someone had scrawled some graffiti that I cannot really repeat here on it, but I didn't know what it meant then, being only nine years old.

Our teacher, whose name I can't quite remember, strode into the classroom, her high heels clacking against the hard floor. A boy with a blonde halo of curls and sparkling green eyes walked in confidently behind her, his gaze sweeping over the other pupils. I felt a hot flush come over me as his eyes settled on my face and I couldn't understand the bubbly feeling in my belly. Was this love? Was this what my mum had felt with all those stepdads I'd had? I doubted it. This felt like a once in a lifetime thing.

“Class,” the teacher's voice boomed out above the chatter and it died down slowly. I realised that while I had been staring intently at the table in front of me, she had gotten to the front of the class and was now talking.

“This is Oliver,” she gave a vague flick of her wrist in the boy's direction. “Please treat him with respect, as you would like to be treated yourself. Now, Oliver, where will you sit?”

He looked over the classroom with disdain. “There.” He said eventually, pointing at me. I widened my eyes and looked behind, though I knew that I was at the back of my class.

“Fair enough,” Miss sighed. “Sit, sit.”

He walked towards me and I felt fluttering in my chest, as if my heart had been replaced with a trapped butterfly, just itching to break out.

He sat down next to me and I could smell his shampoo – it smelled a little like the Lynx body spray my fourth stepfather Stephen used to wear. This boy seemed to ooze confidence, as if he knew that he could get anything he wanted just by clicking his fingers.

Half way through our English lesson, in which we studied some very confusing and nonsensical poems, a note was passed to me. I read it quickly, holding it underneath the desk so that Miss wouldn't see:

Meet me in the R.E. Classroom tomorrow at lunchtime.

Bring two friends.

-Oliver

I looked over at him, but he had his head down, doing his work.

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