Read an extract from Not Going To Plan by Tia Fisher

I saw the new girl at lunchtime

sitting on her own by the rubbish bins,

both looking

too contaminated

to touch.

I wondered if I should sit by her

but her face was unreadable

so I slipped into my customary spot,

reasoning she might also need

a little quiet time

to recalibrate.

I might not have been listening

when Ms Rahman warned me,

& obviously there were no other free desks,

but still it was a shock, having

my space invaded like that.

I’m not totally inflexible,

but I do prefer to be prepared.

To get my balance back

I return to the number sequence

that’s been going up & down

in my head all winter.

The Collatz conjecture is a riddle.

If a number is even, divide it by 2

If a number is odd, multiply it by 3 & add 1.

No one has ever found a starting number

where the sequence doesn’t eventually

The chance of finding a maverick digit

which produces a different result

is vanishingly improbable

since supercomputers have failed –

but I find the pursuit both

fascinating & comforting

in equal measure.

MARNIE

It’s sort of interesting

how tiring it is

to keep a sneer

where a smile could be.

Like getting into a cold sea,

this day gets more uncomfortable

the deeper I go.

I don’t know the in-jokes,

who are the untouchables,

the teachers to avoid.

I don’t know anything.

When everyone cracks up laughing,

I stay straight-faced.

In physics with Mizz Rahman, I sit beside a big girl

who stares at the shiny patch of old gum

stuck on the fabric of my sleeve.

She digs me with a sharp elbow.

You’re wearing my old blazer!

she laughs,

on a loud wave

of cheese-and-onion breath.

We are in the bottom set.

I ask her where Zed is.

With Dr Allinger and all the other

super-nerds, she says,

making it sound like a

bad place to be.

ZED

The Doc staggers & leans heavily

on the periodic table.

Zebedee Donovan! he gasps, one hand

hammering his heart, the other one

holding my hand-in.

Only ninety-two per cent!

You dropped eight marks!

However can you live with

such imperfection?

He finds himself so much more amusing

than we do. But I admit

I’m a little perturbed,

until I examine the paper.

It would have been one hundred per cent

but Dr Allinger must have misread

what I’d intended

to convey.

Happens all the time.

As we file past his desk,

The Doc looks up through

lenses thick as ship’s portholes,

& calls me back.

Zed, hold up! Some good news!

he says perkily.

You’re through to the Physics Marathon!

The British Schools Physics Marathon.

A series of external endurance tests

for only the most elite of math-letes.

The winners are invited to

a physics summer school at Oxford University,

the dreaming spires

to which I aspire.

My heart beats a little faster.

Dr Allinger says

my qualifying test got the highest score

the school has ever seen –

although perhaps that says

more about the school

than me.

MARNIE

¡Hola!

says the Spanish tutor,

and I wince.

Wherever Señor Lewis comes from,

it certainly isn’t Spain.

Half the group

offer him an ¡Hola! back,

so he’s about midway

in the teacher popularity stakes.

ZED

Señor Lewis shuffles his seating plans

like a croupier.

I get dealt a good hand today.

Luca Moreno flops down next to me.

¡Hola, cariño! he says with a smile.

Luca’s all long bony wrists &

sharp hipbones, a shock

of floppy fringe over eyes

the colour of Marmite.

Luca’s parents are from Spain,

which apparently isn’t cheating.

Señor Lewis uses him like a

portable defibrillator,

resuscitating the Spanish

as it dies upon our lips.

MARNIE

A boy from my tutor group talks to me

in Spanglish. Hola, I’m Harry. ¿Cómo estás?

I say I’m fine. I’d be finer

if I wasn’t choking on Lynx Africa,

but he’s really fit – at least

in a rugby-player sort of way.

Short shiny hair. Solid thighs. Good teeth.

Let’s have a warm-up!

Señor Lewis says,

and we practise the past tenses

I mastered ages ago.

Behind me, I can hear

Zed’s tongue slipping on the

icy puddles of foreign phonemes.

ZED

I watch Marnie’s mouth moving

effortlessly around the

castanet sounds of Castilian.

Señor Lewis’s chubby cheeks

go pink with pleasure.

¡Muy bueno! he exclaims to her,

way more times than necessary.

If only all my students

were like you!

He looks in my direction.

I look at the door.

The school day’s done.

Across the playground, a bitter wind

plays hockey with the litter:

the crisp packets & sweet wrappers

my peers appear

to shed like skin cells.

I have written to

the school council,

the senior leadership team

& the board of governors

about the litter situation,

but nothing whatsoever has changed.

My efforts are unappreciated.

Mother said I was

flogging a dead horse.

Rather a disturbing metaphor,

I thought.

I dress for the journey home

in this year’s winter gear,

which has so far been

most effective at keeping out the chill.

A grey scarf, grey gloves,

grey parka & a pair of

cheeky Pikachu earmuffs.

I am as sensitive to cold

as I am (apparently)

insensitive to fashion.

As I unlock my scooter

from the rack,

Harry Borman swings a meaty thigh

high over the crossbar

of a flashy racer.

He smirks at me.

Fancy a race, fag?

I laugh at his feeble jibe

& wave him on.

I have a system.

My left leg scoots me to school,

my right leg gets me home.

I might not have meaty thighs

but I do like them to match.

MARNIE

Watch out!

I shout a warning

but it’s too late.

There’s a three-way pile-up

by the sign that says, ‘No Cycling’.

The girl turns out to be Jessica Bates.

She shrugs off my helpful hand

with a scowl.

No bones are broken

but her phone screen’s cracked –

and being Jessica Bates,

the minimum she wants

is blood.

She says it was all Zed’s fault –

but unluckily for her,

I’m a witness.

Zed salvages his scooter,

Jessica’s glare digs between

my shoulder blades,

sharp as her shellacs.

Here we go again.

ZED

After the dressing down,

I turn to thank Marnie

for her intervention –

but the new girl’s

gone.