Chapter Text
==>Dave: Take up bitter outlook on life.
“England blows balls.”
This is what you keep muttering to yourself as you walk—Yes, WALK, apparently these people were too good to send a school bus your way or something.
You hadn’t really even seen anything yet—no Big Ben, no London Eye, no Leaning Tower Of What-The-Fuck-Ever. You’d been in London for like a week now, and you hadn’t seen anything except the airport, the inside of your shabby flat, and the grocery store a couple blocks down. Everyone back home had told you how awesome it would be, how exciting living in England was sure to be. But this wasn’t some retarded Amanda Bines movie, you didn’t have scones with the Royal Family and go shopping and sing songs. It was just another shitty place.
And it was swiftly climbing your shit-list, if your now aching feet had anything to say about it.
You have a general idea of where it is you’re supposed to be going, thanks to the hastily scrawled directions your Bro had stuffed in your bag. You aren’t sure who wrote this, because it didn’t look like his handwriting. But whatever. You were used to him bringing strange women home by now, and if they wanted to try and earn points by being nice to the baby brother, then good for them.
You’re sort of surprised it’d actually taken him a full week for him to find someone to sneak in while you were asleep.
You become aware of the fact that the small street (it was really more like an alley) that you were walking on is opening up into a bigger street, and you look up to find a shit-ton of people that all seem to be scurrying around and chattering with no real destination in mind. Meaning they all get in your way as you try to dodge around them to get to the cross walk.
So, you straighten up, don every bit of Strider swag you feel you can muster without melting the faces off of these European douches and do what you always did when something got in your way:
“Move.”
The guy in the cheap suit and the chick he’d been babbling British-speak at both jump about a foot in the air, like they’d never seen a kid before. Slowly, with shocked and slightly disapproving looks, they back up just enough for you to slip by.
You slide up behind the crowd waiting to cross the street and locate a couple dorks wearing the same stupid thing you’re wearing. They don’t seem to notice you, which suits you fine, since you plan on stalking them the rest of the way to this hellhole of a school.
You use your ninja skills to trail them, unnoticed, until you come to the obnoxious front gates of this pretentious-as-fuck school. Then you un-hide, because it will be hard to be the resident coolkid if no one can see you. You tilt you head in a way that you know will reflect the morning light off your shades and stride on by these British assholes.
Of course, heads turn, and people gape like they’ve never seen sunglasses in their lives. Who knows, maybe these poor bastards really haven’t.
You walk through the doors of a huge-ass building that kind of looked like a cross between a castle and a church. The word ‘pompous’ seems to fit this place pretty well.
The inside is slightly less snobby, and simply looks like a school, albeit a rather fancy one.
You find the main office, and walk to the uptight looking secretary’s desk. There’s a little plaque with her name on it, but you really don’t care enough to bother reading it.
“Yo. I’m the American transfer student. Where am I going?”
She just arches a drawn on eyebrow at you and stares for a moment before speaking.
“Welcome to Winchester Secondary School. In case you were not aware, we do not permit sunglasses indoors. And where is your tie, young man?”
“The shades are ‘cause my eyes are really light sensitive.” Which is kind of true. After so many years of looking at the world through tinted glass, you tend to prefer dimmer environments, but it certainly isn’t bad enough to be a legit medical thing. But she didn’t need to know that. “And I forgot about the tie. Whoops,” You add as an afterthought.
She narrows her eyes at you.
“What is your name and Year?”
“Dave Strider. I’m in 8th grade.”
"Do you have documentation confirming your, ah…eye condition?”
You rummage through your backpack (which she wrinkles her nose at) and hand her the letter from your Bro about your eyesight, which you had actually forged the night before. Not like he gave a shit. If they wanted to call and bitch about it, you know he’d back you up.
“I see. Perhaps you should find some less ostentatious eyewear in the future, Mister Srider.”
“I’ll get right on that,” You drawl. “So. Is there a schedule or something?”
“Yes,” She says as she turns to her surprisingly up to date computer. The computers at public schools back home were usually dinosaurs. (And there was another stupid difference—apparently a ‘public’ school here was really a tuition funded school, while ‘state’ schools were the ones funded by the government that everybody could go to. Which didn’t make any fucking sense at all. Why would they call private schools ‘public’ schools?)
After a couple moments of her just clacking away on her keyboard, she gets up and walks over to a big ass table with printers and fax machines and other pointless items on it and picks up some papers, hot off the press.
“Here you are.” She hands them to you and you tune out whatever it is she’s saying and take a look.
David Strider, Year 9, Key Stage 3
A Days:
8:30 – Registration – Mrs. Wright, Rm 102
9:00 – Maths – Mrs. Clarke, Rm 208
10:00 – Science – Mr. Willson, Rm 223
11:00 – Break
11:20 – Music – Mr. Harper, Rm 117
12:30 – History – Mrs. Harris, Rm 303
1:30 – Lunch
2:10 – Physical Education – Mr. Hughes, Gymnasium A
B Days:
8:30 – Registration – Mrs. Wright, Rm 102
9:00 – Geography – Mr. Thompson, Rm 315
10:00 – Art – Ms. Taylor, Rm 120
11:00 – Break
11:20 – ICT – Mrs. Evans, Rm 205
12:30 – English – Mrs. Jones, Rm 212
1:30 – Lunch
2:10 – Religious Education – Mr. Cooper, Rm 313
About a million thoughts go through your head while looking at this convoluted piece of crap, but you only give voice to one of them.
“We have a religion class?” You ask, interrupting the secretary’s speech about the history of the school.
“Yes. You are required to take Religious Education through Key Stage 4.”
‘That's the stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard. You'd get the shit sued out of you for requiring that in a regular school back home.’
She just keeps on talking, unaware of your inner monologue.
“I’ve printed out a packet about our school, and about the education system of England that should tell you everything you need to know. There is a page in the packet that should be signed and brought back to your Tutor Room teacher by tomorrow. Of course, if you have questions, you may return here during break and ask them. Now,” She takes a deep breath in through her nose, “Registration starts at precisely 8:30. I suggest you get going, if you do not want to be late. I am sure the other students will help you, should you need directions.”
You nod, and walk out of the office, wondering why English people had to make everything so fucking complicated.