I Don't Know What to Do with Myself

“Meet you downstairs in the bar and hurt,” Syed started singing.

Whenever a good song is on (i.e., a lot of Amy Winehouse’s discography), Syed has a strong tendency to sing along. I mean I can’t blame him and it’s not like I stuff my fingers in my ears. We were lounging on the wooden swings in his backyard and guzzling down his mum’s homemade lemonade in mason jars whilst Winehouse self-deprecated herself in the background.

We did have the intention to tackle some of the ridiculous pile of homework gifted to us by our A levels but we had more important things to tackle. For example, what should we call Perry Larkworth next? And what should we do for our EPQs?

“I think we should call him Perry Lankdick.”

“Not the most accurate. I constantly hear him discussing how he wanked off to free lesbian porn the night prior.”

“True.”

I’m not going to give you a whole explanation why we despise that man (no little boy) so much but you can tell from his record. His infamous record of shouting the f-slur or the d-slur at any given moment, him taking up the half the sofa in the common room with his legs sprawled out deliberately to hoard space and exhibit his encased, prized possession and thinking he’s smarter than all the girls in Chemistry you can see how calling him a shitty arsecrack is justified.

“God, another day at school,” I reminded, forgetting that there’s other things to talk about.

“Wow! I didn’t already know that, Fi,” Syed replied, “Well, you know Mr Greer would probably kill me with his passive aggressiveness.”

“Well, we have one more day.”

“Less than that.”

Syed is so precise. Like he has a precision knife installed in his mind to slice up anything I say. He would slice up anything Prickly Perry would say out loud if he knew he was in complete safety.

“Well, it’s 3:15 and school starts at quarter to nine so that’s 17 and a half hours. Mr Greer’s lesson begins at nine so it’s 17 and three quarters hours to go.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, you know I did continue Maths from secondary school.”

“Yeah. Still think it’s odd. The whole point of A levels, dropping Maths.”

“You thought about taking business studies, Fifi Wixton.”

“When I still watched Love Island.”

“You watched it this year.”

“Yeah, I got high from boredom.”

“At least you got a grip and took Politics instead.”

“I did. Although there could be more insulting shit politicians.”

“I don’t think the shit politicians would allow it.”

“Whatever.”

Syed reclined back in the swing so his t-shirt shifted towards his head and his curtains fell back. He had no shoes on and I question whether his feet are immune to nettle stings. I got a couple of nettle stings walking across the lengthy grass wearing an old pair of discoloured white Nikes.

“See, I love these swings considering I’m 17 in November,” I said.

“Yep. I’m already 17.”

“I know.”

“Still, I can’t trust myself behind the wheel.”

“Amen, twat.”

Even though the rope on the swing cut into my thigh, I was still having the time of my life. Syed still got away with using those swings without the pressure of the rope. He could still do the monkey bars at the playground without touching the floor.