First Day

Background: Piet takes Evie for her first ever day of school. This is an excerpt from the chapter 'First' in the book DLC24.

"So, do you want my help?"

"No - I think we’ll be fine."

"Evie? Will you make sure that Daddy gets there on time?"

Does this really require a second opinion - from a five-year-old?

"I think he’ll be OK. He knows the way & everything," then as an aside, whispering loud enough for the neighbours to hear, "You do know the way, right?"

In my head, I keep thinking that older kids need to travel farther to their educational facility (holding pen?), but that’s just all kinds of not true. I have this notion that the larger the child, the larger the school - in terms of numbers, as well as scaling the furniture. The larger the school, the farther apart they are, therefore you have to travel farther to get to one. I think this is called being done over by the stats. It doesn’t matter how large your child is, if the school happens to be at your back fence, then it’s not going to shift to become more inconvenient.

Why do kids - & I mean the size of a (smallish) five-year-old girl - need a backpack large enough to hold another small five-year-old girl? I don’t intend to check it, because it would encourage a small four-year-old boy to attempt it with a small dog, just to prove a point.

Within this cavernous piece of luggage, in an array of pockets that would put David Copperfield to shame, we have:

• Water bottle (strapped to the outside, because it’s so large)

• Lunch box

• Recess box

• Fruit box (unless it’s clever enough to hide in another box or can be risked free-range)

• School-provided diary for the purpose of keeping track of your child’s misdemeanours

• No wise fish would go anywhere without a porpoise.

• Rain coat (regardless)

• Paint smock (sometimes)

• Hat (because it won’t stay on the head)

• Spare undies (just in case)

• Plastic bag for not the spare undies (just in case)

• 6 different key fobs on the strap, weighing as much as the child in total

Am I just getting too old for this shit? I have a vague recollection of being a child & having a small brown-painted-pressed-paper-cardboard-box-construction thing containing a brown paper bag with a peanut butter sandwich, some vitaweats with vegemite, & a little canister of weak cordial that was guaranteed to leak. Admittedly, this could just as easily be carried in a bum-bag or a simple canvas sack. Was life so much less complicated?

Let’s not even get into the uniform. Evie has a white shirt under a pinafore, with a little fake tie thing (for girls, I guess), over which she can wear a jumper, or her blazer directly. That’s right - my five year-old wears a blazer. She has beautiful new black shiny shoes that I give about a week to get scuffed into grey, because I know how she sits on her feet with her toes poking out the back. This will also have an effect upon the lovely white socks. Ah - & then there’s the hat that seems to have a bad relationship with her head. Then there’s sports day, which means shorts & Tshirt underneath a tracksuit. All of these items have the school crest on them, plus a label somewhere (often visible) which proudly proclaims that "Evie C M" should be wearing this item, & if you find her, could you return her to this hat (or whatever). When I was her age, I had a ragged shirt & shorts - in my case, hand-me-downs.

Somewhere underneath the slug trudging along beside me under all this weight, my once-carefree daughter is making her way to school. She can’t even hold my hand, because she has to use both hands on the backpack straps to stop herself from toppling over backwards. The hat is still on, because it’s trapped against the pack. I’m just unsure if it’s Evie under there anymore. She hasn’t looked up.

Then again, Sophie, who’s walking with us - she’s a big girl now, in 3rd grade - is looking no more comfortable. Admittedly, her dress doesn’t look two sizes too long, & her backpack is about the same size, so it’s relatively better suited. However, the overall effect of slave to uniform fashion is as obvious. Her socks are down, because her Mum has given up doing anything about them, & her shoes are scuffed from last year - not quite to the point of unusability - & she ties them herself. You don’t get rid of a kid’s shoes until they grow out of them. Even I know that.

"Mr Malone, do you need me to show you the classroom?"

"That’s OK, Sophie - I can see where the parents are milling around."

"Yeah - it’s over there - one of those."

How hard can it be, right? There’s only two classrooms near the flock, & Evie has to go into one of them.

"Hey!" & she’s run off to join someone she knows.

Fine, it will be just a little harder than anticipated. I found a teacher with a clipboard. They don’t usually come like that, so I reckon this one has special powers for naming children.

"Hi. I brought Evie."

"Oh yes?"

Let’s not discuss the fact that I didn’t actually bring Evie right to this spot, but I got her inside the gate, so I reckon I should get points for that.

"Mr Malone?"

Wow. That’s an assumption in this day & age.

"Yes."

"It’s customary to bring the child with you."

"Oh, I know where she is - she’s …"

OK, so maybe I don’t know where she is.

"... here."

Lame.

"When you find her, please take her to Miss Hardy’s classroom - it’s got ‘KH’ on the outside."

How does one find a child when they’re all in uniform? I know that mine’s still cameled with her backpack, & could well still have her hat on. That doesn’t help. Most of them like that are walking, though. She is wearing a dress, so that narrows it down, although those silly blazers almost hide the dress/shorts differentiation. Her hair’s in a bikie braid, which should also help, but having dark hair doesn’t. I am not going to call out. That would be far too embarrassing for my first day … her first day. I am also not going to walk around checking the tags on kids, because that’s far worse.

She appeared beside me.

"Hey, Daddy - did you … find my classroom?" a little breathless.

(This is before Chryssy had corrupted her into calling me ‘Papa’, you have to remember.)

"Evie? Is that you?"

"I think so. Why?"

"I think we need to tie a bell on you or something."

"Is that part of the uniform? Mummy didn’t get me one of them!"

"Come on - you’re with Miss Hardy, over here."

I distinctly remember a ‘Miss’ something when I was about Evie’s age - a spinster close to retirement, possibly an ex-nun or some such. She wasn’t … pleasant to look at. I recall that she was somewhat severe, but I don’t think she was mean or anything. Miss Hardy wasn’t her. She’s in her late 20s, strangely motherly (for a Miss), & with a smile that vacantly reminds me of early childhood students from my Uni days. I guess that’s what becomes of them - they teach children. She’s wearing a long voluminous navy skirt & an open yellow shirt of frangipanis with a pale-blue Tshirt underneath. She looks a little bright, yet also easy-clean. It’s what comes of at least five years experience working with kids, I guess. No surprises, no ennui.

"Hello - & who might you be?"

"I might be Evelyn Cherie Malone," came the voice of wisdom from the little girl who has just turned into a teenager with attitude.

"Who are you really, then?"

"I’m really Evie."

"Welcome, Evie - can you read your name?"

"Only when other people write it. My writing needs work."

"You will find your name over there with a box for putting your backpack & hat, then go inside & sit down for me on the floor. Can you do that?"

"I can," she emphasised.

I think I owe this teacher an apology for correcting Evie’s grammar this last year or so.

"Hello. Piet Malone. I feel terribly responsible for that."

"That’s OK, Mr Malone - we cater for all levels of … language skills. She’ll be fine as long as she doesn’t expect the boys to be polite."

But, said Alice, if the world has absolutely no sense, who's stopping us from inventing one?

Of course she will. She’s been going to child-care & prep for years. This is just another place with a room full of new kids to order about. Yes, I heard her voice as I turned.

"Hello. I am Evie. I am looking for new friends."

I pitied Cindy for her job of collecting Evie that afternoon. I’m sure she’s no better at it than I would be. All you can do is stand there & differentiate yourself & hope that your child spots you. Wave the flag, whatever, just make sure it’s distinct from anyone else’s flag.