Image. How it obsesses. School kids, on way to school. Young adolescents. Still high on acquiring double digits that aren’t boring as 11 and 12. Early teenage. Ducking down to the level of parked cars. The better to see one’s self in the glass windows. Reflecting. Reflecting inaccurately. Wisps of hair out of place. Wispy strands relocated by the gentle spring wind. Fingers for combs. There! That’s better. Saunter away confident. Until the next car. Time enough for uncertainty to set in. Uncertainty sits in the spaces between parked cars. Duck down, quick, once more. Damn! Fingers for combs. Ah! Just as it should be. Cool. Should have applied gel. Should have woken up early. Shouldn’t have played Xbox until so late.

Teenage guilt and recrimination.

Walking, too, beside parked cars. On the way to school. A shadow slanting with the morning sun. A heft of the shoulder. The left one. It helps slide the backpack to the right. Re-distribute the weight. Knowledge weighs a tonne. Too much knowledge on the left-hand side is debilitating. Shift it to the right. Spread the learning around. Put it all behind. Look ahead. Look into the future. It helps. It helps forget the present. The boring present. Essays, essays, essays. Don’t think the word.

Don’t say it so often. It gets fixed in the mind. (Duck, quick. Image check. All clear. Hair where it should be. As it should be.) Imagine a future without books. Without teachers. No schools. Or if there were, then video games rule. Video games control everybody. Tests could be given. It takes skill to play FIFA. And teachers suck at video games. Mr Balajee. Ha ha ha. How many times did he score goals for Chelsea? Ha ha ha. Not like that, sir. Press it here. This button. And this other one. You’re side is Man United. Ha ha ha. Man! Students have to do History exams. Teachers should be given video game tests. Mr Balajee! Ha ha ha. Sure to flop. D minus at best. F most probably.

‘Stupid essays’

“Have you done your essay?”

“Nah!” (Duck, check, finger comb. Avoid the next question.)

“You’ll get detention.”

“Yeah, I love detention. That’s why I don’t finish stupid essays.”

“Okay. Watch us through the window. We’ll be on the football field.”

Damn! There goes the good mood. There goes the day. It’s a pain.

Having a geek to walk to school with. Hair everywhere. Microwaved. Working mental sums. If dad earns $37,000 a month he’ll have $444,000 by Christmas. It’s a lot worse if the geek is your bro. Younger. In the same class.

How embarrassing is that? (Duck, quick. Yeah, all good.)

“Yeah so what was the essay about?”

“You don’t know?”

See? That’s called genius. Answer a question with a question. Little Bradley’s only 11, but his intellect is way out there. Yeah, yeah, enough already mum. Say that when I’m not listening, please. When my room door is closed and I’m thrashing the daylights out of Chelsea. You want genius come watch me. Genius! What’s so genius about memorising stupid poems? So what if they have like 50 lines? Anyone can memorise 50 lines. I just don’t make the effort. Can’t be bothered. Honest. Okay, maybe 25 lines. Big deal.

“Yeah, Bradley. Going to tell me what the essay is about? Kalinga? Peace, bro.”

Ha ha that was a joke geek-head. Like everybody knows Kalinga had only one war. Like, ever. Oh, okay, it wasn’t Kalinga, it was King Ashoka. He fought only once. Ever. Same difference, dude. See? I know my stuff, Brad. Not just a pretty face. Remember dad, what he said? “Anybody who thinks his effort is too small hasn’t been in the dark with a mosquito.”

Well, Bradman, I’m the mosquito. (Duck, quick. Finger comb. Finger comb again.) Careless, distracted. All this stupid essay talk. School gates in sight. Enough already.

Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.