The red socks

I’m sitting on the bus, head leaning against the window. I have a good 30 minutes to kill. The sky is grey. It’s got that low ceiling that somehow prevents you from reaching happy thoughts—like only a direct line to the sun could allow them through. I’m transported back to when I was six.

I’m in the classroom. It’s a big classroom. It feels wide, but mostly long. Maybe it’s because I’m small. It does look long, though. I don’t know what’s at the end of the room. The teacher somehow seems to be standing in the middle. I don’t remember the blackboard, only her and the brightness of the room. There are big windows on the right, and I like them. The sun streams in, and it’s nice.

I’m watching the teacher talk. She kind of scares me. Maybe it’s her dark hair or her face. I think it’s her face; there’s something about it. She’s holding a ruler as she talks, and it looks funny. I like her pullover. It has yellow, white, and blue. Or is it black? I’m not sure. But it grabs my attention—especially the yellow and blue.

I just noticed my red socks are down. They’re the long ones that go all the way up to my knees, but now they’re halfway down my calves. So I bend down to pull them back up. When I lift my head, I see the teacher standing right by my side.

I can tell something is wrong. She smiles, but it doesn’t feel right. Her smile isn’t happy.
“So, it would seem the class doesn’t interest you much, my dear,” she says, her lips stretched into that strange smile. There’s something off about it. It doesn’t match her words.

“I was just pulling up my socks, Miss…”

“And you think it’s during class, while I’m speaking, that you’re supposed to pull up your socks?” she asks. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to answer.
“I just…” I try. “I just…”

“That’s enough. Maybe you can reflect on the good manners you’re clearly missing. Go to the corner.”

I want to shout that it’s not fair, that I just had to fix my socks. My mum always tells me to pull my socks back up. I want to slam my fists on the desk. But I don’t. I can’t. Everything is stuck in my throat.

There’s a big ball there, and it’s taking up all the space. Nothing can get through. I’m scared it’s going to explode. I know you’re not supposed to talk back to grown-ups when you’ve been told off. My dad taught me that many times.

I can’t see properly now. Everything is blurry. My eyes are holding the water in, and I’m afraid if I squint, it’ll spill out. I don’t want to cry. I’m not a baby. My cheeks are burning. Everything looks grey. The teacher’s pullover looks black now.

I hear some kids laughing. My throat is tight, and I’m struggling to keep the tears inside. Maybe if I look down, no one will notice. The floor looks so close, as if I could reach out and touch it. I want to hide. I want to go home. I don’t understand.

All I wanted was to fix my socks.

The bus comes to a stop. I feel a sharp pinch of sadness for all our childhood’s unfairness as I stand up and step off into the world.