Eleven years old
Sam
“Seriously, Mum, please just drop me off round the corner.” My hands clutch my backpack straps tighter, nails picking at a stray thread.
I can see the school gates in the distance, and I’m beginning to feel sick.
My hair’s still damp from swim practice this morning, sticking up at angles in a way that’s making me self-conscious.
Great. The new kid with wet hair and a soaking shirt collar.
Solid first impression.
Mum sighs from the driver’s seat. “It’ll be fine, Sam. It’s everyone’s first day.” Her fingers drum the steering wheel as she glances over, clearly gearing up for one of her pep talks.
I tip my head back against the headrest, inhaling deeply. New school, new city. I can do this. It’s not like I had a ton of friends to leave behind. But change still sucks.
“Everyone’s in the same boat, sweetheart. Just smile and be yourself.”
I nod and jump out of the car. “See you later. Don’t forget I have practice tonight.”
With one last wave, I speed-walk down the road, eager to blend into the flow of kids streaming towards the school gates.
I look around, feeling even more overwhelmed.
There’s a girl my age with someone who looks like her older brother.
Some sixth form students, another loud group who look one or two years older than me.
St Peter’s isn’t huge, but it feels like it when you’re the new kid and have no idea where youre going.
Navy blazers, grey trousers and skirts flash past as I search for the ‘Year 7’ sign.
I find it, tucked away near a corridor, where a teacher stands with a clipboard.
“Sam Fletcher,” I tell her when I reach the front of the line.
She ticks my name off the list. “Welcome to St Peter’s, Sam. You’re in 7B—down the corridor, second door on the left. Desks are alphabetical, lockers too. Everything’s labelled.”
“Thanks.” I adjust my bag as I wander into the room.
I find my spot next to one of the only other students who’s already here, the girl I spotted outside the school gates a few minutes ago.
She has a chestnut ponytail and a smattering of summer freckles sprinkled on her nose.
She’s organising her pencil case with the sort of focus that would usually belong to someone solving a world crisis.
I slide into my seat, unsure of what to say.
I thought I’d have at least ten minutes to mentally prepare myself for my first interaction.
She glances over, flashing a friendly smile.
Crap, now I need to talk; I can’t just sit here in silence until the teacher arrives.
I try to subtly check my watch. Maybe I didn’t think through the whole arriving early thing properly.
My heart starts to pick up, pounding uncomfortably in my chest, which suddenly feels tight.
“Hi, I’m Sam,” I blurt out before I fully freeze.
“I know,” she grins, nodding towards the name tag on my desk. I feel my face getting hot. How do I save this situation?
I chuckle awkwardly. “Detective work, huh?”
“Call me Nancy Drew.”
I blink. “Nancy who?”
“You seriously don’t know Nancy Drew? Books? TV show?”
“Uh… no. I don’t really watch TV.” Scratching my neck, I grimace again at the damp collar.
She rolls her brown eyes, but in a way that makes it feel more playful than mean. “I’m Kath.”
“Figured.” I point to her name tag, earning a laugh.
“Well, Fletcher and Ford. Looks like we’re stuck together,” she smiles. “My brother’s a few years above us and said they keep us in alphabetical order most of the year.”
We scan the room as people trickle in, the buzz of first-day energy filling the air.
Even though we’ve just sat down, you can already tell who’s going to fit where.
A cluster of boys slap each other on the back, talking loudly about playing football.
A group of girls are already testing the limits of the no make-up rule with glossy lips.
Kath fills my awkward silence, talking about her summer holiday visiting her Nan in Devon, her older brother Tom, his football obsession, and the book she was just reading.
She waves and smiles at a few people as they enter the room.
Apparently, most people from her primary school came here, meaning that this is a sea of familiar faces for her.
Kath starts telling me people’s names, but even as she says them I almost immediately forget.
The room fills quickly, the noise rising until a teacher walks in. “Welcome, Year Sevens!” He smiles from the front. “I’m Mr Myers. I know some of you are nervous—that’s perfectly normal. But I promise you’ll have a great time here.”
He launches into an explanation of timetables and directions to the sports fields, but I barely catch half of it before the bell rings. Kath’s already on her feet, humming as she double-checks our timetable for the fifth time.
“Maths first.” She sounds weirdly pleased.
“Are you a maths genius?” I really don’t know that many people who would be excited by maths.
She shrugs. “It’s fun.”
“She’s a maths genius,” a tanned blonde girl, who I think Kath said was called Claire, chimes in from behind us. Kath blushes and looks away.
When we get to the classroom, the teacher announces we’re sitting alphabetically.
I hide a smile, and Kath catches my eye and mouths told you so.
Honestly, there are worse things than being seated next to someone who knows half the class and all the school tricks.
The cycle repeats itself in geography an hour later, and I watch for the second time as Kath neatly arranges everything from her pencil case along the top of our shared desk, including her impressive range of highlighter colours.
By the time the bell rings for break, I’m trailing behind Kath and her friends, trying to figure out if I should make an excuse to leave or if I should stay with them. I feel like a stray puppy they’ve accidentally adopted.
“Let’s sit by the benches,” Claire suggests, linking arms with Kath and pulling her along. I continue to loiter.
“Come on, Sam,” Kath calls me.
Thank god. I don’t think I’d actually be able to find the next lesson without her.
A few others from our class follow the pair of them.
A tall dark-haired guy called Josh who chatted to me a bit before geography, and another shorter boy, who’s managed to spill ink from his fountain pen on his shirt.
Ben maybe? I don’t know. There are too many new names.
“So, Sam.” Claire leans forwards, propping her chin in her hands. “Tell us about yourself.”
“Uh, I like swimming,” I say, feeling a bit lame.
Kath nods. “Me too.”
“Please,” Claire snorts. “You love every sport—netball, running, cross-country, swimming…”
Kath grins. “Swimming in the sea is the best, though. The Devon coast? Amazing.”
“Anything else?” Claire presses. “Come on, Sam. We need details. We don’t know anything about you yet.”
“Erm, I just moved from Guildford. And swimming takes up most of my time.” I rummage through my bag so I don’t have to make too much eye contact, finally unearthing my snack.
“What do you mean?” Kath asks.
“Well, I usually train twice a day,” I tell her around a mouthful of sandwich.
“What?” Claire gapes. “Did you swim this morning?”
“Yeah. 5:30 a.m. to 7 a.m. I’ll go again tonight.”
“That’s insane.” Claire shakes her head.
“That’s cool though,” Josh says. “Are you good? What’s your favourite stroke?”
“I’m alright,” I mumble. “Freestyle is my favourite, or at least my fastest. But I do butterfly and the individual medley too.”
Claire stares, looking as if she’s still processing. I feel my ears turn red. Talking this much to new people is making me feel shy again.
“What about you guys?” I try to shift the conversation.
“Nothing that exciting,” Claire says. “I like drawing.”
“Ben and I like football,” Josh adds. I know nothing about football, but at least I was right about Ben’s name. Small victories.
“You’re good at it,” Kath smiles and the group dissolves into teasing about who was the best player on their primary school team.
As we walk back towards the building, Kath nudges me. “So, swimming, huh? That’s why you’re too busy for Nancy Drew?”
“Pretty much,” I admit. “There’s not much time left after training and homework. I don’t really watch films in the evenings.”
“We’ll fix that,” she promises. “You need a proper film education.”
“That sounds fun,” I say—and I mean it. At some point between maths and geography, the ball of nerves in my stomach started to shrink.
“Let me give you my number.” She holds out her hand for my phone. “We can organise something. I’m usually pretty free on weekends.”
My cheeks heat as I hand my chunky Nokia over, it’s the kind you could probably drop off a roof and it’d still survive.
Kath punches in her details. I don’t have any girls’ numbers.
It’s just Mum, Dad and my coach. Though I’m not sure a girl literally handing her phone to you and asking for your number really counts.
I follow Kath for the rest of the day like some kind of socially-anxious duckling.
It doesn’t take long to realise she actually enjoys school.
Like, genuinely. She seems to like every subject.
Her dad’s a teacher, which explains a lot.
She even puts her hand up in every lesson, which, frankly, saves me from being noticed at all.
The desk gods definitely smiled on me this morning.
***
“How was the first day, then?” Mum asks as I climb into the car. She tucks a few wispy strands of her blonde hair behind her ears—the exact same unconscious gesture I catch myself doing in the mirror. Genetics are weird.
“Pretty good. People seem nice. Teachers were decent.”
“You’re spoiling me with all these details,” she teases. “Come on, give me names. Tell me about your new friends. There must be someone worth talking about. Or someone we can have over for dinner.”
I sigh. She’s not going to let this go. She’s always desperate to invite people over, like it’s some kind of hobby. But asking someone round after one day of school feels a bit intense.
“Uh, I sit next to a girl called Kath in all my classes. It’s alphabetical—her last name’s Ford. She’s really clever. Has a nice group of friends from her old primary school and I spent most of the day with them.” By my usual standards, that’s practically a speech. Mum gives me a proud smile.
“Do you want to invite Kath over on Friday?” She looks too hopeful.
“Maybe,” I mumble. Knew that was coming. “Come on, I’m gonna be late to the pool.”
“Fine, fine.” She throws her hands up. “I’m just trying to build a social life via you. Maybe I can be friends with this girl’s mum. We don’t know anyone in the whole of London, let alone this borough.”
I grumble as she starts driving, but deep down I know there’s no stopping her once she gets an idea in her head.
When we get to the leisure centre I change at breakneck speed and make my way to the gym to start with the warm-up whilst Coach Andy writes the training plan onto the board.
My mind slowly begins to quiet as I fall into the familiarity of the routine, starting the stretches that are so ingrained in me I could do them in my sleep. Some mornings I think I probably do.
Nothing beats the feeling of diving into the water.
The way the world goes quiet, muffled. Just one stroke after another.
Slowly, my leftover nerves from the day fade away until it’s just me and my breathing.
No niggling thoughts about who I’ll sit with at lunch, or clammy palms when I try to avoid being asked a question in class. Just a stroke pattern.
I love this. I’ve always loved this. Ever since I first stepped into a pool. At seven, I joined my first team and learnt the strokes. By nine, I was faster than anyone in my age group. By ten, I was faster than anyone in the club.
And for the first time, a hush fell over the noise in my head. The pool has always felt like home.
Two hours later, I meet Mum, hair once again damp.
“I think we should invite your friend over this weekend,” she says, reversing out of the parking space.
She definitely isn’t going to give up on this.
“Friday or Saturday work. I looked her parents up in the address book they sent us for your class, and they only live a short walk from our house. I could give them a call if you like.”
“Mum! Stop meddling. It would be so embarrassing if you called her parents to arrange some sort of play date like we’re five or something. And it’s literally the first day of school. Can we at least give it a bit of time?”
“It wouldn’t be embarrassing,” she tells me absentmindedly, indicating to turn left and sliding into the lane. “I’m sure other parents do it all the time.”
“They don’t,” I assure her. “At least let me text her instead.”
I pull out my phone and spend a few minutes working out what to say. I’ve never texted a girl before, even as a friend. I went to an all-boys school. I train with guys. Girls are strange and mysterious. And I don’t want to freak her out by inviting her over on day one of term.
“You look like you’re drafting a Nobel Prize winning speech over there,” Mum teases me. “Come on, love, it’s just a text. Otherwise, I can call her mum.”
“Nope! I’m doing it now.”
Nothing like time pressure. A minute later, I’m staring at a sent text feeling slightly panicked.
Me: hope u had a good evening. my mum wants to know if u want to come for dinner this weekend?
Oh god. I didn’t say who it was. It could be from anyone.
Me: It’s sam btw. sorry. just realised I don’t think u have my number.
By the time we get home I still don’t have a reply and I’ve now read the two texts over a dozen times. I cringe further into my seat each time I read them. Who brings their mum up in their first text?
Apparently me. That’s who.
It’s nearly 8 p.m. by the time I get a response. I frantically flip over my phone when I hear it beep.
Kath: Hey Sam! I guessed it was you. Sounds great! I’ll check with my parents. Mum’s working tonight. What day?
I wonder what her mum does.
Me: LOL. saturday? does that work for u?
The moment I press send I start to worry again. Does she think I’m laughing at her? Why am I analysing this text more than my homework? The phone beeps almost immediately and I stop panicking.
Kath: Should be fine. I play netball in the park in the mornings but free after that. Will ask Mum tomorrow.
Me: Coolcool
Kath: See you tomorrow! Hope swimming was fun.
Me: It was good. C U tmrw.
Well, at least that wasn’t a total disaster. Looks like I might have made one friend.