good-looking guy and was feared –
assumed to be one of the toughest
guys in school. No one had been
prepared to find out just how tough
he was.
Stan and I didn’t have an issue with
one another, so I felt free to wander
across the road and offer to lend a
hand with the unloading. My offer
was gratefully accepted, and during
that hour or so, Stan and I got to
know each other better.
When the trailer was finally
empty, I bade him and his family
farewell. For sure, Stan would be at
school the following Monday, but
I wasn’t confident that a guy with
such a tough reputation would even
acknowledge me.
Consequently, I was astounded
when that Monday morning, Stan
approached me as I was gathering my
books for the next class. “Hey, Ian.”
“He y, St a n .”
“‘Bob the Bully’ teases you, doesn’t
he?”
“Yep,” I said, blushing.
“Right,” Stan said. “Next time this
happens, tell me.”
With that he turned and walked
away, leaving me open-mouthed
but exhilarated. Maybe, just maybe,
someone was finally on my side.
The following day, I heard the
familiar words, “Hey, Pumpkin Head.”
On cue, my chest started heaving with
anxiety and suppressed rage. I wanted
to scream but refused to give the bul-
lies the satisfaction of knowing how
much I was hurting inside.
An hour or so later, I spotted Stan.
Not wanting to draw unwanted atten-tion to myself, I spoke quietly. “Hey,
Stan,” I said, my heart in my mouth.
“It’s happened again.”
“Don’t worry, Ian – I’ll take care of
it!”
Bob and his mates – greasy-haired,
pimply, cool kids who had up to this
point made my life hell – were strut-
ting down the corridor when Stan ap-
proached from the opposite direction.
With his meaty hands, Stan grabbed
Bob the Bully, by the scruff of the neck
and slammed him against a locker.
“You’ve been teasing my friend Ian
Fulton, haven’t you?”
Bob the Bully scrambled for words,
but his bravado disappeared. One of
the toughest kids in the school was
glaring at him, ready to cause him
grievous bodily harm. Among Bob’s
merry band of bullies, who was pre-
pared to become the first casualty?MY ANGST-RIDDEN AND INSECURE
15-YEAR-OLD SELF WOULD BE PROPELLED INTO
A FUTURE I COULD HAVE NEVER IMAGINED123
“My Life in Short”