The Lost Boy - Chapter 2 – part three - Fuck School

Now, in amongst all this — the country I’d left behind and the mess it dragged with it — was the new school.

Mum had managed to secure us a place in a school in the village we were now living in. And wow — what a world away from what I was used to.

You’d think, with the lack of care I’d shown for my education, I wouldn’t have given a shit what kind of place I ended up in.

But this was something else entirely.

A Catholic school.

Nuns and all.

And I absolutely despised it.

The truth is, the lack of care — that was on me.

Plenty of people had told me how important school was.

I just never saw the point.

I don’t remember my first day. Not properly.

But I remember the feeling of it — all of it.

My only clear memories from that time are scattered and strange.

One was walking down a corridor once.

Another, sitting in a classroom where we were made to sing a song by Five.

Each of us had a part to sing.

Don’t ask me why.

It was an absolute travesty. Embarrassing, to say the least.

And then there was a girl.

A Kosovan refugee.

I can still see her clearly. Short brown hair and a face that looked lost. Alone.

I knew that look. I felt it.

I don’t think she realised I wasn’t Irish either.

We didn’t talk. She never looked my way like we shared anything.

But I felt a connection to her.

Like we were both aliens here — both displaced.

It never led anywhere.

But that unspoken bond stayed with me.

And so did the sadness in her eyes.

It didn’t last long before I broke. That school, I mean.

I would sit quietly in class — hating every second — wishing myself anywhere but there.

I felt like a black stone on a white sand beach.

Completely out of place and exactly where I shouldn’t be.

I’d pretend to write in my book just to avoid drawing attention.

And when the day ended, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

I don’t remember complaining to Mum until the very last day.

But I remember that moment clearly.

I’d had enough.

I hit my breaking point and told her I wasn’t going back.

“You are, Gareth — you have to go to school! I’ll get in trouble if you don’t!”

But I didn’t give a fuck.

I was not going back.

The decision was made.

It was mine — and it was final.

What was she going to do?

Twist my arm up my back and drag me there?

I don’t think so.

I was told I had to get ready and leave the house.

So I did.

But I didn’t go to school.

And I never went back.

I’m not sorry either.

That feeling — the one I carried in that place — it was torture.

The longest few weeks of my life up to that point.

Well… maybe not the longest.

But definitely some of the darkest.

I don’t really know how many days I wandered about after that or what I actually did.

But I do remember one moment.

I was hitchhiking — or trying to.

I’d made my way to a road that led toward the next town.

I don’t remember if I ever got there — maybe not.

But what I do remember is this:

I was walking with my thumb out.

Every car that passed, I’d hold it up with a tiny sliver of hope.

But they just passed.

One after another.

Then it happened.

A car pulled over.

It stopped!

I was so happy.

Yes!

Finally — someone was going to give me a lift to nowhere.

I didn’t care. I’d figure out how to get back later.

I ran toward the car, a smile forming.

I reached for the passenger door…

And the bastard drove off.

Fucking wanker.

That’s what I thought.

But more than that — I felt humiliated.

Deeply humiliated.

The kind that burns your cheeks red and leaves your chest hollow.

What a fool.

Why did I even put my thumb out?

Who would stop for me?

That moment sank in, deep.

And it stayed.

I think that’s why it’s here now.

It never really left.

It wasn’t even the first time I’d felt that feeling — that deep, burning shame.

Flashback.

I remember being quite young, maybe six or seven.

Mum had a visitor over and I was asked to make them a cup of tea.

I was so excited — so proud.

It felt like such a huge responsibility.

The most important thing in the world, in that moment.

I took it seriously.

I went back and forth, asking how they wanted it:

Milk? Sugar?

And then…

“Tea bag?”

They burst out laughing.

They howled.

Not a little laugh — full, deep belly laughs.

At me.

I was mortified.

Ashamed.

Utterly crushed.

But I finished making the tea.

Tears running down my face.

I’ve never forgotten that moment.

Or that feeling.

It took me a long time to stop carrying that shame like it still mattered.

But it’s still there — just under the surface.

And that day on the road, when that car drove off?

It hit the same wound.

It always comes back to that feeling — that moment.

And the boy who didn’t understand why people could be so cruel.

That house, that chapter — it ended without a clear exit in my memory. One moment we were there, and then somehow, we weren’t.

I can’t remember the move. I can’t remember the decision. It’s just blank.

But what I do remember… is where we landed next.

A new house. A different setting. Another fresh start — or so it seemed.

And that place… that’s where things really began to shift.

That’s where Chapter Three begins.