There was a boy in my class. He was very fanciable. All the girls fancied him. Stuart B. I wrote him a love letter once and signed my name with mysterious dashes. He figured out who it was and didn’t reciprocate my undying love. I was embarrassed and upset and so good at wearing my heart on my sleeve. My friends comforted me. How sweet they were.
The last year of junior school was also the toughest for me. For some reason most of the class below me alienated me. Every time I walked past them someone would say ‘Quick Holly’s coming’ and they would all hold their breath. It was tough and confusing. I never told anyone and I never cried. I just took it and pretended not to be bothered. But I always remember their remarks and the look of a crowd of kids putting their hands over their noses as I walked by. That was crap.
I remember my last day of primary school. We’d done what we thought was the most hilarious leaving assembly (I’m sure it wasn’t as funny as we thought but we giggled sooo much performing it) and had a happy afternoon painting and modelling. My mum must have been over the moon when I came out for the last time with a kind of monstrousity of a junk modelling project, painted grey (and still wet) made up of about twenty cereal boxes. I thought it was a good idea to bring it home. My friends painted it with me. It was my last memory of them so it had to come. They’d touched this box, it had their paint strokes on it and now I’d probably never see them again. It was all I had left. We were all saying goodbye to the safety of junior school and now there was a new era ahead. Secondary school.