Chapter 4: The First Year
TJ and I left Harmon in 2018 and started at Winser high that September—him in Infants A, and me in Class 3. I remember that first day like it was etched in stone. I was the new kid and the early signs of puberty creeping in. i was a walking target.
The whispers started before I even made it past the gate. The laughing came next. And just like that, it was as if I'd been dropped right back into St. Martins—alone, drowning, and with no one to pull me to shore.
They'd placed me in one of the lower classes at first, just to see if I could "catch up." But after a while, I was bumped up into Mr. Coward's class—what people called the "bright class" at the time. Looking back, it probably wasn't because we were so intelligent, but more that kids managed to pass in spite of him, not because of anything he taught.
Before Coward, I had Mrs. Bryant.
Mrs. Bryant was the light in that school. In a place full of chaos, she was calm. She was the only adult who seemed to genuinely care about my well-being, and I adored her for it. She taught me more than any textbook ever could—how to treat people with love and respect, how to carry yourself with kindness. She was an angel in a school full of devils.
But Mr. Coward's class was a whole other realm.
The school had this system, kind of like an academic caste. In Class 3, there were four teachers, each unofficially ranked based on how "smart" their students were. Mrs. Bryant taught the first class, with the kids who struggled most and barely scraped by. Then there was Mr. Weekes' class—home to the average students, those who coasted with decent grades. Next was Mrs. Cox's class for the scholars, especially the math nerds; she ruled that room with sharp formulas and sharper pencils. And finally, there was Mr. Coward's class—the English-minded, abstract thinkers. Philosophers in miniature.
Which, I guess, included me.
Now, Mr. Coward was... different. He had a very unique teaching style—meaning he didn't really teach at all. He'd spend entire lessons talking about the Motherland, about how we were still mentally enslaved by colonialism. And while I agree now with some of what he said, as a ten-year-old girl barely holding it together, that was the last thing I needed to hear every single day.
Still, I didn't mind it as much when he went off on these rants during math class—math never liked me anyway, and the feeling was mutual.
Physically, Mr. Coward looked like he had stepped out of a history book himself. He was in his late sixties, dark-skinned, with white hair only growing in lonely patches. He moved slowly, always hunched— he had a cane, some people might've mistaken him for the village obeah man. And with his cryptic aura, long yellowed fingernails, and worn-out slippers, the title would've fit.
Ironically, for all his talk about slavery and freedom, Mr. Coward had a clear disdain for immigrants—which, of course, I was. And he never bothered to hide it.
Wearing my Jamorran colors at Independence? Disrespectful.
Bringing Jamorran currency to school to show my classmates? Inappropriate.
Opening my mouth to speak my truth? Apparently, too much.
To him, I was always doing something wrong. Always out of place. But to his credit... he never went out of his way to make my life a living hell. I think he figured it already was.
And maybe he wasn't completely wrong.