GRIT GUILD: CHAPTER ONE

BLOOM WHERE YOU DARE, let's begin.

My loves, let’s begin this wild, creative adventure.

Introducing BLOOM WHERE YOU DARE the title voted by you.

I’ve decided for this first month you’re gonna get a chapter every Friday because Act One, because inciting incidents, because lets get this ball rolling and meet everyone, then we’ll go to monthly (at least).

Strap in. Shit’s about to get real.

As a somewhat, maybe it doesn’t need to be said, but i’m gonna regardless…this is a work in progress, you’re getting unedited, first draft story, you’re gonna be my editorial story eyes...so, there’s gonna be mistakes, and chaos, and there’s total vulnerability in that, but also, I kinda love it. So, let’s lean in.

Here’s to creating, and telling stories, and writing just because it’s the thing that makes me so fucking happy and why wouldn’t I wanna share that.

Let’s go.

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CHAPTER ONE

"Alright, Grade Three, bags on desks,” I call out, my voice barely carrying over the cacophony of twenty-eight excited eight-year-olds as their bags slam onto the tiny tables in front of them. It's the last day of term one, and the classroom feels like a popcorn maker exploding kernels. I wait for them to be quiet. For the militarised shh’s to sweep around the room cast by the tiny type A’s, and for the giggles to fade. When their eyes are locked in my direction I very seriously say, “Left hand up,” watching as their little arms shoot into the air. “Claw hands,” I say with a straight face and delight in their collective joy of playing along in this very serious mission, as they all stretch their grubby hands into claws. “Commence food search in 3-2-1,” the kids excitedly plunge their hands into their bags rummaging for any waylaid food at the bottom of their bags. The last thing any of my parent’s need in two weeks time is to find a powdery apple, mouldy sandwich crust, or exploded banana at the bottom of a school bag. I figure this is the least I can do.

I weave between desks, checking off the final few things on my mental to-do list. "Tyler, did you remember to pack your art folder? Mia, don't forget your holiday reader. Steeden, go and get your footy from under my desk and put it straight in your bag, thank you."

A tug on my cardigan makes me look down. Little Clover beams up at me, gap-toothed and rosy-cheeked. "Ms. Dare, I made this for you!" She thrusts a folded piece of paper with thick crayon flowers on it into my hands.

"Oh, Clover, it's beautiful!" I exclaim, studying the colourful scribbles that vaguely resemble me surrounded by hearts. "Thank you. I love this so much. It’s going straight on my special thing’s cabinet. Do you want to go and find a spot for it?"

The final bell rings, chaos descends outside our room, but my kids know not to move until they’ve been dismissed. “Have a wonderful holiday, Grade Three. Please do some reading and what else?”

“Make smart choices,” twenty-eight small, but confident, voices bellow in perfect sing-song tone.

“Exactly,” I say proud that in just ten short weeks they’ve learnt some of my key rules. I stand by the door, doling out hugs and high-fives as my students file out.

Some parents crowd the lawn in front of the classroom, collecting children and heavy backpacks. I catch snippets of conversation:

"...such a wonderful teacher..."

"...Lulu's the best, isn't she?"

"...so lucky to have her..."

I smile and wave, warmth blooming in my chest, relieved that these parents feel that way, because this term I’ve felt a little off my game, like I’ve been phoning some things in, and that makes me uncomfortable.

“Oi! Dickhead. You coming for a beer? I hope there’s a keg,” Ruby Singh, the other grade three teacher, and my work wife, is standing in our conjoining door looking exhausted. “Because I need to crawl inside and submerge my entire head and body inside it because I just had to have a ten-minute conversation with Blayden Moretz’s mother and the only way to cope with the horror that is that woman and her fucking arsehole of a child is alcohol poisoning.”

“I can’t. I’ve got to get to Pascoe’s to help her with the party prep.”

“Oh yes, the birthday orgy.”

“It is a dinner party.”

“Mmm…we’ll see…” Ruby smirks. “I dunno why she’s making you get there so early, what does she want you to do? Microwave something?!”

“Excuse me! I’m on charcuterie duty.”

“How many photos are the Pinterest board you made in order to prepare for said platter?” She delights as she opens a family size bag of chips and stuff a fistful into her mouth.

“Excuse me, I only…” I start in defence but start laughing because there are approximately thirty-five platter pins on the board I called, CHARHOOT ‘N’ REVELRY because I thought that was funny. I shan’t tell Ruby this though. I think it’s a detail she’d use to incriminate me in the future.

“It really soothes me that you can’t cook for shit. Being that you’re perfect at everything else if you could cook too then I don’t think we could be mates.”

“What? Why?”

“Too suspicious. I’d think you were maybe a robot. Like, it already alarms me that you can wear white to school and not end up covered in literal eight-year-old shit. Look at me,” she looks down at her crinkled gingham dress that has a bright orange curry stain down the front, and I smile.

“If my lack of culinary skill means we get to be friends then I’m happy about that.”

“Have fun in Melbourne, my dear,” Ruby looks at me seriously as I hastily gather my things. It’s already making me anxious that I have to leave my classroom in this chaotic state, without a chance to clean and reset everything where I like it before leaving. I’m trying my darndest to ignore the anxiety that has already started to bubble in the pit of my stomach about it. But if I don’t head now, I’ll be late and letting down Pascoe fills me with more dread then the piles of books that need to be rearranged and the desks that need to be submerged in Glen-20. “Please actually take some time off and enjoy yourself,” Ruby adds.

“I will,” I say. “Pinky promise.”

“I know you’re lying, you little shit,” she yells as I laugh heading out my classroom door and locking it behind me.

***

I park in the visitors bay at Pascoe’s new swanky apartment building with my shopping bags and change of clothes and take a deep breath before hitting the buzzer.

Tonight is going to be…intense. Pascoe’s life and friends are…intense.