False Starts

Why are they all Giants?

I stood in the classroom and felt like a thing you look at in a museum. It's always weird starting a new school, isn't it? The uniform didn't help; we had to wear those awful ties! This school was different from my old one, and the tie felt like it was trying to strangle me. Mum tied it way too tight. I couldn't do it myself, because I haven't found a one-handed way of doing it yet, and that felt like a huge, unfair secret. Everyone was staring at me, their eyes heavy, like I was the newest thing the pack could chase. Miss Benjamin shuffled papers, then gave a fragile smile. "Why don't you take a seat on that table?" she said, pointing to a spare spot in the middle. I managed to shuffle over and sat down. But why did they all seem so big? Their heads were level with mine when I was sitting down. I felt like I was nine, not eight, like my body had cheated me into this place.

The Football Battle

The classroom was already too much, but the playground was much worse. The noise hit my ears like a slap. The lads were going completely crazy over the football match. Football wasn't a big thing at my old school. I used to be in the top year there. I was one of the oldest! If Dad hadn't moved us two hundred miles away, I'd be starting my new big school with all my friends right now. Instead, I'm here, and I'm somewhere in the middle, and they have strange numbers for the years! I spotted a bench and just plonked myself down. I was sitting there, quietly alone, when a boy from my class, Tony, came over and sat next to me. He didn't seem as aggressively big as the rest of the class.
"Sam, right?" he asked. I nodded.
"That food groups lesson was a bit boring, wasn't it? Mum says if talking was an Olympic sport, I'd win Gold ten times over! Where did you move from?"
"London," I whispered.
"Coool!" Tony said. "I guess it's so busy there you have to be quiet." He didn't ask about my hand, or why I was sitting alone. He just accepted the quiet. We spent the rest of break time sitting together. I'd made my first friend. The heavy knot in my chest loosened a bit.

The Problem with Year 4: The Assembly

Miss Benjamin got us lined up in the corridor. The walk to the main hall felt long and formal, the air smelling of polish and old gym mats. We filed in, and the hall was vast and loud, full of echoing voices and the shuffling sound of hundreds of children. I squinted; the light was too bright. I watched the class that entered before us—the ones my big brother was in—sit smartly on long wooden benches. But we had to sit on the cold, polished floor, right in the middle, along with all the other small kids. It made me feel even more exposed. I was trying to sit cross-legged, which always hurts my leg, when I spotted Jackie, the girl who lives next door. She was sitting a few rows back, and she looked small and neat. She caught my eye, and her smile was quick and friendly. I lifted my hand to give a small wave. Instantly, Tony's elbow dug hard into my ribs. I gasped, sucking in a breath.
"Face the front or you'll get in trouble!" he whispered fiercely, his voice tense. "Why are you waving at a Year Four?" I pulled my arm down, hunching my shoulders. "She lives next door," I mumbled, feeling small. Tony didn't even look at her. He kept his eyes glued to the front. "You can't talk to Year Fours, they're just children." The word 'children' was sharp and heavy with contempt. I felt a cold worry: my new friend had a rule, and I had nearly broken it. It made me realise how little I knew about the invisible rules of this school.

The headmaster, Mr. Smith, got up onto the stage. He adjusted the microphone, which let out a loud, painful pop of feedback. He started checking who was there.
"Could Year 3 put their hands up." A sea of small hands went up right at the front. He called for Year 4 next, and I saw Jackie and her class whip their hands into the air.
"And Year 5," Mr. Smith commanded. I felt Tony's elbow dig into my ribs again, harder this time.
"Psst... We're Year 5, put your hand up!" he hissed. I pushed my hand into the air straight away, relieved to be one of the big kids, and one of Tony's friends. My hand trembled slightly from the effort of holding it up.
"Thank you, Year 5," Mr. Smith said. "Now, are Year 6 here?"
I looked behind me, and my brother and his class put their hands up. I was safe. I was Year 5. I was one of the older children. But the relief was shaky, built entirely on Tony's fierce insistence and the fear that I might, secretly, belong with the "children."

The Collision at the Gates

Later, after assembly, Tony and I were walking up the path to the school gates, our shoes scraping quietly on the tarmac. Then I saw him. An older boy in a different uniform. He looked right at me, and a lopsided smirk pulled at his mouth. As he got level, his shoulder bashed hard into mine. My balance instantly collapsed. I gasped, my leg muscles seizing up, fighting a frantic battle to keep me upright.
Then, he leaned in. His voice was a low, dry rasp:
"Spastic." Then he was gone. I stood frozen, my spine locked, still trying to anchor myself to the ground. Tony spun around, his face furious.
"Oi! You bastard! What did you say?" He turned back to me, dropping his voice low. "You okay, Sam? That bastard. I'm going to tell my mum, she knows his mum."
"It's okay," I said, the words thin. "He was right, I am a spastic." I said the word myself, taking it, but it tasted bitter. Tony looked at me. He was going to argue, but then he just shrugged.

The Look at Supper

The supper table was the loudest place in the house, full of the smells of burnt sausages and the clatter of our cheap cutlery. My family always wanted the 'update' on the day, like it was a television show they'd missed. I launched into the story about Tony, feeling proud to have a friend to talk about.
"We sat next to each other in assembly, and Tony reminded me to put my hand up when Mr. Smith called for Year 5." I smiled at my plate, remembering how Tony had nudged me. Mum didn't even look up from carving the sausages. Her knife made a sharp, rhythmic sound on the porcelain.
"Year 4, dear," she corrected, her voice gentle and automatic. I stopped chewing. I felt a cold prickle of confusion that went straight to my stomach.
"No, Year 5," I insisted, leaning forward across the table. "Tony said we're in Year 5! Jackie from next door is in Year 4. Tony said Year Fours were just children." I didn't like the way Mum corrected me. It made me sound like the confused one, and I had been very careful all day.
My brother, oblivious, shoveled mashed potato into his mouth, his elbow jutting out.
"He was sat with the Year Fives," he mumbled through the food, confirming the size of the Giants I'd been with. Then it happened: my parents gave each other that look. It was a quick, worried, silent flash that flicked from Mum's eyes to Dad's, then instantly down to their plates. It was the look they used when they thought I wasn't looking, a look that said, We've messed up, and he knows something is wrong. Dad's hand, holding his fork, actually paused halfway to his mouth. The noise of the clattering cutlery and my brother's chewing suddenly vanished. All I could hear was the low, silent hum of their worry. The look was louder than Mr. Smith shouting. It told me I hadn't been mistaken about Tony's age; I had been misplaced. And they had known the Year Group was wrong, but they hadn't fixed it until I told them my friend called the other children 'just children.' The pride I had felt in having a friend vanished, replaced by the heavy, sinking feeling that I had been built on a mistake.

The Chaos in the Office

The next morning, the feeling of dread was so thick I could almost taste it. Mum and Dad walked me to Mr. Smith's office. The whole building felt stiff and quiet as classes were starting. I sat stiffly on a plastic chair outside. A few minutes later, Mr. Smith walked in, clutching a file. He stopped dead, seeing us. Mum and Dad stood up straight, and their voices dropped low. I couldn't hear the exact words, but I heard sharp words like 'school records,' 'placement details,' and 'age range' muttered. Mr. Smith kept shaking his head, rubbing his forehead with his thumb. Finally, he spoke, his voice tense.
"Excuse me one moment." He disappeared into his private office, closing the door a little too hard. The silence that followed was heavy. Then, we heard thumping—a noise of papers and heavy books hitting a wall. And then, loud enough to cut through the door and the silence of the school, came one word, drawn out and explosive: "FUUUUUCK!"

Moments later, Mr. Smith returned, his collar slightly crooked. After multiple tense conversations, he sat down next to me, leaning in with a smile that didn't reach his wide, twitchy eyes.
"Seems, fella, that somebody put you in the wrong year group," he said, the words coming out too quickly. "Guess because you are so tall, they got confused." As he said 'confused,' I could see his hand, resting on a piece of paper on his desk, clench into a tight, white fist. I knew it wasn't my height; it was my clumsiness that had led to the mistake. He introduced me to a friendly-looking lady. "Ah, this is Miss Harris, she's Sophie's Teaching Assistant, and will be yours too. Sam will be joining Mrs. Albright's class. Could you take him, please. We have things to sort out here." I picked up my school bag, the strap digging into my shoulder, and followed Miss Harris, my chest feeling hollow.

The Cold Shoulder

We were walking past Miss Benjamin's room when the door burst open. Tony ran out, clutching a piece of paper, his face bright with purpose. He saw me and stopped dead.
"Sam! Where have you been?" he exclaimed, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes flicking to Miss Harris.
"They're moving me to Mrs. Albright's class," I explained, trying to keep my voice steady. Tony looked confused, his forehead wrinkling. Miss Harris leaned down towards us, her voice soft and apologetic. "Seems Sam was put in the wrong year. He's meant to be in Year 4." The second she said 'Year 4,' something went cold in Tony's eyes. It was like watching a light switch off in a dark room. The warmth, the acceptance, and the shared laughter we’d built over the last day instantly vanished, replaced by a dull, judging distance. His face didn't look angry; it looked blank, as if I'd suddenly become invisible or irrelevant. I watched my first friend disappear right in front of me, erased by the rigid, single rule of the school hierarchy.

Later that day, I saw him in the corridor. My chest was tight with nerves, but I had to try. I shuffled closer.
"Tony, about breaktime..." He didn't even look at me properly. He just kept walking, his spine stiff, his voice flat and stiff, like he was reciting a rule he’d just learned from a book.
"I don't talk to children." I stopped dead, the words hitting me harder than the older boy's shoulder. The shame was suffocating. I kept walking to my new class, my throat aching. As we went in, I had that feeling like I'd done this all before—like the whole day was a huge, miserable mistake. But at least, I thought to myself as I stood in front of this new class, these ones aren't giants. They looked my size. My confusion was gone, but so was my friend.