Rick White

The girls look as though they’re crying, but their makeup stays the same. On the hockey field they flock and gather, a chattering throng of black-winged migratory birds, waiting for the final bell of school to ring. They write messages of everlasting friendship on school shirts, in glitter-stained yearbooks; every sentiment carefully crafted weeks in advance.

Tabitha is the one girl who sits alone on a bench in the schoolyard. She stares down at the empty pages of her yearbook and wonders what the point of all this has been. If five years’ worth of Rorschach tests suddenly appeared in these pages she would gain no deeper understanding. And besides, in every ink-splodge, on every page, she would see only one image, one face — Miss Novak.

The first time Miss Novak asked her a question in maths class, Tabitha knew the answer. But when she tried to speak, the air stuck in her throat; her heart hammered against her chest as though it, too, were trapped. The more Tabitha tried to speak, the more the girls laughed.

They named her T-T-T-Tabitha, and later, when they’d learned to be crueller, Scabby Tabby. They taught her to stifle her inquisitiveness; to venerate mediocrity; to follow; to un-be.

Miss Novak knew Tabitha didn’t want to talk, but did want to listen. In private lessons, in dusty classrooms on sunny days, Miss Novak spoke of complex numbers, proofs and constants. One afternoon she introduced Tabitha to Euler’s Identity, how it was considered one of the most perfect expressions of mathematical form. So simple, yet so deeply profound:

eⁱⁿ + 1 = 0

‘We cannot understand what it means,’ said Miss Novak ‘but we can prove it, so we know it’s the truth. It’s such a beautiful equation; they’ve done studies on mathematicians’ brains which show them actually lighting up when they look at it! Right in the frontal cortex, where all your emotions live. I mean really glowing, like a light bulb!’ Miss Novak touched Tabitha’s forehead as she said this. And though Tabitha didn’t really follow the equation, she knew exactly what Miss Novak meant.

On the hockey field, the girls’ fake tears have turned to fake laughter. Twinkling xylophone chimes. A well-rehearsed symphony Tabitha will hear forever. To suffer is to learn, and if anyone is leaving here with an education, it is her.

Bright, shiny girls with their ticker-tape smiles. Once they leave these gates they will oxidise and tarnish. Time will dull them. They’re already beginning to disperse, marching bovine into some spongiform future.

‘Fuck ‘em,’ says a voice behind Tabitha. Of course it is Miss Novak. ‘You can leave, you know. It’s the last day. You don’t have to wait for the bell.’

But Tabitha waits. She wants to stay and honour a promise made to herself, that no matter what, she would hear the final bell. It will sound like ambulance sirens, to a girl, struggling to breathe.

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About Rick White

Rick White is a fiction writer from Manchester, UK whose work has been nominated for Best Small Fictions, Best Microfictions, Best of the Net, Best British and Irish Flash Fiction and the Pushcart Prize. Rick’s debut short story collection, ‘Talking to Ghosts at Parties’ was released in 2022, however, due to the unending cruelty of the universe/economic climate, the book is now in need of a new publisher. Rick is currently working on a new collection and novel, both of which he hopes to finish before he expires. 

To read more of Rick’s work head to www.ricketywhite.com or follow @ricketywhite on Instagram and X.