Blog It

‘Sorry I'm late,' Connor blurted.

Mr Sweeney was a history teacher as well as Connor's form tutor. He was a taller, less forgiving version of his hero, Napoleon. He leaned back in his chair, making a show of putting his glasses on and peering at the clock on the wall. ‘Two weeks not long enough for you, Connor?'

‘Sir?' He stood there radiating heat, face shiny with sweat and embarrassment.

‘A desperate attempt to squeeze in those extra few minutes, hmm?'

Connor squirmed as his classmates giggled.

‘Just can't fit it all in, eh? Such a busy lifestyle - is that the problem?'

Connor believed Mr Sweeney picked on him more than anyone else all because he hated history. The teacher sighed and reached for his register to mark Connor present, but damn him as late. ‘New term but old Connor, I suppose.'

‘Yes, sir.' He was quick to scuttle to his desk at the back of the room, ignoring the stares.

‘And put your tie on.'

‘Yes, sir.'

Mr Sweeney waited for Connor to sit down. ‘So, as I was saying... This is to celebrate the school's twenty-fifth birthday this year.' He waved a sheet of paper at the class. ‘It will be a time capsule, if you like. A record of life here for one week, whether you're teacher or student, caretaker or librarian.'

There was a letter waiting for Connor on his desk. Everybody in the room had one. He tried to read it at the same time as dig his tie out of his bag. The tie was creased and stained but luckily still in last term's knot. ‘What's going on?' he asked Darryl sitting next to him.

Darryl was doodling shapes that could have been planes, maybe rockets, across his letter. ‘We've got to do a blog.'

Connor had already spotted the URL for something called "blog-it.com" and a list of instructions. ‘Who says?'

‘Everybody's got to do one every day for a week.'

‘But what are you meant to write? I wouldn't have a clue.'

With well-practiced nonchalance, Darryl twitched his head to flick his long fringe from his eyes. ‘Not my problem,' he said.

Connor yanked his tie tight. ‘They can't force you. I won't do it.'

He hadn't seen Mr Sweeney striding between the desks towards him. ‘Everybody means everybody,' he growled, looming over Connor. ‘And with you being such a busy chap, with so much to fill your time, I'm awaiting your each and every exciting instalment with baited breath.'

*

Connor's computer screen glowed, ready and waiting. He rocked in his seat, looked longingly at the TV next to his bed. But he knew he couldn't put it off any longer. He was bound to be the first person Mr Sweeney checked on. So he typed, 'Monday', then stared at the screen for a while longer.

At last he wrote:

I got to school only three and a half minutes late but Mr Sweeney still went mad. Then he told us about doing this blog, which is what I'm doing now. This was my Monday...

In the morning I had English and sat next to Julie Shaw who has freckles, glasses and long blonde hair. I like English a lot. Julie let me borrow one of her pens because I didn't have one.

At break my best friend Darryl and I played football with some other lads from our year. We always play with Craigy Doyle because it's his ball. He's a good player but he tackles really hard. He's like a rhino. I've now got a bruise on my ankle about the size of a big orange. I could hardly walk. I didn't cry. Craigy says the reason I always get hurt is because I'm not as good a player as he is.

At lunchtime I sat with Darryl. He'd not got any dinner money so I shared my packed-lunch with him. I let him have my sandwiches and yoghurt. I had the apple. He went to play football again but I went to the library to read. My ankle was very painful.

After school I met Darryl at the bus stop to come home. He asked if I could lend him some bus fare. I'm trying to save up but it wouldn't have been fair to make him walk all the way home. Craigy and Julie Shaw also get our bus. Craigy was telling Julie about football. He wanted me to show her my bruise, but I didn't because it's obvious she's not interested in football.

Then I came home.

He shrugged. At least it would keep Mr Sweeney off his back.

*

Tuesday.

Connor read again what he'd written the night before. He wished he could just write ‘same as yesterday' because it would definitely be the truth. But Mr Sweeney had picked on anybody who'd written less than a hundred words. So, with a sigh, he began to type.

Mr Sweeney told me off for being late again. He made me stand at the front of the class and read yesterday's blog. He never said so, but I know he didn't like it.

At break when we played football Craigy Doyle made my ankle even worse. He said it was my fault for trying to stop him getting the ball. My bruise is purple and green, like a big, splattered butterfly that's gone mouldy.

But I had English after break. I told Julie Shaw, who I sit next to, that it's my favourite subject. We had to share our copy of ‘Of Mice and Men' because I'd forgotten mine. She was wearing new earrings and was really pleased I noticed. They are silver and diamond-shaped, with a (not real) diamond in the middle.

Darryl found me in the library at the start of lunch and I let him have my cheese sandwiches. He said he wished I'd brought tuna because they're his favourite. I had the apple.

After school I met Darryl and Craigy at the bus stop. Darryl only had a £10 note and you need exact change. It was lucky I had enough exact change for both of us or he might have had to walk. Craigy told Julie Shaw that he's definitely going to be a footballer when he leaves school. She asked me what I was going to be. Craigy said ‘In hospital with a broken ankle.' Darryl and I laughed because it was funny. Sort of.

*

When he sat down to write up Wednesday's blog he thought he must have somehow made a mistake. He double-checked. It was confusing. But there was no denying that today's blog had already been written.

He read through it. Twice. Everything on the screen had happened: Mr Sweeney, football, English, sharing his lunch and waiting for the bus home. It was exactly what he would have written. But he hadn't written it.

He felt a quick shiver of paranoia, like a spider with cold feet skittering up his back. Was somebody spying on him?

He turned his light off and climbed into bed, but it was ages before he fell asleep.

*

Thursday morning and Connor barely managed to mumble his apology when Mr Sweeney told him off for being late. And he was extra late today because he'd had to keep checking over his shoulder in case he was being followed.

‘I won't ask you to read out your blog entry yet again, Connor,' Mr Sweeney said. ‘I get the impression we can all make an educated guess as to what it will say.'

The class laughed and Connor felt his scalp prickle with suspicion. Was that meant to be a coded message?

He nudged Darryl sitting next to him. ‘Is there anything funny about your blog?'

‘It's funnier than yours.'

Connor leaned in close and whispered, ‘Something's gone weird with mine.'

Darryl flicked his hair out of his eyes. ‘Not my problem.'

Connor's first lesson was English. He sat next to Julie Shaw, but was so distracted he forgot to pretend he'd forgotten something, and struggled to think of an excuse to talk to her. She had her hair tied back in a ponytail and was wearing the new earrings Connor had said suited her. He plucked up the courage to ask her about her blog.

‘I've read yours,' she told him.

‘Have you?' He was pleased at first. Then suspicious.

‘It's a bit the same,' she said.

‘The same as what?'

‘Just, the same, you know?'

‘But that's all I've done. You're not meant to make it up, are you?'

‘Why are you always late?' she asked.

‘I don't mean to be. It just happens.'

She pushed her glasses up her nose. ‘Thank you for mentioning me.'

Connor blushed. ‘It's only because English is my favourite lesson, and I sit next to you. So I have to mention you.'

‘But you never write about other lessons.'

‘I can't tell the truth about history. I'd probably get kicked out of school if I did.'

Julie laughed. It made him go all warm and porridgey inside.

*

For the first time all week Connor was in a rush to get home and check out his blog. He'd convinced himself that last night was just a mistake, and had decided to write in today's entry that he'd made Julie Shaw laugh. He was impatient waiting for his computer to boot up. But his jaw dropped open when he saw, that just like yesterday, today's blog had already been written.

He chewed on his bottom lip for a while, then forced himself to scroll through it.

Someone was having a joke, right? Purposely trying to freak him out. Because it was very freaky. But he told himself he wasn't going to let them. No way. It was just some moron winding him up because they thought it was funny. But he wasn't going to give them the satisfaction. He...

He almost choked when he scrolled down far enough to realise Friday's blog was also there. There on his computer. Tomorrow's blog written before tomorrow had even happened.

He closed his bedroom door. He peeked out of his window in case anybody was hiding behind a lamppost on the street, watching. Then he drew the curtains and sat in the dark reading what was going to happen to him the following day. His spine chilled one vertebrae at a time.

*

He hadn't slept well. He stood in the doorway of his form room letting Mr Sweeney give him the usual dressing down without hearing much of what the teacher said. He'd given up trying to get his head around what was happening at about three o' clock in that morning. It was just too freaky. And then he'd dreamed he was a puppet, his strings being pulled by a shadowy figure. His main thought as Mr Sweeney bellowed at him was that the pre-written blog had said this would happen.

In English he tried to get a seat at the opposite side of the classroom to Julie Shaw, but nobody would swap places with him. Then he did his best not to look at her throughout the lesson. But he couldn't help noticing she was wearing lipstick. Just like the blog said she would be.

He felt raw and edgy playing football. He knew that at any moment Craigy Doyle was going to shoulder-barge him so hard he'd end up a twisted heap on the ground. He tried to keep well away from both him and the ball. He let the bigger lad score two goals because he refused to tackle him.

He was checking his watch to see how long was left before the end of break and he didn't notice the ball being booted towards him. It landed at his feet. He gasped out loud and went to run in the opposite direction. But ran straight into the half-boy, half-rhino that was Craigy Doyle.

Connor flew. But not very far. He hit the ground so hard his ribs rattled. The wind was knocked out of him and for a second or two worried he'd never be able to get back up again.

But deep down he knew he would. The blog said he had to share his packed-lunch with Darryl yet.

He wandered through the rest of the day in a bewildered, nervy haze. He told himself to be thankful that today's was the last blog and next week he could get back to being normal.

But when he was waiting at the bus stop, and Darryl asked if he could borrow some money for the fare, Connor had a sudden and scary realisation: everything today had been normal. Totally, absolutely, exactly normal. Like yesterday. And the day before. Just as Julie had said: ‘It's a bit the same.' No wonder the blog had begun to write itself.

He looked at Daryl standing there with his hand out. Connor's hand was already in his pocket. But he didn't give Darryl any money. ‘Sorry. Only got enough for me today.'

Darryl was shocked. ‘But how am I meant to get home?' he asked.

Connor shrugged. ‘Not my problem,' he said.

Behind him he could hear Craigy Doyle regaling Julie Shaw with the story of he'd charged Connor down and scored the winning goal.

‘Knocked him flying,' Craigy said. He had his football under his arm like a constant companion. ‘Both feet off the round. Ha, ha. You should've seen his face.'

Connor stepped up to the bigger lad and shoved him hard in the chest, pushing him off balance just enough to be able to grab the football from him. He was also quick to leap out of reach, ignoring the furious look on the Craigy's face. He gripped the ball in both hands, then dropped kicked it with the most powerful boot he could muster. Everyone turned to watch the ball fly high across the road, bounce once on the opposite pavement, and disappear over a garden hedge.

Craigy was too shocked to do much more than wail, ‘My ball...' He ran out into the traffic.

But Connor ignored the blare of horns. He turned to Julie Shaw, who was about as wide-eyed amazed as anybody at what was happening. He said, ‘Do you want to go to the pictures tonight? With me, I mean?'

And he reckoned it was just about the greatest feeling in the world when she said yes.

*

Or maybe the second greatest...

Because when he got home and checked his blog on the computer, all he found was a blank page. The best feeling was knowing he could fill it up with anything he wanted to from now on.