FALSE ALARM

One from the ADHD Case Files

FOR THE FINAL SIX weeks of Year 9 I’d been forbidden from setting foot on school property while the powers that be battled among themselves over my fate.

Of the four men who presided over my case, two were adamant that I was no longer worth the hassle. The most vocal was Amstell, in his role as incoming deputy head. The other was the deputy Amstell was set to replace, Mr. Crest, a large man of retirement age, with a full head of white hair and glasses that sat wonky on his face. There was also my head of year, Mr. Monk, tall and slender, with a neatly trimmed beard, who, despite my disciplinary issues taking up so large a part of his time, was sympathetic towards me. The final member of the board was headmaster Donaldson, who led the meeting and asked each man for his thoughts.

Amstell spoke first: “Kris has been given countless chances and never learns from his mistakes. He shows zero respect for authority and has created a reputation for himself that is difficult to see past. For this reason I believe it would be in everybody’s best interests, not least of all Kris’s, for him to start at a new school with new teachers and a clean slate.”

Dad was staring at me like a boxer before the opening bell, making me fear the end of the meeting and being out of the protective sight of witnesses. Mum usually handled school issues alone, but she had insisted that Dad take the afternoon off work to demonstrate that I had two parents who cared about their son’s future. She even made him wear his uniform, to show that, unlike the scum who lived in the flats, we were a decent, hardworking family.

The focus shifted to Mr. Crest: “This young man has been suspended four times already. Regrettably, these exclusions have had no positive effect on his behaviour, and if anything, Kris seems to view being suspended the same as being on holiday. I fear that if we allow him back for Year 10, this pattern will only continue until we are left with no choice but to make his exclusion permanent. Therefore, I agree with Mr. Amstell that the best solution for everyone will be a change of school.”

Dad’s eyes narrowed. Mum looked defeated. Until now, I had been absentmindedly gazing out the window at Mrs. Manford, the old bag who ran the school library, standing with her back against the wall, smoking a cigarette. But hearing both men pushing for my permanent removal pulled me back into the here and now with a jolt.

We turned to Mr. Monk, our last hope.

“This incident is the latest in a long line of similar acts of senseless stupidity…” My heart sank as the final nail was hammered into the coffin. “However, I don’t agree that moving Kris on to another school is the solution. We have a responsibility to this boy and passing the buck will only go to show that we have failed.”

Donaldson listened carefully. His would be the final decision.

“Besides,” Mr. Monk continued, “Kris is a bright boy. He makes stupid decisions, yes, but he’s not a stupid lad. May I remind you all of Kris’s SAT results.”

Three years had passed since I’d taken the SATs, but often when I was being disruptive, teachers would take pleasure in reminding the rest of the class of my results, aware that the last thing you wanted to be singled out for at a school like King’s Manor was cleverness: I’d placed in the top six per cent of 11-year-olds in the country in English.

The day the results came back, the school gave me a letter to take home. The first letter that I didn’t have to tear into a thousand pieces and dispose of down a drain rather than let it reach my parents. I was excited for Dad to see it. I knew Mum would be pleased, she was too easy, but it was Dad’s approval I craved. Finally something positive to show him. Finally something to make him proud.

That evening I waited impatiently for him to come home. He took off his shoes, changed out of his work trousers, poured a beer and sat down in his armchair. I handed him the letter and stood in front of him while he read it. Dad finished reading, folded the letter, set it aside, picked up the newspaper and turned to the football pages without a word.

“Kev!” Mum shouted from the kitchen doorway. “Aren’t you going to say something?”

Dad looked up slowly from the paper. “What do you want me to say?”

“Say well done, at least!” Mum implored. “He’s in the top six per cent!”

“Good,” Dad said, matter-of-factly. Then, straightening himself in his chair, he fixed me in the eye and said, “Why aren’t you in the top five per cent?”

“For fuck’s sake, Kevin!” Mum snapped.

“What?” Dad said, looking perplexed.

“Would it hurt to say something positive to the boy, just once?”

Dad laughed the way a man does when he feels he is being unfairly attacked.

“I did say something positive! I said good!”

He lifted the newspaper and went back to reading and the SATs were never mentioned again in our house.

Amstell was quick to interject: “Nobody’s saying that Kris isn’t bright. But what good is being bright if you don’t apply yourself? It’s a slap in the face to all the kids who struggle with their work just to keep their heads above water, while Kris takes it upon himself to play the clown and divert the attention and resources of the teacher away from those who need it.”

Mr. Crest nodded agreeingly. “Indeed.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Mole,” Donaldson said, turning to my parents, “perhaps you would like to have your say.”

Mum wasted no time: “Mr. Crest, first let me assure you that Kris definitely does not treat being suspended as if it were a holiday. He’s grounded, he hasn’t seen his friends for two weeks and the only time he leaves the house is to do his paper round. He spends his day helping me with the housework. He is punished for his actions and feels the consequences.”

This wasn’t true, but Mum could no more admit that to the men from the school than she could to Dad. The truth was that I spent my days playing basketball alone in the park, or up the road in Lee’s bedroom playing Nintendo because he was off school with a broken leg.

“The only way that his suspension resembles a holiday,” Dad said coldly, still staring at me with a sniper’s gaze, “is that he gets tanned.”

The men exchanged looks. Amstell smiled appreciatively.

Mum retook the initiative: “Kris was doing much better with his behaviour recently. I don’t think it would be fair to expel him for one little moment of silliness.”

Donaldson listened courteously from behind his desk, not saying anything.

It was Amstell who responded: “Mrs. Mole, this little moment of silliness, as you call it, cost the fire brigade eight hundred pounds. Worse than that, it could have cost somebody their life. Imagine someone had called in a real fire, with two fire engines unavailable to attend because they were wasting their time here at the school. I have spoken to some of the firefighters who were called out that day, and let me assure you Mrs. Mole, they don’t view it as a little moment of silliness. It is only because the school intervened on your behalf, given your financial situation, that you have not been footed with that bill. The chief firefighter wanted Kris dealt with by the police.”

Mum looked embarrassed, while a vein pulsed visibly at Dad’s temple.

“Young man,” Donaldson said, turning to me, “I hope you appreciate the gravity of the problems you have caused, not only for yourself, the school, the fire brigade, but most of all for your parents. What I still don’t understand is why you did it.”

Focussing on my feet and fiddling with my hands in my lap, I could feel Dad’s stare burning a hole in my head.

“Kris, why did you do it?” Mum said.

“I don’t know,” I mumbled.

“Speak up, boy,” Donaldson said impatiently.

I shrugged my shoulders.

It was true. I didn’t know. One moment I’d been flowing down the corridor with the tide; the next I was looking down at the red button, the protective glass was broken and all the alarms in the school were going berserk. Kids were laughing and cheering as they headed for the nearest fire escape.

“Actually, to me it’s very clear why Kris does these things,” Mr. Monk said. “He does them because he’s not stimulated. The question is, what can we do to engage Kris, to get him to focus and bring out the best in him? Because we absolutely cannot allow him to continue to disrupt classes and distract other pupils. We have a duty to them just as much as we do to Kris. But if he promises today that he will come back in September for the start of Year 10 a changed young man, the Kris that we have seen glimpses of and that we all know is in there somewhere, that he will stay out of trouble and work hard towards his GCSEs, then I, as his head of year, will work closely with him to help him fulfil his potential.”

Donaldson said, “Well, young man, are you prepared to make that promise?”

Without looking up, I mumbled, “Yes.”

Donaldson said that if no one had anything else to add, we would end the meeting there and he would let us know by letter of his final decision. Either way, I was to remain suspended until the end of Year 9.

A week later the letter arrived. King’s Manor was going to take me back. I knew Amstell would be out to get me from Day One, but I was determined not to let him win. I was going to change my ways.

It wasn’t the first time I’d said it, but it was the first time I’d meant it.

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Thanks for reading. This has been the final installment in the Amstell series, as seen from my point of view. In the next post, I’ll try to step out of myself and into Amstell’s mind, to explore our troubled relationship from the opposing perspective.

(That post might be a while in coming, though, as I’m off on a travel adventure for a few weeks at the start of June.)

If you missed the two previous posts in this Amstell series, they provide context.