Why I’m Hiding in the Art Storage Closet Instead of Heading to Prize Distribution
The floor smells like turpentine and half-rotted cardboard, and there’s a dried up paintbrush sticking to the sole of my shoe. I checked my watch three times in the last two minutes. The bell for assembly will ring in 90 seconds, and I’m supposed to be lining my form up by the sports hall entrance right now. I don’t wanna go. I know that makes me sound like a grumpy first year teacher who still doesn’t get how the school works, but honestly? I don’t care. I’ve been here two years, and I still haven’t figured out why we all have to give up two whole hours of a perfectly good Friday afternoon for this.
It’s not that I’m not happy for the kids who are getting prizes. Most of them worked hard, I get that. It’s just… the whole thing feels so awkward, for everyone involved. Let’s take my form, for example. Mia stayed after school every Wednesday and Friday for four months this year, painting that big mural of local birds on the canteen wall. Even when it got hot and the paint fumes made her head hurt, she came in. She’s good, really good, better than any other 15 year old I’ve ever seen. But she didn’t get the art prize. The girl who did is lovely, don’t get me wrong, her exam marks were three percent higher, and her mom organizes the PTA summer fair every year. It’s not some big conspiracy, it just is what it is. Now Mia’s gonna have to sit there for two hours, clapping for the girl who got what she probably wanted more, and I’m gonna have to catch her eye every few minutes and give her that little encouraging smile that feels so fake it makes my cheeks hurt.
And don’t get me started on the sitting part. We all cram onto those rickety old wooden chairs that haven’t been replaced since the 90s, right up against each other, so if the person next to you sneezes you get their cold. The sports hall still smells like the under 14s football match from Tuesday – that weird mix of mud, energy drink, and sweaty socks. The headmaster always talks for at least 40 minutes, and he always goes on that same tangent about how he won the cross country prize when he was 16, and how it taught him that hard work always pays off. I’ve heard it twice now, and I still don’t care. Half the kids are on their phones under their blazers anyway, and half the parents are just checking their work emails too. We’re all just waiting for it to be over. By the 30th prize announcement, my hands hurt from clapping, and if I slow down even a second I feel like everyone’s judging me for not being enthusiastic enough.
Oh, and this year I get to go up too. The head nominated me for that district young teacher award, and I won. I didn’t even wanna do it. I said no, but he said it’d be good for the school, so I said fine. Now I have to walk across that whole big stage, in front of 800 people, shake the governor’s hand, smile for the photos, and take home a big heavy glass plaque that I have nowhere to put. It’s not like I’m gonna hang it in my tiny rented flat above the chip shop. It’s just gonna go in the back of my kitchen cupboard, next to my broken hairdryer and the stack of unmarked essays I’ve been ignoring for two weeks. Last night I had a dream I tripped going up the stairs and dropped the plaque and it shattered into a million pieces. I didn’t even mind in the dream.
Also, my ex-boyfriend, the one I broke up with three months ago because he decided he wanted to move to Edinburgh and didn’t even ask if I’d come with him, he’s teaching lower sixth now, so he has to sit three rows away from me. I saw him in the co-op on Tuesday and I ducked behind the cereal aisle until he left. I don’t even know why I did that. It’s not like I hate him, it’s just… awkward. Do I wave? Do I pretend I don’t see him? If I have to smile for my photo, is he gonna look at me? I know that’s stupid, but it’s just one more thing I have to overthink for two hours.
I keep thinking about last year, too. There was a Year 11 boy, got the top maths prize, went up on stage, and no one cheered that loud except the head. His dad works away on an oil rig, his mom was sick and couldn’t come. He just stood there, holding the certificate, and the clapping died down really fast, and you could hear a pin drop for a second before the head called the next name. I saw him after, he was sitting on the wall outside, eating a packet of salt and vinegar crisps by himself, and I didn’t know what to say. I just said well done, and he said thanks, and that was it.
People always say prize distribution is about celebrating success, but half the time it just feels like reminding people what they don’t have. It’s not that every kid needs a participation trophy, obviously, that’s the whole thing people complain about. But do we all have to sit there for two hours watching a tiny percentage of people get all the recognition, when most of the kids in that room do really cool stuff that no one ever notices? My form has a boy who teaches kids with learning difficulties how to play chess at lunch every week, he does it voluntarily, and he’ll never get a prize for that. It doesn’t show up on an exam sheet, so it doesn’t count.
I hear footsteps right outside the closet door. Someone’s talking, probably a couple of Year 10s skipping the first five minutes too. I hold my breath, even though they wouldn’t care if they found me here. My trousers are still too tight across the hips, the coffee stain on my blazer cuff is still there, my new smart shoes are already rubbing a big blister on my left heel, my phone’s at 11% and I forgot to bring a bottle of water. I can hear the headmaster’s voice booming through the wall from the sports hall already, testing the microphone. It’s time to go.
I’m not gonna skip, obviously. I have to. I’ll line the kids up, I’ll smile, I’ll clap until my palms sting, I’ll go up on that stage and shake that man’s hand and pretend I’m grateful for the plaque that’s gonna gather dust in my cupboard. After it’s all over, I’m gonna walk down to the ice cream shop on the high street, get a double scoop of salted caramel with sprinkles, and eat it on the bench by the river, and I won’t think about prize distribution again for another whole year. That’s enough, isn’t it?
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