I restated my claim and was told that I’m not expected to reveal their names, but am expected to tel the truth. After a little deliberation and an assurance that I wouldn’t have to reveal the names of my accomplices, I admitted to knowing them. “Good.” the woman said to me. “You’ve made your first step towards rehabilitation.”
“James.” she said, turning to the boy. “Why don’t you tell the group why you’ll be attending the after school club next week?”
Just as meekly as I, James told his story and we all listened. “But, you know that the activities are compulsory James… it doesn’t matter if you don’t enjoy them or feel silly doing them.” the woman said, claiming that the activities are all designed to benefit us, even if we don’t realise what that benefit is. “Hopefully you’ll learn to join in and play nicely at the after school club this week… and hopefully you won’t have to attend next week too.” she said in a patronising tone.
It appears that if we don’t take part or engage with the activities at Sunday school, we have to attend on Saturday’s too… and if like James, you still refuse to actively participate, then there’s an after school club too. Standing here today, in my girlie shoes & socks and my pretty white frock is the worst thing I’ve ever endured… I can’t imagine the prospect of having to attend every day and James doesn’t look too happy about it either.
We were told to a grab a stool each and assemble them in a semi circle. They’re stacked at the far end of the hall and I follow the others to fetch one and can’t help but observe their dresses. All wear white sashes around their waist, tied in an ornate bow at the back. The bows bounce and tails flutter as they briskly trotted toward the stools. Their skirts sway this way and that and their shoes clack on the hardwood floor. Some of their frocks are decorated with lace, some with frills and some have puffed sleeves, straight sleeves or no sleeves at all. I return with a stool and place it in position before perching upon it. I’d somehow forgotten about my nappy until I felt it cushion me. The boy next to me tells me not to sit on my sash. “Oh er…” I meekly say as I arrange my bow so it hangs unhindered behind me, just like the others.
The woman in charge of our group perches on a stool and begins to read us a story; a morality tale about a child with options but often takes the wrong path. She asks questions and prompts us to think about our answer for a moment first. Questions such as, Do you think it was right or wrong to give an honest opinion in X scenario? or How would you have felt if someone embarrassed you with the truth? I guess the lesson was that there’s a time for telling the truth and a time for being tactful. For example, my mother asks if I like her new hairdo, I should be complimentary rather than apathetic or worse still, honest. If the police ask if I knew the kids I was with the night I got into this mess, I should have said yes rather than lying. I could have ‘honestly’ refuse to give their names, but denying that I knew them was wrong… although I still had my reasons for lying about that. “I’m sure you did.” the woman told me, before asking how long I have to attend Sunday school for.
“Er…. forty-eight weeks.” I replied. “Minimum” I added.
“And how long do you think you’d have to attend had you not lied about knowing your accomplices?” she asked. I didn’t know. “Twenty-four weeks.” she informed me, before claiming that if I’d named them too, I’d have only been here for twelve weeks.
