The Biscuit Initiation

You know those famous initiations they force new kids through at British schools. Sticking your head in the toilet, eating a goop of all the lunch foods combined, and so on? The other day Lindsay and I experienced one: The Biscuit Initiation. Its incidence shall never fade from my memory.

It began in concept when our friend found out we didn’t know what Jammy Dodgers were. For a moment, she just kind of gawked at us, her huge brown eyes astounded, blinded by our ignorance. A week later, she told us to meet her in the form room during lunch break. Punctually, we arrived with 15 minutes to go before L—— had to leave for a flute lesson. Dawdling about the room, our bags on the floor, we waited. . . . and waited. . . . and waited. And waited. A tall figure burst through the door. Lucy! And she had a mysterious grocery bag in her arms. However, we had only approximately 4.5 minutes before L——‘s flute lesson. Whatever she had for us would have to happen quickly. In a split second, all the girls studying and hanging out in the room gravitated to Lucy like she was the sun and they were insignificant planets in orbit around her.

“We have, like, three and a half minutes until my flute lesson,” said L——.

“Hurry up!” murmured all the girls. “We’d better hurry! How much did you bring?”

Lucy pulled out two chairs and sat me in one, L—— in the other.

“Close your eyes.”

A sweet, buttery thing entered my mouth. Crunch. Sugar on top. Jam-like raspberry stuff in the middle. Mmm.

We opened our eyes to see a full spread of biscuits before us. There were Custard Creams, Hobnobs, Digestives, etc., and the famous Jammy Dodger of which I had just taken a blind, but ecstatic, bite. 2 minutes until the flute lesson. The girls twittered and oohed, and mmmed as they ingested biscuit after biscuit in a remarkably short period of time. Then it was time for me to show L—– how to get to the music rooms. A Digestive in one hand, a Jammy in the other, I walked out of the classroom, L——alongside me with the appropriate cookie per hand, munching and crunching away.

After taking her to the music building, I wandered back through the locker rooms towards the form room. But I didn’t get far. Stepping into the hallway, I faced an odd sight. A pile of biscuit boxes in Lucy’s arms was threatening to topple as she speedwalked past me followed by a gaggle of the giggling biscuit bunch. Her movements were furtive, as she walked sideways, facing the wall, trying to conceal her cargo of sweets. I hadn’t time to process it all. Dimly, I registered a teacher’s voice saying, “Come now. One of you girls needs to clean up the crumbs in the form room before the 11th year psychology class begins.”

“I’ll do it!” I piped up, always the selfless doer of good works.

I skipped into the room to be met by the baleful stares of a classroom full of strange 16 year olds.

“He he,” I whimpered. A moment of silence ensued.

“We had a sort of biscuit party in here, so I’ve come to clean it up!” I forced a smile and pretended nothing was amiss, sweeping crumbs into my hands. Goodness, those girls had left a MESS.

The elderly professor spoke up.

“Well! You have a biscuit fest and leave your crumbs and debris lying here. Quite disgusting, really.”

I chose not to respond.

“There’s a biscuit on the floor here,” he said.

“Really?” I asked dimly. It was a dumb question, but I was so confused. What on earth had happened while I was at the music building?

“Yes.”

I grabbed it and tossed it into the trashcan then exited the room muttering something about needing paper towels to wipe up, maybe.

I was met by the gaggle.

“WHAT ON EARTH!?!” I asked.

They explained that they hadn’t realized there was a class in that room in the middle of lunch break. When the teacher approached, they bolted. After hastily cramming all the biscuits into Lucy’s arms everyone ran out, leaving her with no hands to pick up her backpack. Lucy hooked her foot around it and dragged it frantically out of the room behind her as the teacher looked on in grim astonishment. Quite a few biscuits were dropped and smashed  in the process. And I, I who had not even been there, cleaned all that up AND meekly withstood the baleful stares of twelve eleventh years and an old man. I felt wronged.

“Oh my goodness.” I froze at the door to the locker room. Surely not! Oh, but it was true. I had left my backpack in that classroom. “I have to  go back in. But I can’t!”

By that time, Lucy had gone into the locker room to deposit her biscuits and the others had quietly dispersed. Only one girl was left, looking in mild wonder at my display of despair.

“What?” she asked.

I explained the situation to her and she offered to go with me. At the door, I steeled myself, and without knocking, opened the door and sprinted for my backpack which I immediately spotted in the corner. Without a word, I grabbed it, hefted it onto my shoulder, and sprinted back out. My poor friend was standing in the open door.

“Um, she, um needed her backpack. . .” she faltered as I swept past her into the hallway. The teacher kicked the door shut.

And I decided to dye my hair, adopt bad posture, a shambling gait, and contacts in place of glasses; if I ever met the eyes of that teacher again, I would die of dark memories.  His opinion of me was probably, on a scale of 1-10, negative 2. Dearie me.

Anyway, we passed the Biscuit Initiation. One would think it should be easy, but it proved a trial for nerves of steel.

(To me at least. L—– was safely at her little flute lesson. All she had to do was eat.)

Farewell. Farewell. Farewell.