I suppose it all began a few months ago, when the first message pinged into my life like a particularly smug pigeon flying through an open window. Up until then, my life had been the very definition of uneventful — a lukewarm soup of routine, served daily with a side of quiet invisibility. At school, I was a ghost in regulation black blazer: not clever enough to win awards, not dumb enough to be a walking cautionary tale. Teachers skimmed over me like I was fine print on a mobile phone contract. Fellow pupils barely noticed me — unless they needed a pencil or someone to ignore.

Except Frankie.

Frankie — short for Frankenstein, obviously — was the school’s very own throwback to prehistoric times. A lumbering, banana-munching menace with the subtlety of a wrecking ball and roughly the same build. He stood six-foot something and had the presence of an orangutan who’d recently discovered protein shakes and rage. I avoided him with the precision of a bomb disposal expert. I had his daily schedule memorised:

8.50am – At the main gate, collecting “donations” from students too frightened to say no.
10.50am – Lurking by the snack bar, “sampling” everyone’s toast with the grace of a raccoon in a bin.
12.25pm – Off to the local chip shop, where he'd liberate fistfuls of chips from unsuspecting customers like some deep-fried Robin Hood — if Robin Hood was a thug and hated sharing.
3.25pm – Olympic sprint out of the school gates, often snatching an ice cream from the hands of a Year 7 mid-lick.

He was a tyrant with a timetable.

Avoiding Frankie was a daily sport. But dodging the A Squad? That was like playing Minesweeper while blindfolded. The A Squad — their own name, naturally — were a group of girls so convinced of their divine status that I half expected the clouds to part and heavenly choirs to follow them down the corridor. They were the queens of sarcasm, wielding their words like daggers dipped in glitter. One moment they'd be nowhere to be seen, the next they'd teleport beside you to critique your haircut, your tie knot, or the existential despair in your eyes.

Boys got off lightly. The poor girls were the main targets of their poison barbs. I once saw one of them reduce a perfectly pleasant Year 9 to tears just by saying, “Nice shoes... did your nan knit them?”

September, that cruel harbinger of the school year's return, was always the worst. Everyone tried to reinvent themselves: the nerds aiming for cool, the cool trying to stay cool, and Frankie recruiting like he was starting his own criminal empire.

And then there was us.

The 'gang'. I laugh even saying it. Others called us the Geek Squad, the Nerd Herd, or if they were feeling especially poetic, the Dork Battalion. But we were more of a mismatched fellowship than a gang.

First, there’s Steve — my lifelong comrade in uncool. He’s six months younger than me, which I remind him of constantly, as is my legal right as the elder. We've been through everything together: school trips, broken bones (thanks, bike ramps), and enough awkward moments to fill a sitcom.

Then there’s Alison. We met her in Year 7 during a lunchtime escape mission from the A Squad. She was mid-flee when she literally crashed into our chess game in the library — the board and pieces went flying like we were playing explosive chess. (Side note: I was losing to Steve, so it was a welcome blitzkrieg.)

She dived behind a bookshelf just as the A Squad burst in, eyes scanning like velociraptors on a hunt.

“Is that geek Alison in here? We want to introduce her to Sammy Flush!” shrieked the ringleader. The rest cackled behind her, resembling a murder of gossip-addicted crows.

I shook my head. Bold, I know. Maybe the library had magic powers — perhaps bullies couldn’t enter for fear of being turned to dust or, worse, forced to read.

When they left, shrieking back down the corridor, Alison whispered a breathy, “Thanks.”

She started joining us daily. Quiet, unassuming, and apparently just as bad at chess as I was. A perfect fit.

Lastly, there’s Mai. The cool one. I know, we’re as surprised as you are. She’s from Malaysia, her parents are brainiacs at the city uni, and she somehow ended up with us — maybe by accident, maybe by fate, definitely not by social clout. She wore a hijab with pride and confidence, the kind the rest of us couldn’t even fake. She could floor Steve at chess in ten moves and had a resting face that said, “Try me, I dare you.” Honestly, I think she pitied us into friendship.

And so, here we are — The Fab Four.
Not Beatles, but definitely beaten.
Outnumbered, underappreciated, and frequently confused for library furniture.
But still standing.
Waiting for whatever school, Frankie, the A Squad, or fate decided to chuck at us next.

Spoiler alert: it’s never a pizza.