Hi. I’m Ben and I’m in Grade Six. Today is the worst day of my life. I have to start a new school. And Grade six is the worst time to start a new school. You don’t know anyone. And you have to make new friends before you go to high school.

Last week my mum and dad and I had a school tour. The principal, who was a tall Englishman with a posh accent called Mr Curtis, showed us around the school. We went into every classroom. Most of the kids ignored us as though this sort of thing happened every day. But some kids just stared. Their faces seemed to say, “Run kid. Run fast and run far! Get out of here as fast as you can.”

The school was so big and boring; flat as a tack, not a tree in sight, concrete everywhere. It was very different from where I used to go which was in the country. In a small country town everyone knows everyone else. Here, in the city, I don’t know anyone and no-one knows me. That really sucks.

Our family moved to the city because my dad lost his job as a truckie. He used to drive a big rig and was away from home most of the time. He reckons that he has a better chance of getting a job in the city. He always says, ‘The country is going backwards in a hurry. The City is the place to be.’ I hope that he is right.

I walked into the new classroom and the principal introduced me to my new teacher. He was a tall, old bloke with a tanned face and a build that showed that he had spent his last few years in a pretty good paddock, and eaten most of the livestock in it! He was called Mr Read and was at least fifty, with grey hair cut like a soldier.

“Oh, terrific!” I thought. “He’ll be as grumpy as a bull with split hoof.” Not like my old teacher, Mr B, who was young and all the students thought he was cool. He cracked bad jokes all the time and played footy for the local side. This old bloke didn’t look as though he could get a kick in a stable full of cranky rodeo horses and was in serious need of a sense of humour transplant. Still, he looked me straight in the eye, shook my hand, and said, “Welcome to grade six, lad. You’ll learn lots here.”

Mr Read showed me where I could hang my bag and put my books. I bought all my stuff from my old school. You never know what you’ll get when you rock up to a new school. Instead of a schoolbag I used a recycle supermarket bag. I know that’s not cool but the story behind it is.

I had this great, black and silver, surfy backpack that my Grandparents gave me for Christmas. I held all my stuff and had lots of pockets for collecting things. I love collecting things. On a frosty morning last winter I was walking to school through the paddocks. On the path in front of me there was a dead snake; a perfect specimen. Not a mark on him. He was cold and stiff as a board. So I picked him up and unzipped my backpack and stuffed him inside. When I got to school I planned to show my mates. It would be so cool. The classroom had some dead snakes in glass jars. They were floating in some clear liquid that really reeked if you took the lid off. Maybe I could add my dead snake to the collection.

Anyway, by the time I got to school I’d totally forgotten about the snake in my bag. Just before recess time Mr B walked past the bag room and noticed that something was moving in my bag.

“Ben, what have you got in your bag? You haven’t bought that puppy again, have you?”

“No Sir. It’s just a dead snake that I found on the way to school.” I explained.

“Well, it isn’t dead now,” Mr B snapped, sounding a bit agitated. Mr B never liked snakes…or lizards…or even spiders.

He took my schoolbag on the end of a broom and put it in the middle of the school oval. He wouldn’t let me get the snake out and instead he rang my dad and told him what had happened.

About half an hour later, Dad turned up with his shotgun! He marched purposefully out to the school bag in the middle of the oval and shot my bag. Both barrels! There wasn’t even enough bag or snake left to pick up. Dad then strode over to me. I was standing on the edge of the oval with my mates and Mr B. He thrust a recycle supermarket bag in my hand and said, “Good one, Dropkick. Enjoy your new school bag.” Then he got in his truck and drove away. Dad can get pretty grumpy sometimes.

My mates cracked up. They gave me heaps for weeks. Even Mr B laughed. He usually saw the funny side of things. I reckon a teacher needs a sense of humour. Kids do some pretty funny things.

At school like kids tend to stick together. A bit like a tribe. It is the way to survive. A kid with no tribe is a target, the bottom of the heap. Everyone will pick on you and you’ll have no one to stick up for you.

At the new school there were some tribes I was interested in joining… If they’d have me.  And some that I would not join in a pink fit.

I was pretty interested in joining the football tribe. I played football in the bush and wasn’t a bad kick. Football tribe kids all wore sleeveless footy jumpers. The more AFL players signatures on them the better.

There was the tribe that thought that they were cool. They had weird haircuts; the front was usually much longer than the back, and they never did any homework. In fact, most didn’t do any schoolwork either. “Too cool for school” was their motto.

There was the brains tribe. They did debating, got an A for everything and used ten words when five would have done.

I didn’t think that I’d fit in there.

There was the Minecraft Tribe. These guys played computer games all day… and night. Most wore glasses because their eyes were so wrecked and emailed or skyped instead of talking face to face. Their computers were worth more than our car. Another no! I don’t even have a computer. Dad got rid of the internet when Mum bought all this useless junk on E-bay. They had a huge row. You could have sold tickets to that one.

There was the Rich kids’ tribe. They all went to Noosa for the holidays and their mums all drove four-wheel drives that had never seen a dirt road. Their dads were stock-brokers, actuaries or barristers; whatever they are. I don’t know if a truckie’s kid would fit in with them.

There was a tribe of tough kids. They bullied smaller kids and loners. Their only ambition was to go to juvie and end up in jail. These kids did not believe that any rules applied to them. They were dangerous to be around.

Finally, there were the hippies. Who knows how hippies got to live here. In the city? Hippies usually live in the bush, on the cheapest block available and only eat vegies that they grow themselves. Most hippies that I’ve met are really skinny and wear old clothes that they bought from the op shop.  I like meat too much to be a hippy but could fake it if I had to.

The Girls’ tribe. That was a different matter. There were the popular girls who played netball and thought that they were pretty and the unpopular girls who didn’t. Pretty simple system but I found that the girls could be cruel. Same species, different creatures.

The choices. What tribe will I go for? Who will have me?  Looks like it will have to be the football tribe. That’s for sure.

Now to get accepted. That could take some work. And lots of time.

Mr Read was a fanatic for good organisation. “An organised person learns and a disorganised person only learns in patches,” he would announce at least five times per day.

Every Friday morning he would have a test on the weeks’ work. The next week all the students would sit according to their results.

On my first day there was no seat or desk for me. I had to sit at the front of the room next to the teacher’s desk. All the kids stared at me and mouthed, “Loser.”

But on Friday my test scores were good enough to sit in the second back row next Monday. One of the tough kids got to sit next to the teacher’s desk for the week. He mouthed, “You’re dead, loser.”

I got to sit next to Harry. Harry was one of those rare kids who were accepted by every tribe. He wasn’t great at football but he was an awesome soccer player. He had even played for the school when he was in year four! He was clever, funny and good looking in a surfy type of way. The girls liked that. Harry liked to read Harry Potter books, listen to Bon Jovi, play Grand Theft Auto on Playstation and watch Fast and Furious DVDs. He had a six pack and a black belt in karate which came in pretty handy if the toughs decided that you were to be the object of their fun for the day.

At recess time the leader of the toughs, Tyrone, a big kid with a pimply face and tattoos drawn on his arms with blue pen, threw an apple which hit Harry on the head as he walked out of the classroom. It just missed me. I reckon that I was the target. Harry just strode up to him and went bang, bang, bang. Left, right, left. Three hard punches to the head. Tyrone went down like a tree falling in the forest and had to go home with a concussion. Harry got to spend two days detention in the Principal’s office and a session with the psychologist discussing anger management issues.

 “It was worth it,” Harry said. “I don’t put up with bullies.” But I wasn’t so sure that it was worth it. Tyrone had tough mates and wasn’t the type to move on quickly.

The next incident was when Harry returned to class. Harry had just put his schoolbag on when Tyrone grabbed it and swung Harry around and around and launched him into the lockers. Everybody who saw it winced.

“That’s gotta hurt,” someone said. But it didn’t seem to faze Harry. He sprang to his feet like a big cat and three front snap kicks to the chest later Tyrone was again on the floor. Harry didn’t leave it at that. He grabbed Tyrone’s thumb in a Taekwondo thumb lock and wrenched it painfully.

“Touch me again and I’ll snap it right off,” Harry snarled through clenched teeth.

He sounded as though he meant it. From then on Tyrone and his mates gave Harry a wide berth. There were easier targets than Harry.  May be he did have anger management issues.

Later Harry said to me that using his karate on Tyrone was his last resort and that all his other strategies were used up. “What if it didn’t work?” I asked.

“Didn’t want to think about that,” he replied.

I kind of liked Harry. Having a friend like Harry could be an advantage in this new school.