Short Story: Girls' Day at school

 

The alarm was ringing. Time to get up.

As I pulled back the curtains, the sunlight spilled into the room, dazzling my eyes.

Today was Girls’ Day—or at least, that’s what we secretly called it among ourselves. It was just a little in-joke for us girls in the same year.

This term, the last lesson every Friday for us 4th form (equivalent to the first year of high school) was PE.

Surprisingly, for such a small school, we actually had two options for PE activities. Thanks to Mark and Joseph, our school bus drivers who also happened to have PE teaching qualifications, we could choose between two groups: one went to the nearby park to play football, while the other did whatever sport was available in a hired gym for the day.

I’d tried the football class once. Big mistake. Not knowing the rules, I ended up committing foul after foul and getting scolded for it. I quickly decided football wasn’t for me. Besides, being the only girl playing among the boys was exhausting—keeping up with their speed and strength felt like an impossible task.

The other class, though, was where all five of us girls signed up together. It was a mixed group, boys and girls. We played basketball or volleyball, and on sunny days, if we were lucky enough to win the lottery for the district tennis courts, we’d play tennis. It was a bit of a free-for-all, and that’s what made it fun.

Out of all the girls in our class, only one other person besides me actually enjoyed PE. The rest of them gave it their best shot, but the difference in stamina between the boys and us girls was glaringly obvious.

“I hate PE! Can’t we just go and take an aerobics class outside school instead?” one of my classmates blurted out to the teacher, half-joking, half-desperate.

Since our school didn’t have uniforms, the girls often showed up in stylish outfits.

There was Neda, from Iran, who adored soft, frilly dresses. She always wore a touch of makeup—just enough to highlight her almond-shaped eyes.

Then there was Parol, an Indian girl who seemed to be in a constant battle to keep her curls perfectly intact. She’d whip out a can of hairspray at any given moment, giving her hair a spritz like she was in a beauty contest.

Maureen, from the Philippines, was more casual—always in a spotless T-shirt and jeans, looking effortlessly neat.

And then there was Fatmata from Sierra Leone. She had a knack for creative hairstyles, from cornrows braided hair, and she paired them with flowing black dresses that draped gracefully over her frame. She always looked like she was heading somewhere grand, even if it was just to sit in maths class.

Every week, after PE, everyone was completely knackered. So much so that they eventually stopped bothering to change out of their sports kit and just went home like that. It seemed as though their energy—both physical and mental—had completely drained away.

I couldn’t help wondering if there was something that could make PE more fun for the girls. The thought hung in my mind as I daydreamed during the morning lessons.

Finally, the afternoon rolled around, and it was time for PE. Today, we hadn’t managed to book the nearby gym, so we had to travel to one further away. It wasn’t exactly state-of-the-art—hardly any equipment, and the only activity we could really do as a big group was basketball.

Basketball meant running. Lots of it. We split into two teams, and those less keen on running were stationed near the goal to defend it. The rest of us had no choice but to dart around the court, trying to keep up. Playing against the taller boys added another layer of challenge. To stand any chance, we had to stay low, dribble close to the ground, and even roll passes along the floor. Once the ball left the ground, though, it was all over for us girls—there was no competing in the air.

That day, the running seemed endless. Our teacher, who usually had a soft spot for those less sporty, was being uncharacteristically strict. He coaxed Parol, who normally stayed near the goal, to move around the court, and even encouraged Fatmata, who wasn’t a fan of running either, to give dribbling a try.

After an hour and a half of relentless running, nearly everyone was utterly spent.

Somehow, though, I hit that strange point of runner’s high. When we got back to the school building, instead of collapsing, I found myself full of energy. I threw my bag aside and started sprinting down the corridors, jumping up to touch the low ceiling, grinning like I’d never run in my life. It felt as though I was making up for every moment of inactivity all at once, squeezing every ounce of movement into that single afternoon.

Our school didn’t have changing rooms, so us girls shuffled off to the toilets to get ready.

After PE, just before homeroom, the girls would gather in the toilets, completely drained.

“Mark was so fussy today. Why did he make us run the whole lesson? What’s gotten into him?”
“I can’t move another inch.”
“I wish I were home already…”

I knew it—another day when half the girls would end up going home in their PE kits, too exhausted to bother changing.

That’s when a cheeky idea popped into my head. I couldn’t resist.

“How about we make Fridays our Girls’ Day? I mean, I know we all look dreadful after PE, but what if we dressed up a bit? Brought our favourite clothes, maybe did a little makeup, and sorted our hair?”

A few girls giggled. Others gave me looks like I’d just suggested climbing Everest in flip-flops.

“I’m serious! We need something fun after PE, don’t we? Of course, you don’t have to join in if it’s not your thing. Participants are welcome, observers are welcome too.”

“It’s a good idea!” Neda chimed in enthusiastically.
“I’m in!” Fatmata said, her eyes lighting up.

Maureen and Parol exchanged uncertain looks, their expressions somewhere between intrigued and sceptical.

“Well, it looks like we’ve got some participants and some observers!” I said, grinning. “So, next Friday, shall we? Let’s keep it a secret and surprise everyone else.”

It seemed I’d piqued a bit of interest. My simple thought was this: maybe we could do something to make PE less dreadful for the girls who hated it. And if it worked, maybe they’d stop hating it quite so much.

That day, as usual, the tired girls headed home still in their sweat-soaked PE kits. But as they left, I noticed something different in their steps—a lightness, a hint of anticipation.

By the time the weekend passed and the days crept closer to Friday, it seemed word of our little plan was starting to leak out.

And here we were—Friday at last. We’d managed to book our usual gym for the day, and the chosen activity was badminton.

The class split into three groups: eight of us who were reasonably good, four who could hold their own, and two complete beginners paired with Mark, our PE instructor. For the next hour and a half, we threw ourselves into the game. Rackets clashed, laughter echoed, and even the beginners managed a few impressive shots.

When PE finished, the girls huddled in the toilets as usual. But today felt different—there was an excited buzz in the air.

Perhaps it was because the lesson hadn’t been as gruelling as usual, but everyone seemed to be moving with a kind of giddy anticipation as they got changed. Some girls had even started fussing over their makeup and hair.

I’d come prepared. I tied my hair back in a sleek ponytail and topped it off with a trendy black baseball cap. I’d spent the last week practising with liquid eyeliner at home, and today, I’d finally managed a neat line without wobbling. My outfit was casual : my usual jeans paired with a chunky black belt, a denim shirt over a plain tee, and the light cotton fabric felt perfect for the warm weather.

Fatmata and Neda had claimed the best spot by the mirror, utterly engrossed in their makeup. Parol stood a little way off, watching them with a slightly conflicted expression. Meanwhile, Maureen hovered nearby, her forehead creased with worry.

“Don’t overdo it,” she said anxiously, glancing from one girl to the other.

I was beginning to feel parched. “I’ll fetch some 7UP,” I said, heading towards the vending machine down the hall.

But I’d barely taken a few steps out of the toilets when I ran into a group of younger girls.

“What happened to you?! Look at you!” one of them gasped.
“It’s a Girl’s Day for the Fourth Form,” I said with a grin.
“You’re wearing a cap—and makeup!” another said, wide-eyed.
“It’s just for a bit of a change,” I replied breezily.

Before I could say more, Miss Cazimier from the staffroom appeared, clearly startled.

“What is going on here?! You don’t normally wear makeup, do you?” she exclaimed, her gaze bouncing between me and my bold eyeliner.

“It’s Girl’s Day,” I explained quickly. “The other girls are still in the toilets getting ready.”

Before she could respond, I darted off down the corridor, grabbed my drink from the vending machine, and turned to see Mr. Martin, our homeroom teacher, striding towards me.

“It’s time for homeroom now. Can you let the girls know they need to hurry up?” he asked, his tone firm but not unkind.

“Yes, Mr. Martin. I’ll tell them right away,” I said.

I jogged back to the toilets and called through the door, trying to sound as cheerful as possible.

“Are you decent, ladies? Mr. Martin says it’s time for homeroom. If you’re ready, we’d better go now!”

The finishing touches on the girls’ make-up were spot on—not too over-the-top, but perfectly polished and reflective of their own styles. Neda had tamed her curls to perfection, adding a soft pink lipstick to complement her outfit: a blouse with a large frilly collar and a flowing black maxi skirt. Fatmata, on the other hand, had gone for a bolder look. Under her usual long black cardigan, she wore a striking red, white, and black shirt paired with a black maxi skirt. She completed the outfit with crimson low-heeled pumps.

It wasn’t anything extravagant—just a touch more effort than usual—but it was enough to lift their spirits. They looked radiant, a far cry from the exhausted figures slumping about last Friday.

To get to our classroom, we had to pass the staffroom. As we strode by, our slightly spruced-up trio caught the attention of Miss Cazimier. She stopped in her tracks, her mouth slightly agape.

“Girls…!” she managed, looking utterly bewildered.

We shared a mischievous smile but carried on.

The boys were already in the classroom, and they seemed to have been waiting for us. As I stepped in, I removed my baseball cap—it wasn’t allowed indoors, after all.

There was a moment of awkward silence as they took us in, their expressions a mix of confusion and disappointment.

Clearly, they’d been expecting something ridiculous. They’d probably imagined us dolled up like clowns or wearing some outlandish costumes. By the looks of it, they’d been gearing up for a good laugh.

Dilavar, one of the Turkish boys, finally broke the silence with a disgruntled pout.

“I thought you’d look like Dawn French,” he said, his tone dripping with disappointment.

“Well, that’s not exactly our taste,” I replied,

The boys exchanged glances, clearly unsure how to respond. It was safe to say our little "Girl’s Day" had left them completely baffled—and perhaps, just a little impressed.

Word spread quickly beyond our classroom. By the end of the day, it seemed even the other teachers and students from different forms had caught wind of what we Fourth Form girls had done.

As I stepped outside after homeroom, a few teachers stopped to ask with amused smiles, “Aren’t you going out somewhere?”

“No… I’ll just head straight home,” I replied, shaking my head lightly.

If we’d been a year older, perhaps we could have gone out together after school—maybe to a café or the cinema, all dressed up. But some of the girls weren’t allowed to linger after school, with strict instructions to go straight home. An outing with all of us might have been a challenge.

Still, there was something undeniably satisfying about seeing my friends like this—relaxed, clean, and just a little bit more polished than usual. It was a refreshing change from the usual post-PE exhaustion and chaos.

I couldn’t help but wonder if we could do this again next week. If so, I’d need to go shopping for something new over the weekend—my wardrobe simply wasn’t up to scratch for this sort of thing.

Lost in these thoughts, I walked home at an unhurried pace, a small smile tugging at my lips.

We were all just 14 or 15, but for a moment, it felt as though we’d stepped into a world a little bigger, a little brighter than the one we usually knew.