by Polly Young
Kai’s coming to Review to see my short Marilyn hair. And, we hope, switch. He waves from the door and I bowl down the road towards school. It’s so early, I yawn. I’m torn. On the one hand, I’m glad: he’ll meet up with his mates, with none of them knowing he’s an Olympic (ex) great. But I’m nervous as hell and I’m not sure what to do about:
Alicia
Mum
Me
Marilyn Monroe
Getting our lives back before three o’clock
I need this walk. The state of my tummy’s alarming. It pokes over Miss Mint’s jodhpurs, which I’ve paired with some massive Beyonce-style cloak to disguise the weird shape it’s become.
Anyway. Out of nowhere’s a dog. Quite a big one. All white, with a head like a lion and a face with a smile that says, “hi.”
“Hi, Miss Mint.”
Harry Brigham slides up, tracksuit bottoms and Arsenal shirt in dire need of washing. But there’s something else too. ‘Cos behind him comes Alicia. She seems to be needing the loo rather badly.
“Miss, need the toilet,” an excuse to walk on, I know. She’s non-uniform, too and her coat hangs like wet cardboard, that blue roses one and my heart’s compromised. But we’re not in school yet, so I have absolutely no power.
The dog’s clearly Harry’s.
“This is Dave,” Harry says, and the dog wags its tail. I’ve never seen Harry look happier. I turn to the Payne.
“We need to talk.” Dusky dawn in her eyes, like the evening’s already begun.
“Miss, do we have to?” I well need a wee.”
If that’s what she thinks boys will like, I feel sympathy. I really do. But Harry’s besotted.
“You go on,” he says, like the true schoolboy he is. “Dave’s alright, he’s just had his shit. I’ll take him back home. See you later.”
He smiles like a cherub and I push the implication that one bowel movement relies on the other to back of mind. Alicia and I soldier on.
“So you cheated?”
“Can’t prove it.”
I say with a sigh, “I can, you know Alicia; I’m just hoping like hell I won’t have to.”
She’s quiet then; all I hear is the one, two, one, two as we get slowly closer to school and she says she’ll wet herself soon, so I let her go and watch her fat, black, matt back gallop off. Kai wanders up as I pass through the gate and into the atrium. Wait. Looks like Kai ... no, it’s Taff in Kai’s body. ‘Course. It’s Taff.
“Lisi, I think you should see what they’ve done in the hall.”
His torso’s an Olympic podium; his eyes gold as he opens the curtains. It’s beautiful.
Streamers of blue, red and white spiral down from the ceiling. The peeling old paint on the walls has been stripped and the hall’s now equipped with a massive sound system and lights. Chairs line up patiently, ready to take the iced bums. The air hums with the soon-to-be joy and sarcasm, but pre-all that, anticipation. A chasm of wait. The microphone base stands apart from the stage, which lurks like a looming great sea monster, waiting to bite. I’m quite frightened to think of me standing up there, Mr Morlis or not.
But before me, before Miss Monroe’s stage debut, there’s a whole raft of Fairmere acts up for Review. Miss Mint’s going first. She’s already cursed the fact, wanting to come somewhere
Much lower in the programme. Oh well, c’est la vie. There’s a tug at my cloak.
“Miss, can we talk?”
Alicia’s sloppy coat’s gone and she looks almost grown up.
“Yes, ‘course we can,” and we head to the office.
Dead of calm hovers round us before school wakes up. It’s soon-to-be stirred by a few bright year 7s, chirpy in pastels, like spinning tops, lurching from locker to drinks machine, whispering keenly. But for now there’s a quiet, respectful, deep hush for the last day of school. She sits down, way too close to me.
She inches away, then pulls her chair back to me, and I hold my breath.
“Miss, I cheated.”
It’s out and it’s real and she said it.
“Thank you Alicia. Tell all.”
And her eyes roll sideways, all round the walls, down to the floor and at last they settle on me.
“On my notes page I wrote the whole essay thing down. I thought about using magic ink, so I knew I could ...”
“What?”
“Rub it out. But I didn’t. I just left the whole thing in place.”
“Why!?” I really don’t know. Why on earth would she do that? Relief flows like a swollen Niagara though; there’s no lie. Or from Lloyd. So now I don’t have to worry.
‘Cos if Alicia had cheated but not told the truth, surely that would impact on my switch back; on Kai’s. In fact, on each one of our back to front lives?
We leave English. But I’m sure that having the whole essay in notes is still cheating so we leave behind rivers of strange, pent up feelings to enter a sea of late teens. Swept up in a yuletide of kids turning this way and that; ebbing and flowing, round pillars and teachers and practical jokers in bright red, fur lined Father Christmas-style hats.
“So what’s next then, Miss?”
Alicia shouts to be heard over great, stormy, weatherproofed louts. I spy Mr Underwood, smooth and clean-shaved like a huge, white seagull on the top of the waves, cruise on past, surveying the scene of his kingdom, his sea-scape. A small clementine hits the back of my head.
“Oi, Miss Mint!” Lloyd P barks: a red-faced, furious buoy.
And he waves and gives Alicia a wink and I almost explode from the cheek of this teenager. Odious toad that he is, Lloyd continues, “see, told you Miss Mint. Alicia lied.”
“Cheats never prosper. Is that what you mean?” I respond, and he nods. I can’t help it. I take a deep breath and plunge beneath the depths of year nine and swim all the way up to him, up near the lockers and surface and whisper, “Kai Swanning told me that your boxers are padded.”
That done, I return to the Payne and she gives me a look that reads, are you insane? ‘Cos Lloyd’s mates are all laughing and he hates it. You can tell by his look he’s not used to being made to look stupid.
Then Harry’s there. Alicia’s cupid bow smile is sweet. She turns to me. I say, “I’ve got to fork right but I’ll find you. Catch up a bit later.” And she looks at me with what I think might just ... just ... be trust.
Then it’s gone ‘cos she’s in fits with Harry, who’s carefully wrapping his arms right around her, a bit like a strange upright spooning. I leave them to it and leg it to tutor. There’s work to be done.
* * *
It’s only eight thirty but my classroom’s all decked out like something from Strictly. I let year 10 in. With legit permission, kids leap like freaked out reindeer to finish our task for the week.
Holly hangs baubles from both the door hinges. Megan loops tinsel round strip lights. Loads better than crap paper snowflakes, the huge flashing snowman in front of the whiteboard’s amazing. I’m basically letting them do it all like we’ve always wanted but not been allowed. Health and Safety etc, etc..
“Fab, Miss, innit?” Megan’s eyes gleam as she prances on tables, fat fronds of silver makeshift feather boas round her shoulders.
“It’s great,” I admit, and it is. Competition over Christmas decorations in classrooms is always intense. Mr Morlis is judge and we’ve half an hour to makc IT3 look like it’s never left Debenhams.
Jenny hangs small teasel figures of angels above my desk. In the breeze of activity, they switch and swing over my head. And my class — Miss Mint’s class — are all joining in, even Ricky who’s quite happy just making a din with his two empty Quality Street tins, banging lids like he’s Johnny Rooster in Jerusalem. Not that I’ve seen it, but Miss Mint was telling me. I’d quite like to go.
“Miss, Miss, can we put lights on Ricky?”
It’s not a bad plan.
“Like a Christmas tree! Yes!” Siobhan’s fringe clears her eyes in excitement. Ricky’s eyes lift with mil
d interest. Mr Morlis arrives.
“Ricky Moore, off the floor,” he says gently and pad-springs right over him.
“Miss Mint,” he says, “I believe you have flaunted some rules.”
I curl up like a cellophane cracker fish in his hand.
“What d’you mean?” It’s a whisper.
“Don’t worry,” he chuckles. His brow does the wrinkle. “I love it but unplugging thirty computers for what looks like huge flashing dildos should technically equal disqualification.”
“They’re icicles!”
Ricky looks stunned. Mr Morlis is laughing but it’s like I’ve been punched. I’m so stupid! Of course: flaunting rules, even class decoration ones does, probably, count as dishonesty. I chuck a large bag of Starmix at Megan for distraction, who folds like a parachute as hordes descend.
I tell Mr Morlis my fears and he says, “it’s ok. It’s not like you’ve lied. You’ve been honest; keep going. It’s clear that you’ve both tried incredibly hard. Miss Mint has as well. I’ve got a good feeling today. Time will tell. There’s six hours to go before three pm. Cheer up. Come on, please. You owe it to year 10.” Then he winks and I breathe out and over my head, angels dance.
“Oh yes, just one thing. Alicia Payne,” I say as he starts off past Rylance.
He comes back and I tell him. I say,
“ ... so it’s fine, ‘cos she’s owned up, you see. So we don’t have to worry ‘bout dishonesty.” I’m so happy. I twirl five party poppers in each hand. But can I do six?
I look up. Mr Morlis has fixed me in place with a stare.
“She did what?”
“Um, she cheated.” It’s true. “But it’s fine. I’ll ring parents; I’ll tell Mr U and we’ll sort it all out today. But it’s the end of term and Review and all that. I thought it could wait ‘til break at least.”
My face falls as I watch his melt down.
“Lisi, don’t you see what this means?”
No, I don’t.
“Just listen. If Alicia’s parents and you have to go to the Head and discuss what to do, you’ll be asked for proof of QTS. Which you do not have.”
What do sofas have to do with it? I think, but then I remember from the meeting on TLRs, when I thought I’d quite like one and acronyms flew back and forth like that word game I played with year 8 and this one was mentioned.
“Qualified teacher status. Yeah, what’s the prob?”
He’s incensed which is not like him. “You doing this job is illegal!” he jogs on the spot: one, two, three, four, five, six and I wish I could sit him down; force a Horlicks on him or something. “And I know!”
But it’s half-past nine. He’s classrooms to judge and he’s run out of time at Miss Mint’s. We agree that we’ll meet up at break and discuss what to do.
“Sir’ve we won?” Megan calls as he leaves.
“Not yet, no, Megan. No. There’s a long way to go,” he says grimly. “And take down the icicles.”
* * *
Tutor time’s muted a bit after that. We do Secret Santa , play Charades from a hat, then it’s break. Miss Mint finds me.
“You’ve got to come. Quick, there’s not long ‘til the bell goes,” and her face — well, my face, I mean, sort of glows with something I’ve not seen before.
I let her drag me through the clogged-up canteen and up the stairs to the dance studio. She plugs in an ipod, fiddles with music, strips off her sweatshirt and starts to warm up.
I always thought dance was a joke. Stretching and lengthening never did me any good in Miss Anderson’s lessons. I’d ache after games but I’ve always thought choreography, all of that stuff, was a complete waste of time. Erin and I would hang out at the back and just gossip.
Miss Mint pushes her hands down her body unselfconsciously. A bendy pipe cleaner, she looks in the mirror and I don’t think she sees her face, hair, skin or thighs. She checks herself clinically: all angles and eyes.
Rach and Courtney arrive.
“Oh, hi, Miss.” They’re surprised but too focused to care that I’m there.
I sit on a stool. Bag on floor. Take my place. I bet it’s Rihanna.
“We ready?”
They all stand there, facing the mirror. Four beats and four flicks of their wrists and they’re off.
It’s Rihanna but only to start with. ‘Cos Miss Mint and Rach made a mix so then it’s old skool: Let the Sun Shine and some Warren G but I’m caught up in the moves and the pace and the glee on their faces; the amount of grace Miss Mint’s given my body. I thought it was ok. I thought I could move, you know; bob up and down a bit on a dance floor, but seeing it there, soaring, leaping and weaving, completely in time with my friends is quite moving.
It’s over. The girls pant and sweat. Miss Mint spins round. She’s laughing and Rach takes a great, heaving, wet gulp of her water, wipes mouth with sleeve, puts it away and takes out a big, big bar of Galaxy and breaks it; shoves some in her mouth and the other two take some as well. Then it’s offered to me. Rach looks pained.
“Do you want some?” And her voice is all strained and I realise she’s noticed Miss Mint’s weird food moods just like she had: must have noticed stashed chocolate as well and the calorie counts.
And I think, Oh Em Gee all these teachers: they’re not just old founts of knowledge; they’re also the ones that we copy; admire. And I take out fruit scones Kai had made for my tutor time, that I’d forgotten. I bite one and say, “thanks, Rach; I’ve got these lovelies: nothing like making teeth rotten,” and Miss Mint and I look at each other then. A cloud passes swiftly.
It’s five to ten, time to go. Courtney’s quite pongy. The bell rings.
“Oh no — my spray’s in my locker.”
She goes of with Rach, which leaves Miss Mint and me.
“Five hours to go.” And she nods, looking stressed. “Kai’s coming to see it,” I say, “he’ll be well impressed.”
“You do know he was really into it, don’t you? The idea, I mean? Back when he thought I was you, not Miss Mint? He said that you needed to learn how to dance.”
I think back to the party. To Courtney’s. The last thing I’d done was to run off to Josh. And fast. So Kai was left standing. But that’s in the past.
“He went off with Courtney, which was quite a nasty thing to do.”
“But didn’t he say? He tried to convince you to dance but you wanted to fly away, off to find Josh. Also you looked too grown-up in that skirt. He said you were wearing a dress to flirt in, not get to know him.”
She shrugs. But another thing tugs ‘cos although I hear, there’s so much more to discuss. I say,
“Listen. I need your help as a teacher.”
She looks at me sideways.
“You’ve gone for that TLR, haven’t you?”
“No, no, no, no ,” I say. “It’s Alicia.” And I tell her everything. “What do I do?”
She’s in thought; could say lost. She looks off to one side.
“So you say that the cost of you not proving true QTS, after all of this effort we’ve gone through, could mean that I stay as Lisi and you as Miss Mint ... forever? And what about KaiTaff?”
It’s my turn to shrug, “I don’t know what to do. If I show your papers then that’s lying too, ‘cos I’ve taught as you for almost a fortnight now. When in fact, I’m me.”
I think about time. How it’s running like sand away from us both, and how Dad’s in a land that’s hundreds and thousands of miles from here. And I want to see him. I blink. Miss Mint stares, refocuses; sucks in her cheeks, then says, “seems a bit doomed but there’s one thing to try.” And she packs up without looking me in the eye.
“Where you going?” I ask, as she heads through the door.
“Need your keys.”
“Why?”
“I’m going to ring the exam board.”
* * *
But there’s no time at break to do that. Miss Mint’s foiled as Rachel, all jumpy, kidnaps her. A coiled up spring of exci
tement, she carries her off and away to tighten the infamous Beyonce sway.
I head back to form where we wait ‘til we’re called to the hall for a pre-lunch run-down of thrills, spills and triumphs of term. The high and the low. Mr Underwood, Anderson, Morlis, Debono are there, all lined up tight with the thought of three weeks off at Christmas in sight.
While Underwood’s giving his annual showcase and proving he’s with it by dropping in ‘mate’ to the new PE teacher, Mr Buck, who’s only been here a week. But I hope he stays at Fairmere ‘cos he’s good: much, much better than Anderson is. Taff’s talked to him. He’s into rowing and shizz and kite-surfing; baseball too. I think he’ll find that surfing this lot’s a whole new ball game, mind.
“Miss Mint!”
A loud whisper beside me. It’s Mum.
“ Mum?!”
She looks at me like I’ve lost it.
“I mean ... Mrs Reynolds. Come this way, please.”
I hadn’t heard the door to the hall open. Why’s she here? Miss Mint’s eyes are on me as we both disappear. Out in the atrium, all is revealed.
“I’m sorry; I’m lost. It’s rather left field but I wanted to visit my daughter. See how well she dances. She’s never quite made it somehow, in the way of performance or drama or anything, really.”
She looks at me, grabs for my hand. Says, sincerely, “I made all their costumes, you know? For their piece? Jeans hotpants. I never thought little Lisi would wear them but still, they all think it’s quite fun to have embroidered bears plastered; one bear on each bum. It would be a thrill if I saw their routine. I took the day off work especially.”
Assembly’s ending. Mr U’s monotone is solemn, descending. The creaking of chairs and young bones filters through from the hall and Mum’s staring at me. I think, of course Mum. Of course you can see me do dance. The only thing is, it’s Miss Mint. But skirting the subject’s not dishonesty, I don’t think. Then I do. Wait. ‘Cos talking of skirts, Mum’s standing there in an old tunic-style shirt and a strange woolly hat when she could wear my dress, all grown up.
“Here’s an idea. Parents aren’t meant to come to end of year Review. But knowing Lisi, she’d love you to watch. So would you be able to put on a frock and come back after lunch? Because that’s when they’re on.”
