“Yer right—for you maybe.” Emma pushed her off and raised herself up onto her elbows, eyeing Rebecca’s fudge bar. “How can you possibly eat so much and stay so bloody skinny?”
“By not caring and don’t you start. I get enough of it at home from Vicky. Anyway, you are far from fat. What size are you—a twelve or a ten—or have you managed to achieve your lifetime’s ambition and obtain the elusive eight?”
Emma ran her hands over her thighs. “Jest all you want, but it’s taken me years of sacrifice to get this gorgeous, svelte body.”
Emma was not fat, but her short curvy frame could hardly be called svelte. Not that Rebecca was about to impart this information. Not if she wanted to live.
“It’s not fair,” Emma continued. “You don’t know how lucky you are not having to diet. You’re so skinny you make Kate Moss look fat.”
“I wouldn’t diet even if I had to.” Rebecca snorted. “Careful, Emma. You are in serious danger of giving in to fashion industry pressure. You are exhibiting classic signs of degenerative bimboism.”
“That’s not even a word, and don’t start on me again! I said I was thinking of dyeing my hair. Right. Comments. What do you think of it so far? History is going to be insane. How are we supposed to memorize all those facts? Facts, facts, facts!” she mimicked Mr. Horley’s Wolverhampton drawl.
“You should try reading. It’s amazing what you can learn from a book.”
“Who cares about the French Revolution?” Emma pulled at a handful of daisies.
Rebecca sat up and slapped her hand. “The French, I suppose. Go and take your frustrations out somewhere else. Flowers feel, you know.”
“But they’re weeds.” Emma shook her head. “You know, sometimes your ‘Protect the Environment’ crusade is too boring. Don’t look at me like that. It’s not as if I’ve bashed a seal on the head.”
“It’s the beginning.”
Emma yanked up a clump of grass and threw it at her.
About to retaliate, Rebecca’s animal rescue super-vision zeroed in on the ground beneath an oak tree. “Oh, look. The poor little thing’s fallen out of his nest.”
She stood and tiptoed up to the bewildered baby sparrow. Gently scooping it up in her hands, she made for the gate.
“And just where do you think you going? We’ve got English in ten minutes.”
Rebecca ignored Emma’s frantic plea. She didn’t care about English. She was on a mission of mercy. Cradling the frightened buddle of tattered feathers in her hand, she empathized with the distressed creature. She understood blind terror. She knew what is was to feel helpless…alone
* * * *
Max walked into his A Level English class not in a good mood. Year seven had been a nightmarish sea of frightened faces. That, he could have handled. However, their nerves soon forgotten, they’d got stuck in with the Kylie questions. Now, mentally crossing his fingers, he prayed this class of ‘young adults’ would show a little more sophistication. His confidence had taken a swift nose-dive.
“Good morning.” He hit the nine expectant faces with his don’t-mess-with-me stance. “My name is Mr. Jackson. Yes…I am Australian, and no, I do not know Miss Minogue. I do not hunt kangaroo, nor do I play the didgeridoo.”
The class grinned at each other, telling him he’d astutely anticipated their planned delaying tactics.
“What about Delta Goodrem, sir?” A youth with an unfortunate haircut raised his hand.
“She is out of my league, mate.” Max crushed his hopes. “So, let’s begin by going over the syllabus for this year. I’ve—”
“How about Nicole Kidman?”
Max counted to ten; could his day get any worse? “Your name, please?” “Simon, sir.” The boy beamed back at him, his freckles joining together.
Max leaned against his desk and folded his arms tight lest he give in to impulse and strangle this red-haired gnome kid with his hated tie. “Well, Simon, may I remind you, I am here to attempt to drum some knowledge of English literature into what is, obviously, a pea-sized brain and not to cater to your adolescent fantasies?”
Amid a chorus of muffled titters, Simon turned a bright crimson. A girl with a mass of riotous curls, turned to flash him a sympathetic smile. Max guessed she had a thing for him. Oh well, love was blind.
“Right, now to business.” Picking up a stick of chalk, he crossed to the blackboard. “As I was saying—” The door opened and then slammed shut again, shredding his already frayed nerves into tatters. Without so much as an “I’m sorry I’m late,” a cloud of tangled hair breezed by and sprawled in the chair next to the girl with the curls.
“I need to exercise more.” The latecomer dumped her bag on the desk. “I am so out of breath. Do you know how many strays they have there now…”
Her confident attitude wafted over the heads of his pupils and bruised his ego. Something about that haughty tone struck a chord. Max drew in his breath. It was the tramp from the corner shop. Well, well, well. There was a god after all.
Movements deliberate, Max cleared his throat and put down the chalk. “Excuse me, and you are?”
She looked up at him. “Rebecca,” she said, with a hint of annoyance. “Rebecca Harding.”
Max couldn’t believe her arrogance. His temper held by a tenuous thread, he smiled. “So, we meet again.”
The chocolate eyes stared, confusion masking her too-perfect features. “I’m sorry?”
She oozed deference, but he wasn’t fooled and not in the mood to have the wool pulled over his eyes. “Oh, indeed you should be.” He matched her tone for politeness. “Would you please be so good as to stand up?”
He caught the momentary flutter of panic as she got to her feet. The penny had dropped. “Oh yes, Miss Harding. The bloody colonial. Isn’t it your lucky day? I know it’s mine. Now where were we?” He pretended to deliberate. “Ah yes. Lesson one in manners. Please walk to the door.”
“This is ridiculous.” Rebecca expelled an embellished sigh. “It was only five min—”
“The door, Miss Harding.”
Max watched her stand. Her gaze locked on to his. He could almost see fire breathing from her nostrils. Her anger wafted across the small space between them. Ramrod straight, she walked with exaggerated slowness. Max hid a smile. Miss Harding wasn’t so tough. He’d caught the slight tremble of hand. He ought to quit while ahead but self-preservation told him he couldn’t give in now. It was important his pupils didn’t see him as a soft touch.
“Excellent. Now open it, go outside, close it, and then knock. Do you think you can manage that?’
More muffled giggles. He sensed her discomfort. Her classmates seemed to find her demise very entertaining. From the petulance etched across her forehead, he wasn’t surprised she made a last ditch attempt to regain the upper hand.
“Really, sir, isn’t it too early in the term for such intensity?”
“Are you having trouble understanding my instructions?”
Rebecca opened the door and left the room. From her defiant stare, Max knew she itched to slam the door but decided it wouldn’t help her case. Wise. After ten seconds, she knocked.
Max waited for her to sweat a little. “Do come in. Ah, Miss Harding. How kind of you to join us. Now do you have anything to say to me?”
Her fists, he noted, were clenched. A forced smile wavered on her lips. “I’m so sorry I’m late, Mr.— Oh, do excuse me, sir. I didn’t quite catch the name.”
Max couldn’t help it; her courage impressed him. Back to deuce.
“Didn’t you? Not to worry.” Time to serve for the match. “My name is Mr. Jackson, and just so it doesn’t slip your mind, as well as with your ability to tell the time, you can copy it out five hundred times—along with ‘I must not be late for his class ever.’ Is that all right with you?”
Her jaw dropped. “Oh, please, you cannot be serious. Lines are so…so…archaic.”
“Shall I make it a thousand? Go and sit down. You’ve wasted enough of our t
ime already. Perhaps by my next lesson, you will have acquired some manners.”
Mouth gaping, she did as she was told.
“So, the books for this year.” Trying to regain his cool, Max picked up the chalk. “Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet and As You Like It.”
“Oh, God, please no.”
Max groaned. He began to wish he hadn’t entered into this battle of wills. This girl wasn’t going down without a fight. “Miss Harding, do you have anything of value to add?”
She rewarded him with a nonchalant shoulder lift. “Only that, in my opinion, Romeo and Juliet is completely unrealistic. Who’d kill themselves after a one-night love affair?”
“I would if it was with you.” The boy sitting in front of her leaned back and grinned.
While the class erupted, Max struggled to keep the smile from his face.
“So, Miss Harding, I take it you do not believe in romance? Why is that?”
“Coz you’d have to be certified to get involved with her.” The carrot kid enlightened him. “She bites. Ouch.”
Kicks as well, by the looks of it, Max thought. He stood up straight and clapped his hands. “Okay, enough of this crap.” Oops—that had slipped out, but his pupils sat up, mouths hanging open. His bad language impressed them. He only hoped their parents would be as understanding. “You—Crystal Tipps—hand out copies of the play, and we’ll take turns reading. You can read, can’t you?”
“Oh, goodie, it’s kindergarten time.”
And there she was again. Max stared hard at this Rebecca girl, and she stared right back. But he wasn’t about to let her better him. He couldn’t let her get the better of him. Sure enough, under what Kate termed his hoarfrost gaze, she looked away.
“When you’ve quite finished…”
“Well actually, I—”
Before she could add whatever gem of wisdom she held in her how-to-intimidate-new-teachers box, Max picked up the nearest object to him and lobbed it in her direction. Luckily for her, it was only an eraser. The thought crossed his mind that he could be up for child abuse on his first day, but by this point, he was beyond caring. He’d had about all he could take from the incorrigible Miss Harding.
* * * *
Rebecca seethed in silence while her mind raced, her imagination revving into top gear as she plotted the demise of Mr. Jackson. She couldn’t believe the intensity of the man. No one talked to her that way; not even her father.
“I don’t think he likes you much,” Emma whispered in her ear.
“You don’t say.” From beneath a strategically arranged curtain of hair, Rebecca studied him. He leaned against his desk, hands resting behind his head, droning on in that horrendous antipodean drawl, oblivious to the effect he seemed to be having on her female classmates. Or was he? Rebecca rubbed at her nose and snorted. She betted not. Weren’t all Aussie men male chauvinist pigs?
Julie the class philanthropist’s ‘Is he fit or what?’ roused her from her silent discourse. She was just about to lash Julie with an acid reality check when Emma’s sigh of concurrence stopped her dead.
“Yer… what a hunk!”
Emma’s disloyalty stunned her. Oh, but revenge was sweet.
“Would you like to contribute to this so far pitiful discussion on the finer points of iambic pentameter Miss…?”
Despite herself, Rebecca was impressed. This guy beamed around the room as fast as a time traveler.
“Emma, sir. Emma Brown.” Emma dissolved into a mound of half-set jelly.
“Get a grip, Em. You are so—”
“Miss Harding, either you have a death wish, or you have the mental capacity of a two-year-old.”
Beneath his freezer glare, Rebecca squirmed.
For the rest of the lesson, she remained silent, wishing the bell would ring and end the torture. Her headache pounded against the front of her skull, as subtle as a heavy metal drum beat. From behind her copy of Shakespeare’s finest, she contemplated how best to punish her new adversary. Why was he her adversary? It didn’t make sense. Mid-life crisis? No. He looked too young for that. Maybe… The shrill trill of the bell interrupted her deliberations. Thank goodness. It had been a crap beginning to the new term, and she just wanted to run home and jump into bed with half a ton of Aspirin.
“Don’t forget,” Mr. Jackson called as the class filed out. “I want that essay completed by tomorrow. Not so fast, Miss Harding. I want to speak to you.”
Rebecca sighed. Was there no end to her torment?
“Lucky bitch. You get to be by yourself with him.” Easing by, Emma pinched her arm.
Alone in the ominously quiet room, Rebecca tugged on the end of her plait. She was not a coward by a long shot, but he made her feel vulnerable. Most men did.
“Close the door.” His tone was low and clipped. Scary.
She obliged, the thought crossing her mind that maybe he was going to strike her. He seemed crazy enough. Facing him again, she braced herself for a verbal blitz, but instead, a stony wall of silence met her head-on. He sat, studying her while tapping on the edge of his desk with a pen. His piercing stare made her very uncomfortable. If this was psychological warfare, she was fast losing the battle. Oh well, time to eat humble pie. She cleared her throat. “Look if it’s about the other day, I really was in a hurry. Wally, you see…my dog…he’s a bugger, and when I said bloody colonials, I didn’t mean you. I mean, how could I? I didn’t even know you were a bloody col—Australian—but Mrs. Baird is, and that’s who—”
“Have you finished? I don’t recall asking you for a commentary.” He continued to flay her with too-clear contempt. “I know your type.”
He spoke so quietly she strained to hear him. More tactics no doubt. “Oh?” She aimed for nonchalance. “I didn’t realize I was a type.”
“Miss Harding. You’re very much mistaken if you think I am going to be intimidated by you because I assure you I’m not.”
“All this because I was a few minutes late?” she burst out. “It’s simply ludicrous.”
“Ah, now there lies the problem, you see. To you, it doesn’t seem important, but to me, it’s extremely important. It’s all about punctuality, discipline, good manners, and you, young lady, are lacking in all three. Isn’t that so?”
“Am I supposed to answer that, Mr. Jackson?” She walked a dangerously thin line, but she couldn’t help it. He dumbfounded her. How could he know what kind of person she was? He had no right to judge her.
“Why do you do this?” He changed tactics. “Is it a ploy for attention? Do you crave attention?”
She flinched, feeling the angry flush creep from her neck to her cheeks. “I didn’t realize you were a part-time psychologist.”
He didn’t reply, continuing to probe deep with all-too-seeing eyes.
“Can I go now?” She struggled to keep tears at bay. Her eyes stung, hot and gritty from too little sleep.
“Yes, you may go for now, but I want those lines on my desk tomorrow.”
“You cannot be serious. I’ve got your essay to write, not to mention—”
“Not my problem.” He stood and guided her to the door. “Besides, I’m sure a girl of your superior intelligence will breeze through it. Now out. I’ve wasted enough of my time on you as it is.”
She couldn’t wait to oblige.
Emma pounced on her from her stakeout point. “What happened? Did you let him have it?”
“He is insane.” Rebecca threw her books to the floor. “And he can go to hell.”
Expression fretful, Emma bent to rescue the sprawled books from the feet of rampaging pupils on their way to their next lessons. “Keep it down. He’ll hear you.”
“I don’t care. He is a colonial peasant, and I’m not doing it.”
“Doing what? Tell me on the way, or you’ll be late for French as well.”
“He expects me to do his pathetic lines by tomorrow. Who does he think he is? He’s not even old enough to be a teacher. I’m going to change my option. I’m not sitting
in a room with him for the rest of the year, and I’m not going to French. I’m going home.” She knew she sounded like a petulant child, but that’s how he made her feel.
Emma looked ready to faint. “But you can’t quit his class? English is your best subject, and who I am going to copy from? He’ll calm down, and so will you. Just do the lines.”
“And you call me self-centered?” Pushing her so-called friend aside, Rebecca went to get her jacket.
Chapter Three
Four o’clock, and Max felt as if he’d climbed Ayers Rock and back. Kate had a point. What did he know about teaching? Not a lot, if today’s experience was anything to go on.
Tom popped his head around the staff-room door. “Coming home for a drink to celebrate your first day on the job?”
“It’s not beer I need…it’s a tranquilizer.” Gathering up a pile of ink-smudged papers, Max stuffed them in his briefcase.
“Problems?” Tom attacked him with an oh-you-poor-rookie grin.
“Hardly a problem, more like a bloody disaster. Tell me about Rebecca Harding. I think I may have over-reacted, but she…” Tom’s expression caught him off guard. “Okay, did I say something wrong? Oh no. Don’t tell me she’s the governor’s daughter or something. That’s it. I’m going to lose my job and all on the first day.” Wincing, Max snapped his briefcase shut. “Oh well. A record—even for me.”
A smile replaced his friend’s frown. “You always were over-dramatic. You know, at one point, we all considered you might be gay.”
Max quelled him with a look. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m Australian. We don’t do gay. It’s in the constitution, and don’t change the subject. Tell me about this Rebecca.” Max grabbed his jacket and briefcase and followed him out. “The problem as I see it—”
“The problem is…it isn’t the problem as you see it.”
“Am I supposed to follow this?” Max pushed through the swarm of buzzing kids on their way to freedom.”
A Little Crushed Page 2
