by Rick Wood
I look up at her. She’s staring at me and her eyelids are drooping and her eyes are bloodshot.
“Why?” I say, barely audible.
“What?”
“I just… What did I do?”
“What? You didn’t do nothing.”
She shoves the last few bites of her tea in her mouth and pours herself another glass of wine.
“Why don’t you stay in tonight? We can have a nice night in. Watch a movie.”
“Don’t want to watch a movie.”
“Then we can—”
“I said I don’t want to watch a fucking movie.”
She gets up, goes upstairs and comes down minutes later in a short dress.
I don’t bother to object as she leaves.
And I’m left alone. Sat at the head of the table.
I clear away the plates and wash up. When I’m done, I go to bed. I’m tired.
I’m always so tired.
13
Harper
I lie upside down on my bed, feeling flutters of excitement send tingles up and down my body.
It turns out he likes all the stuff that I like.
His favourite band is Paramore, his favourite movie is Lord of the Rings, and he says that, once he gathers the courage, he’s going to get a tattoo of The Eye of Mordor on his bicep.
He says he’s been on the message board for a few years as well and, even though I don’t remember seeing his username before, it’s pretty awesome.
What’s more, he actually seems to care. When I send him a message, he’s so eager to talk. I even sent him some poetry I wrote and he said he loves it.
You don’t have to say that.
I’m not.
I mean, I know I’m not Carol Ann Duffy or Rupi Kaur.
Please, if only Duffy was as good as you!
Now I KNOW you’re lying! Lol
I don’t lie.
Everyone lies.
Everyone you’ve met lies.
You haven’t met me.
Not yet, anyway.
Not yet?
Someday.
And what would we do if we did meet?
Go to the beach.
Have fish and chips.
Avoid the seagulls and stare at the sea.
You could read me more poetry.
Please, it’s not that good!
I love it.
Like how you open with that line ‘Sometimes I have a memory and I’m not sure if it was a dream or reality.’
I TOTALLY know what you mean, that happens to me all the time.
Seriously?
And you know what?
I don’t care.
Reality be damned.
That could be the name of my poetry book.
Haha! YES!
He writes haha. Not lol.
Never lol.
He’s too sophisticated for that.
Kids write lol. He isn’t a kid. I mean, he’s seventeen, but he’s a grown up seventeen. Not the kind who spend all day on their Xbox, but the kind that spends all day reading, or watching foreign films, or going to gigs.
God, am I making up his personality now?
But what if I am! He was right when he said reality be damned!
Then he types something that makes me feel tense. Scared. Like this is all one sided.
Hey, we’ve been private messaging on this site quite a bit.
I’m not sure if I like it.
I don’t reply.
He doesn’t like it?
What does he mean?
Can I have your number to iMessage you instead?
I breathe out a huge sigh of relief.
He just wanted my number.
God, I panicked.
I reply:
Of course : )
And I smile.
And I give it to him.
14
Will
We go through another previous exam paper in today’s lesson. My students’ attention wanders to the window or the door or, in some cases, a gormless stare at their pencil case.
One student stares at their crotch. I know they’re on their phone; I’m not an idiot. But, you know what — they are doing it subtly. I can pretend I don’t notice. I can ignore it and not have to create a meaningless confrontation.
The only person who seems to be paying attention is Destiny. She is transfixed, an adamant gaze following my every move. She doesn’t look down at her exam paper once, she just stares at me. I can see her short skirt under the desk. She leaves her legs wide open. I don’t know if she does this out of immature naivete, and that she doesn’t know she is displaying her underwear to me — or whether she is doing it intentionally, purposefully, with complete knowledge of what she is doing. Either way, I do everything I can to avoid looking toward that area of the classroom. I sit on the desk and face the other way, or keep my head buried in the test paper I talk through, or aim my eyes at the ceiling, terrified that she may misinterpret my noticing as appreciation rather than horror.
Someone needs to tell her that it’s inappropriate. That person, however, is not going to be me. Just imagine the accusations that could get thrown my way if I have a conversation with a girl about how her knickers are on display under the table. I’d be persecuted just for noticing what is impossible not to notice.
The best decision I could make is to ignore it.
The bell goes after a very long hour, and the students shuffle out for lunchtime.
Destiny does not.
She lingers behind, waiting for everyone else to leave, pausing as a straggler finally finishes packing his bag and goes.
She saunters to my desk and I immediately check that my classroom door is still open.
She stands there, smirking at me, a sultry smirk like the kind Natalie once used on me.
I look again to the open door, wishing she would use it.
“Hi, sir,” she says. “Thanks for the great lesson again.”
“No worries, Destiny.”
She doesn’t leave. She just stands there. Still staring at me.
“Can I help you with anything?” I ask.
“I was wondering if we could meet after school one day? I’m a bit worried about how I’m doing, and the exams are in a few months so it’d be really great if you could help me.”
I would normally say yes, but in this situation, I am going to do everything I can to avoid this happening.
“I’m not sure I can accommodate that, I’m afraid, but I do know Mrs Jennings does a revision class after school, she’s two doors down.”
“But I don’t know Mrs Jennings. I was hoping it would be you, sir.”
“I’m afraid not. But, again, I can recommend some tutors if—”
“Oh, I forgot!”
She puts her bag down — a red handbag with a bow on it — and reaches inside. She pulls out a box of chocolates, expensive ones, not the kind that you’d buy from a supermarket, but that you might order from Thorntons.
“I bought you these,” she says, holding the box out, beaming at me.
I do not reach out to take them. In fact, I ensure that my hands go nowhere near them.
“That’s really kind of you, Destiny, but I’m afraid I can’t.”
“Of course you can, sir. I got them to say thank you for being such a great teacher.”
“Really, there is no need.”
“Please, sir, I bought them especially.”
“That really is very kind of you, but I’m not in the habit of accepting gifts from students.”
“But I’m not just any student.”
I wonder what she means by this but, before I can ruminate too much, she places the box on the keyboard of my laptop; somewhere I cannot help but touch them.
“I’ll just leave them here, then.”
“Please, I really don’t think it’s appropriate,” I say, lifting the box and handing them back.
She puts her hands in the air and backs away.
“I’ll see you later, s
ir,” she says, and reverses out of the classroom, gives me one last lingering stare, then walks away.
I am sat here, holding a box of chocolates I determinedly did not want to be holding.
15
Harper
I sit alone in the canteen, but I don’t feel alone. I’m at an empty table, but it feels like Danny is right beside me.
Even when the girls laugh and make comments I don’t listen.
Because I have something they don’t.
Those boys that hang around their table and show off are only interested in their short skirts and faces plastered in make-up.
Danny is interested in so much more.
So what you up to now?
Oh, just at school. At lunch.
I’m not stopping you from being sociable, am I?
Don’t want to take you away from your friends!
I pause. Consider what to say. Whether to lie, and say they don’t mind and they are understanding and I’ve already spoken to them enough already.
But then I think… why lie? Why not just be honest?
Why do I need to be anything but who I am?
I don’t really have much in the way of friends.
Really?
That surprises me.
Why?
You just seem really nice.
I’d have thought you’d have lots of friends.
Afraid that’s not the case.
I feel a bit uncomfortable. I change the conversation.
Do you have any siblings?
Nope. Only child.
You?
Same.
Parents divorced five years ago.
Not really too miserable about it.
Things are a lot better now I’m not having to drown out their shouting with music.
My parents aren’t divorced.
They probably should be.
How come?
I don’t know if this is a conversation I want to get into.
Right now, he thinks I’m perfect. He likes who I am. If I tell him about my horrible homelife who knows if he’d still be interested?
But Danny is not like the other boys. He talks to me. He understands.
And it sounds like he’s been through something pretty similar.
They barely talk.
I mean, they fight a lot, but then they stay silent for days, and it’s almost like I wish they would fight again.
I get what you mean.
It’s like the silence is worse than the arguing.
Exactly
Like when they fight it’s like they still actually care enough to fight.
When they are silent, it’s like they aren’t even bothered enough to shout at each other.
Like there’s nothing left.
Wow. Totally.
How did you know all that?
I’ve been there.
Sounds like you really know what it’s like.
Tell me about your dad.
My dad?
Why?
Just curious.
He’s a loser.
Tries to talk to me like it makes up for being a shit parent.
He lets my mum just walk all over him.
Perhaps he loves her.
What do you mean?
Perhaps he lets her get away with stuff because the alternative is to let her go, and that’s even worse.
I never thought of it that way.
Still, it is pretty pathetic.
He should still have some standards.
The bell goes for next lesson.
I want to stay here forever, in this seat, talking to Danny.
It’s so easy.
I’ve got to go now.
Bell just went.
Talk later?
Of course.
And hey — who cares if you haven’t got a load of friends to sit with?
You can always sit with me.
: )
I think everyone else is an idiot.
And you sound pretty special.
I smile.
Some of the girls look at me and frown, but I don’t care. They will not remove this smile from my face. I’m happy and their stupid frowns will do nothing about it.
He thinks I’m special.
I add:
You’re pretty special too.
Then I put my phone in my pocket and go to English, unable to stop thinking about what I might say to him when we message later.
16
Will
I have a free period last lesson, so I use it to mark books, and try not to get too irritated with the stupid answers I read.
It’s like these kids learn nothing. Either they are stupid, or they are trying to annoy me.
For the question How do we know x=5 in the equation? a student has written: Because sir told me.
I lean back. Run my hands through my hair. Put the radio on. Something to distract me. A nice dose of radio 4 to keep me feeling calm.
I mark the next few books and check my emails as the news comes on.
“Hartbury College has released a statement regarding the teacher Patrick Armidge who was accused of misconduct by a female student on Friday, stating that the girl has since admitted she made the accusation up because she thought ‘it would be funny.’”
I can’t help but tut. How ridiculous. That girl has no idea what she’s done to that man’s life.
“Patrick Armidge has also released a statement saying that, despite his suspension being lifted, he will not be returning to work as a teacher. Despite the allegations being false, he has stated that the physical abuse, mental abuse, media attention, and the damage it has done to his marriage is undoable, and that he does not wish to return to a career where he was treated as such despite being innocent.”
I shake my head. I hope that girl feels ashamed of herself. I hope that she realises what she’s done to a man just trying to earn a living and support his family.
Lost in thought, I reach for my coffee and knock it over, spilling the contents over the desk and over the box of chocolates bought for me by Destiny.
“Dammit,” I mutter, and lift the box before wiping the rest of the table with a tissue.
Once I’m done, I go to wipe down the box and return it to the table, but it’s pointless. The box is covered, it’s ruined. And I didn’t want it anyway.
I chuck it in the bin and forget about it.
I go to resume marking but I am sick of it. I was sick of it half an hour ago, now I am repulsed by it. The idea of picking up my red pen and writing another moan in another student’s book just makes me want to pull my teeth out.
I stand. Walk around the classroom. Between the tables, stretching my legs. A glance out the window reveals a few students truanting their lessons on the football pitch, wrestling each other and laughing about it. I grow suddenly angry about how they are wasting their lives.
I used to ask kids, “Do you want to have a lot of money?”
They’d look bemused, and I’d prompt them again, and they’d reluctantly say, “Yes.”
“Then work hard in school. The better qualifications, the better the job, the better the money.”
Then I’d add, “I’m trying to help you be a millionaire here,” although they never seem to find it amusing.
They would almost always quote the name of a famous person who has managed to be hugely successful without the benefit of education, and I’d be ready with my reply that they are the anomaly. The odds were far more in their favour if they left school with a few grades.
Now I don’t bother asking them that. If they want to waste their opportunities then go for it. What does it matter to me?
With a sigh, I force myself out of my classroom and meander down the corridor. I need to get out of that room. I spend my life in there, battering knowledge into kid’s heads, insisting they think creatively as they sit in rows and columns that are so rigidly set in their symmetry that I don’t know how anyone could ever be creative in a room setup in such a u
niformed way.
I sometimes look into classrooms and see the odd teacher who has their tables set out in a different way, at angles or grouped together or in one long row around the room. It sounds like a great idea, but that’s just inviting students to screw around. I’m better off with the conformity that forces my students to become dull, mindless zombies.
I go to the staff room and approach the coffee machine, finding my mug in the sink with stains inside that indicates someone else has used it. I wash it up, pour the coffee in, then open the fridge to find there is no milk.
