“HALLELUJAH!” he shouts.
Miss Mint looks like she’s going to cry and she’s done her eyeliner so much better than I normally do, it would be a real shame.
When he’s settled down, he grabs both our hands. “Lisi’s right! My goodness! Do you realise what this means?” he’s like space candy; I’ve never seen him so excited. Miss Mint shakes her head. I twist bangles and discover I can arch an eyebrow.
“This is bigger than Higgs Boson. It means you’ve broken every law of physics known to man.”
“And woman,” I say.
“It means,” he takes a powerful breath, “wearethefirstpeopleevertoseethisphenomenoninthetwentyfirstcentury.”
Isolation timetables rustle as he exhales.
“Chris,” Miss Mint says and I can tell she’s relieved she can talk to him straight, “you believe us then?”
“Of course,” he says, jumping up and starting to pace. “But we need to think. I need to think. We need to find out how long it lasts; how we get you switched back. But right now, go home,” he points at me. “There’s no way you should be teaching without a qualification. We’ll get cover, don’t worry; go home. We’ll say you’re sick.”
“I don’t want to. What about my classes?”
Miss Mint looks at me sharply. “Lisi Reynolds, is that a conscience?”
I don’t like her sarcasm. Especially from my mouth; it doesn’t look pretty. I wither her with her eyes. “I can stay and teach. I did it this morning. It’s easy.”
Then they’re both silent and I do feel a bit stupid, to be honest.
“I mean, if you tell me what I’m doing this week I can prepare stuff. Taff’s away so I’ll have loads of time.” I feel shy mentioning him; like she can tell we’ve kissed. There’s no way she can know, but there’s no way she’s happy.
“It’s a mad idea,” she says. And then the bell goes.
They both look at each other a bit wildly and I nearly laugh. What’s the problem? I can handle it; all I have to do is stand in a room full of kids. And I’m hoping we can come to some arrangement about money: I mean, if I’m doing her job ...
“It’s too late to arrange cover,” says Mr Morlis. “Periods three and four — what are they?”
“Year 11 middle and year 10 top,” says Miss Mint quietly. And then I do feel a bit chilly.
* * *
But it’s too late.
Kids pour out of the canteen and in from the freezing playground. School uniform sucks but it’s protection too: with this dress on, I stick out like one of Martha’s plum cakes in a shop full of scones. I know where I’m going and I know the book’s
The Glass Menagerie
but on top of that I really don’t have a clue.
Miss Mint told me where the slides were and suggested I lose my voice and get them all to read. How boring’s that? And anyway I haven’t read the book so if they asked me a question I wouldn’t know.
So I decide to do something more fun. Trouble is, I know who’s in the class.
Alicia Payne.
In she comes, scuffing and scoffing, skirt all twisted, wearing more makeup than the rest of the girls put together. Cookie crumbs spray over two rows of desks as she galumphs to the far corner and plonks herself down.
“Alicia, let’s do that again, please.”
I’d say this even if I didn’t hate her guts. Manners cost nothing, as Mum would say.
The rest of the class are actually calm: sub-zero temperatures don’t mix with thin V-necks.
“Miss, am I doing my controlled assessment next Thursday, am I Miss?” Alicia says, adding a fourth layer of face powder.
I know nothing about this so I shake my head imperceptibly and tap my nose like it’s a bit of a mystery whether she is or not. Which does not go down well.
“Miss, can I just say English is crap.”
There’s banging and crashing now, a catastrophic entrance from twenty nine sixteen year olds and I start to get a bit worried they can’t actually see me.
“Quiet, please,” I call, waving my bangles in the air as distraction, but only the ones at the front take heed. How does Miss Mint do it? Then it comes.
“Settle,” I say, with the emphasis on the second syllable, and I think perhaps she learnt it from Taff with his Big Ben chimes but miraculously it works and they do.
After the register’s done and the books are out, the fun begins.
“We watching the film, Miss? This book’s well boring so far,” says Felix, whose eyes flash at Frankee as she sprints past the window on her way to games. Kai’s sitting next to him actually reading the text, but rocking on his chair and looking outside too and I don’t trust myself to tell him off ‘cos I’d blush like so badly. And a tulip-red face would clash with maroon just as much as purple lipstick.
“No, Felix, we are not,” I snap. “And concentrate, please. We all know Frankee’s skirt’s too short.”
Snickers into sleeves raise my spirits. Donna raises her eyebrows, impressed.
“What we are doing today is a little bit of improvisation.”
Groans; book swishing; table drumming.
“Drama, you mean, Miss?”
“That’s right, Donna. You’re going to act out a scene from the play so far and then in your groups, take it a bit further.” Drama’s messed with my life; why not theirs?
“We’re not twelve.”
“Can we pick our own groups?”
Sulking; eye rolling; grudging co-operation; desk moving. When there’s a space cleared I take great pleasure in counting 1,2,3 like I’m god in a mind-blowing dress and I can pick the groups. I make sure Alicia is in with some geeks and turn a blind eye when she complains.
“I’m aiming for an A, Miss,” Donna wails when she sees who she’s with.
“Don’t worry, Donna; you’ll drag them up.” I ignore the gasps and snickers.
“Miss, you’re well feisty!” Kai says admiringly.
“Is this another go at group oral?” Harry Brigham’s goggles. His face is pinched, frowning.
“Yes,”
thank you
Harry, I think, remembering Miss Mint mentioned that in English last week. “Now you’re in year 11, there may be the odd occasion when we can revisit orals that you’ve already done but may want to lift your grade in.” I make a point of staring Alicia down. “So today will be an opportunity to, um, raise your grade in your group oral.”
“Can we do it in a different style?” asks Felix and it sounds so unexpectedly thoughtful I’m knocked so I say,
“Yes Felix, you can. Any style you like.”
Bloody hell, I easily could do this job I think as chairs scrape about. The next bit’s easy: I just write scenes on the whiteboard, number the teams and allocate parts.
Kai’s group’s got a scene with someone called Tom in the play getting told off by his mum. He’s making a big deal of going outside for a smoke and I don’t think it’s coincidence that most of the girls choose to be drinkers in the bar he ends up in. Donna pipes up, “Miss, Kai’s not doing it right — we don’t know from the play if Tom goes to the pub, he just says he does.”
“That’s alright, I said to improvise.” I look at Kai kindly and experience the power of the dress as he melts visibly. “Carry on, year 11. Do what you can.”
It’s cool in the end ‘cos the styles they come up with are gangsta, Twilight, romance and horror. Alicia does an interpretation of Laura, a big drip of a girl in the play with a horrible thing called pleurosis which makes you feel sharp, stabbing pain in your chest, with her head cut off, moaning. It actually makes me laugh.
“Miss, that was well good,” says Harry, who managed to mutter about three words and gaze at the carpet during his performance. “Can I have an A*?”
When they’ve gone I want to sit down and have chocolate, ‘cos I’ve found a whole load in Miss Mint’s desk, which is weird, but there’s no time to ‘cos there’s an army lining up and it’s year 10.
It’s my class.
In come Josh and Miss Mint as me.
And I’m tempted to give them
The Glass Menagerie
again but of course it’s got to be
Twelfth Night
and ‘cos I’m supposed to be learning with them and it seems so ridiculous, the fact I’m teaching my own class when I’m rubbish at English, it gives me the giggles and Rach has to run and get water.
“Good morning, year 10,” I say when I’ve recovered.
“Miss, did you go home with Mr Morlis?” is the first thing that’s said. It’s Olly. He fancies Miss Mint like you wouldn’t believe.
“Mr Goddard, if you paid more attention to your own sad little life, you wouldn’t have to spy on other people’s.” It’s out before I know it and silence falls. What a massively inappropriate thing to say.
“What a massively inappropriate thing to say,” whispers Josh to Courtney but I hear ‘cos I’m half expecting it.
“Miss, can we watch the film?”
I’m beginning to realise it must be quite annoying for teachers sometimes.
I set them off reading Act V around the class and when they get to the bit with Malvolio’s letter from his cell I have an idea but I keep it inside ‘cos there’s so much to do what with going round tapping kids on the shoulder about taking hoodies off and lending out pens.
Part of me just wants to boot Miss Mint out of her chair so I can hug the radiator and gossip with Josh but at the same time I don’t ‘cos of the look of approval she gives me when I ask a rhetorical (I remembered that word from last lesson) question about the song at the end about growing up and growing old. It makes me go Aero-like, all bubbly inside. She’s being quite good, ‘cos she could be show-offy but she just stays really quiet.
“Who’s Viola?” Erin’s a bit slow in English like me. Her eyes are tiny ‘o’s’ from conjunctivitis. “I mean who is she really?”
“Viola is always Viola,” I say, flat and sure. “She just pretends to be Cesario, remember.”
Well done Miss Mint, I think at the end. Well done, Lisi. We’ve both done brilliantly, to be honest.
The bell goes for lunch.
Miss Mint talks to Josh in the corner as he pushes his blazer sleeves up and down his arm. He looks miserable and I wish I could go and get chips with him but I can’t and then he goes and it’s just us.
“Thank god that’s over. I never want to go through that every again,” she says, and I lose it.
“What do you mean? That was
fine!
It was perfection in a classroom.” Hotdogs on Tuesdays; they never do that. The smell drives me mad. Olly waddles past, munching. “Can we get something to eat?”
She looks at me weirdly. “If you want, I’ll wait here, but can you find Mr Morlis first, please. We need to discuss this afternoon.”
There’s no bloody question marks in what she’s saying, which pisses me right off, to be honest.
I leave her outside the classroom, feeling smug ‘cos she said to lock it up so it’s not my fault she looks like a loner. But then to the rest of the world, it’s me who does, so not so great.
Anyway off I go and I do mean to find Mr Morlis but the science department’s miles away in the other direction from the canteen and I didn’t have breakfast and a frankfurter’s just what I need I think, don’t say out loud, but I do snigger to myself and I miss Rach and Erin, like,
so badly
, ‘cos they’d collapse too. A group of year 7s look at me like I’ve lost it and I forget for a second and stick my tongue at them.
They flash off like minnows.
“What you getting, Miss?” Courtney’s moon face in the queue next to me ruffles in surprise. “You can go to the front you know.”
“It’s ok, I quite like waiting so I can choose what to have,” I’m trying to see if there’s chips.
“You never get lunch here normally, Miss,” says Rach. “D’you like crap food then?”
It’s true; you never see Miss Mint in the canteen. But then you don’t see most teachers here; they probably bring packed lunch and to be honest if I was a teacher I’d go to McDonald’s or something ‘cos you’d be allowed.
I buy my hotdog and coat it in ketchup and drop a bit down the dress but it sinks in. Miss Mint doesn’t see, which is lucky for me but she’s hanging over the first floor wall near the lift and tapping her watch so I take the stairs two at a time which in these heels is interesting.
Six bites and it’s gone and I screw up the napkin, Miss Mint screws up her nose and we bang on the science office door.
“Come in,” says Mr weather-explainer; Mr potential-saviour-of-our-lives.
“I’ve sorted cover. There’s a few staff off sick so we’re a bit stretched but Mrs Wiltshire’s taking periods 5 and 6.”
Miss Mint and I look at each other and I know what she’s thinking ‘cos it’s the same as me: great. Erin’s mum’ll be hopeless; she cries if she drops a book. But it can’t be helped. They’re both like
convinced
I can’t teach so that’s the end of that. And ‘cos it means I get to bask in the delights of Miss Mint’s house for a bit I can’t say I’m that bothered, to be honest.
Though I am a bit worried about Josh.
Miss Mint’s just said last night he didn’t talk. Like, not just during the cooking programme but at all. Not to her or to Mum.
I figure it’s ‘cos of GCSEs and stuff. I nearly say he can probably tell there’s something different about the person he’s hanging round with but I’m too nice. “He’s working really hard,” I say, which might be true. And then at that exact moment, I spot Felix through the window. He’s in the playground by the benches, with his arm round Frankee’s waist, but he’s not talking to her, he’s staring off over the heads of shrieking, speeding kids and balls like he’s a killer whale and the one he’s staring at is Josh.