The taxi’s here early and I’m still not dressed. Choosing from Miss Mint’s wardrobe is honestly like being a millionaire in the middle of Oxford Street.
When Erin, Rach, Courtney and I are feeling massively organised we sometimes do swaps of things like denim shorts or vest tops. But we all know each other’s clothes like they’re ours anyway and if one person gets something different it’s like we’ll all want it and get it as well.
Miss Mint hangs her clothes in colour order, in whole outfits.
So on the left there’s all black leggings but good ones, not Primark , with floaty silk tops and scarves looped round the hangers and then underneath, in a protective bag there’s underwear.
Seriously. I’m not kidding: Miss Mint hangs her underwear with the rest of her clothes so she doesn’t have to rummage round in drawers. I could sell this information. Make a fortune.
Right, I can be decisive and since maroon’s in this season I pick a long dress in jersey that clings to hips and waist I didn’t have this time yesterday, and shove on all the jewellery I can that matches, including the bangles. There’s some high heels I’ve seen Miss Mint wear once and wanted for the rest of the week and I hunt through the shoe boxes with photos on the end ‘til I find them.
Wow. I’m really thin.
She wears flesh coloured tights that I nearly forget about but then there’s something scratchy on my back and when I take the dress off again to see, it’s them.
I’m a little bit worried now that Miss Mint’s not human.
The taxi beeps and I feel like a businesswoman; like one of the ones from The Apprentice, but then I look at my face, which is still gorgeous but has no makeup. So I grab some bits so I can do it in the taxi. Her stuff and her skin’s so great I don’t need much.
In the taxi I realise I’ve picked up a purple lipstick which doesn’t match the dress at all but on it goes ‘cos it feels and smells like fabric conditioner and the tube’s solid gold I think.
When I get to school there’s no one there.
I mean, kids are running around and everything and I spot Kai in the distance, swigging Lucozade in the bike shed with the boys. But where are all the teachers?
“Miss, I like your dress!” A breathless year 7 scampers up like a cartoon mouse, smiles, skitters off.
“Miss Mint, I got my essay,” booms a scruffy year 11 and I look at him straight ‘cos I can’t remember his name.
He flinches as his mate flicks his ear.
“Miss, I think you ... like your lipstick,” and he covers his mouth with his sleeve and shakes like he’s having a fit.
“Thank you, Lloyd,” I say ‘cos I’ve remembered his name. And then, ‘cos he’s annoying me, “see me at break.”
“What??” You’d think I’d told him to run under a bus. “You can’t do that, Miss!” He marches off and I have no idea what teachers do now — do they storm after you? I don’t feel much like storming in these shoes and anyway, it must be time for ...”
“Miss, it’s registration.”
It’s Jenny Sargent year 10, Miss Mint’s form; such a goody goody ... thank goodness.
“Thanks,” I say and I see her do a double take and I think it must be the lipstick and I’ll have to take it off. But there’s actually no time ‘cos it’s already 8.25 and Miss Mint’s form are lining up outside the door like they’re ready to die or something; all pathetic, Tuesday-pale. I can’t find my keys.
“Miss, come on, Miss, please,” moans Megan who looks like a sweet girl but whom I happen to know sends anonymous texts to boys in year 7 of herself in a bra. There’s general muttering and I remember the bag and dive in. After a lot of fumbling, I resolve never to slag off Debono again and I’m in and I realise I don’t know my login.
Then I remember my phone, which I haven’t even looked at this morning ‘cos it’s Miss Mint’s and I’ve been so obsessed with clothes and thinking about kissing Taff, but when I look there’s a text from my number with all sorts of information: computer password, classroom numbers, lots of instructions basically. It was sent last night, while I was asleep, and how stupid am I to have not read it before now, when I’m surrounded by a sea of stroppy teenagers like me. I’m amazing. I say:
“Jenny, would you come and take the register, please?”
And of course she goes pink and pretends she doesn’t want to but it means she gets to stand up and walk past the table at the front with Jimmy Riley on it, whom she has definitely fancied since year 8. So while she’s being me, if you see what I mean, I read.
Lisi, I won’t be able to meet you before registration. There’s briefing at 8. Go to the staffroom: you’ll be told about duty and cover, etc., then find your register and go to my room. Jenny’s a great help (you’re telling me) so if you need support, say you have a headache and ask her.
So that’s where all the teachers were. Briefing.
Then there’s a paragraph. Who does paragraphs in texts?!
I/you have year 7, double period before break. They’re doing media. 7A. Stick Wallace and Grommit on — it’s in my drawer - and get them to talk about the different ways of creating atmosphere. I’ll meet you at break near the staffroom door. Don’t forget to lock the classroom when you leave.
And then another paragraph.
And don’t tell anyone what’s going on. You haven’t, have you?
“Miss, do we get to go on another trip to London this year?”
“Miss, I’ve gottogoandseeMissAnderson,canIgoplease?”
“Alalala Lalalalala Lalala.” That’s Ricky, a gifted and talented boy who’s basically so clever sometimes he loses it.
“OWow!” Stupid Holly and Siobhan, always being idiots.
“Miss?”
“WHAT?”
The class falls silent. Then there’s sniggering from the corner. It’s Jenny who spoke.
“Nothing Miss, only I did the register.”
I thank her and amazingly when the bell goes they all get up and stand behind their chairs and wait ‘til I say to go. Miss Mint’s got them well trained even if I haven’t. Mind you, they do have maths next.
So now I head to English 3, which is where I’m teaching. Mondays is year 7 assembly so I have a few minutes before the class arrives and as I’m walking to the room, there’s Mr Morlis coming out of the hall. I grab him and pull him into the English office.
He looks amused, like I’m a puppy gnawing his shoe or something and not cross but he does say, in a low voice, “I’m not wholly convinced about the lipstick, Miss Mint.”
I wipe it off. Fine.
“Aren’t you teaching?”
“Year 7,” I roll my eyes like I’m saying, ‘ god, not year 7 ’, like a proper teacher. But a brainwave has come to me ‘cos I’m thinking about what he said on the coach back from London, and I’m meeting Miss Mint at break so what if Mr Morlis comes too?
“Sure,” he nods and he’s off, bounding up the stairs to science, sort of like a cool monkey.
Year 7’s a breeze.
Wallace and Gromit’s not my favourite film in the world but they all sit boy girl without being told and after I’ve taken the register, filling in smiley faces for anyone getting their reading book out without me asking them (something that never works after year 7), and I’ve stuck it on, they just sit there.
Halfway through the lesson, the bell goes but I remember it’s a double and just say, “sit still.” The LSA looks a bit concerned, like she’s expecting more or something and some of the try-harders pipe up but I just say, “you need to see the whole film through for it to make sense.” While they’re sitting there I go round to check they’ve got their books open and are making notes but to be honest I can’t really be bothered so if a kid hasn’t got a pen I just smile and say, “bring one next time” and they smile back at me a bit confused but some of them are sweet, like so sweet, it makes me want a younger brother badly.
But the good thing is an hour and a half goes past and it’s quarter past ten and break time before I know it. I leg it to the staffroom and Miss Mint’s already there.
With Kai.
My dress, boobs and heels distract him for a minute but then his eyes are locked to her again.
“Hi Miss Mint,” he says to me, casually. The toothpick’s out again.
“Kai. Lisi.” I am so confused. What’s she been saying? What’s he?
“I need to speak to Miss,” she says and Kai squeezes his eyes and her hand and gives nothing away but goes, sloping off towards the tech block.
Before I can think about this, Mr Morlis pops up. “Miss Mint, shall we?”
“Sir, I need to speak to Miss!” I feel sorry for her, I really do, because the look she gives me is sheer terror.
“It’s ok,” I say, feeling again the one in control. “Lisi, Mr Morlis and I would like to talk to you together actually.” I am almost, almost enjoying this ‘cos now they both look baffled.
We go through the door and I’ve only been in this room once before. We walk straight through so I don’t have time to wonder why Mr Cantor’s raging at Mr Underwood or Miss Anderson’s doing stretches in games kit by the big table. Or why Erin’s mum’s crying in the corner. We’ve got twelve minutes of break left so we have to be quick. There’s a spare learning support room out the back. At break, all the isolated kids get to go to the kitchen to get a drink, escorted by a member of staff, so it’s usually empty round here. We traipse in and I shut the door.
Mr Morlis looks, for once, a bit uncertain.
“Tell Miss ... tell Lisi what you told me,” I say, and as my guard is nearly down I want to bite my nails, badly.
“I’m sorry?”
“Miss, I don’t think we need to ...”
“ Tell her about the mammatus clouds, ” I say, and there’s no pretending any more; I just want him to make it better somehow; I don’t care if it’s a story, if it’s not even true; it’s the only thing that makes even a miniscule bit of sense around here.
Plus he’s a teacher so he has to make it alright.
Mr Morlis looks blank, so I lead him into it.
“... and then when we were on the coach, you told me about the mammatus cloud phenomenon. About what happened in America with people and body swaps and that. Like we’ve done. ‘Cos it must be the same.”
When I think about it, ‘cos I’ve told him everything that happened at the Globe, including the bit where I thought his thigh was nice and warm and solid when I climbed it, he should be a bit shaken to say the least but I’m not prepared for what he does next.
“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.
Who’s all alone, ‘cos he should be with me.
* * *
We sit down at a lab bench by piles of pipettes. The other thing Mr Morlis has to say is this: it’s not permanent. We can swap back.
Digesting this is so weird and amazing, it’s like coming home on a normal school day to find Gary Barlow eating Christmas dinner with your mum, then announcing they’re engaged.
He says:
This last point makes my tummy turn cartwheels but he also says everything he’s read makes him think the timing relates to the play that it happened in. The key thing is this: it’s Twelfth Night so Mr Morlis’ educated guess is if we don’t swap back within twelve nights of the storm, it won’t happen at all. I’ve never heard anything like any of this. And how he knows about the twelve nights I’ve no idea. By educated guess, I have to say it’s not something I’ve learned at school so far. But then he is Mr Morlis and he’s a legend, so I can’t think what else to do except believe him, to be honest.
Miss Mint looks sceptical but lets him continue. It all depends on just how much we both follow the rules. If we break them within the twelve nights, it might be that we end up staying in each other’s lives forever. Which is so scary I don’t even want to think about it.
I do some counting really fast. Miss Mint does too and we both say, exactly the same time, “the Review.”
‘Cos that’s twelve nights away. End of term review. The last day of school.
Mr Morlis is firm.
“The fascinating thing is,” he says, twiddling his ‘magnesium’ tie which shudders and shifts in the light. I’ve always thought’s a bit much but he still wears it coolly, “the swap back depends on one vital condition.”
Miss Mint looks awful: it’s like she’s lost weight and on my body that’s fine ‘cos there’s a little bit to lose, but I hope she slept ok ‘cos there’s massive bags now under her eyes and I thought she’d be pleased with this news, and I’m pretty sure she is but she just looks exhausted.
“What’s that?” she asks, words floating out like a snowdrift.
“It’s seems clear that within the timeframe, to make certain the body switch back happens, both parties must tell the truth at all times,” he says.
“What, no lies?” Miss Mint looks worried.
“No lies at all,” he says, and he’s grave.
And I think, ok. We can both tell the truth for twelve days and nights. That’s easy. A walk in the park, like with Tao.
We can do that, no problem, Miss Mint and me.
Can’t we?