Surrounded by squeaky new shoes destined to be scuffed by the end of September, I shuffle through the corridor to meet my new form class. I’ve been assigned a Year Nine group. God. Fucking. Help. Me. Before I became a teacher, anything I associated with Year Nine bore the fond glow of yesteryear – my first snog at Lindsey Jones’ fourteenth birthday party; class detention for being rude (or witty, as we interpreted it) to the substitute maths teacher; playing Dulcie in The Boyfriend. Now, Year Nine is a snake pit.
But I’ve got this.
They’re thirteen going on fourteen. I’ve got almost two lifetimes on them.
I perch on the desk. Echoes gradually get louder from beyond the open door. I check my phone is on silent and see two messages.
Break a leg today! Show ’em what you’re made of. Love you. Mum x
Even if I’d gone into accountancy, she’d think it worthy of applause.
The next message is from Trish. We’ve agreed to me becoming an official tenant, but she hasn’t given me a contract to sign yet. There’s no time to read the message though – I must lead by example. I drop my phone to the bottom of my satchel.
‘Find a space, guys,’ I call out, trying too hard to sound friendly. ‘Sit yourselves down.’
The kids filter in, glued to their phones, some alone and some stuck to a pal, sharing a screen. I straighten my back, elongate my neck, although my soul sinks deeper and deeper into the chair. My day is about to begin with words like ‘confiscate’. Already I’m bored of myself, and I haven’t even greeted them with a proper good morning yet.
I stand. Instant status.
A boy saunters past, at least a foot taller than me, with patchy facial hair.
‘A’right, Miss,’ he says.
‘Year Nine?’ I sing lightly with a warm smile, my final attempt at being on their side.
‘Miss?’ I hear. ‘Has anyone ever told you you’ve got fingers like sausages?’
Baffled, I instantly make the mistake of examining my own hand and for a split second, I wonder – when it comes down to it – whether everybody has fingers like some sort of sausage; hot dog, chorizo, cocktail …
The whole class is laughing, and of course they’re talking about actually getting fingered now. I should’ve known better. My drama training kicks in and I fill my lungs with air, clench my abs.
‘YEAR NINE!’ I bellow.
Let the battle commence.
*
‘Si!’ I squeal, ecstatic to see his pointed little face behind the piano in the drama hall.
He doesn’t hear me though. He’s tinkling away, warming up before the cast reunite for rehearsals. I pull a chair over to sit beside him and unwrap the tuna sandwich I grabbed from the Sainsbury’s Local on the way to school this morning. I’ll wait until he’s completed the song before I give him a massive bearhug.
With a dramatic bang of chords, Si lifts his fingers and spirals around to face me. He’s embracing the new term with a new goatee, trimmed and symmetrical. A distinct lack of enthusiasm oozes from him. I check the big round clock on the wall. I’m not late. I touch my chin. No crumbs.
‘What?’ I ask, wary. ‘Not a fan of tuna?’
He sighs, his shoulders slump.
‘Look, Chloe. I’m over the moon to see you.’
‘Hmm. Sure sounds like it, hun.’
‘I’m conscious of time – the cast are arriving any minute and I need to ask—’ Si stands abruptly but loses his balance and slips into the piano keys. His clumsiness causes a moment of alarm married with the plinky-plonk sound effect.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘Are you all in, Miss Roscoe?’
‘I can’t tell if you’re being serious or taking the piss.’
‘Are you with me on this? The musical. Because I totally, totally understand if you’re not feeling it, and …’ he lowers his voice, moving his lips like a cartoon, ‘I know you’ve been unsure about staying or going, and I fully support you. But this means a lot to me.’
‘I’m in, Si. Chill out.’
‘Please don’t tell me to chill out. Can you prove it?’
‘Prove it? Si – erm, Mr Sullivan – I thought we were mates.’
He’s so jittery, I wonder if he needs the loo.
‘We are mates,’ he says. ‘But we’re also colleagues. I’m sorry, I don’t like saying this, but how do I know you won’t let me down? I’ve spent months working on this musical. I thought I might be left without a director. Gosh, I even thought you might leave the whole flipping profession!’
‘I never said for sure …’
‘I even asked! When you messaged me about being in London. I asked if you’d had a change of heart and can you remember what you replied?’
‘Erm, I can’t say I—’
‘Because you didn’t.’
‘Huh?’
‘You didn’t reply. You just left me hanging.’
‘There’s no need to be so dramatic, hun.’
‘Actually, hun, there is!’
‘Calm down, Si—’
‘I. Am. Calm,’ he whispers loudly. ‘But Chloe, I care about this musical. A. Lot. And yeah, most people won’t “get it”. It’s not a huge football game or a die-hard rock concert, but hey, it’s my passion. I love it. I created it. And I don’t want it to be anything less than the absolute best that it can be.’
‘I know.’
‘Do you?’
I allow Si’s question to digest. ‘No. I don’t.’
‘I really do want to work with you, Chloe, but I think I need to do this … without you.’
‘Ouch,’ I say, regretting my immaturity and closing my eyes.
He’s right, though. I’m not what Si needs. He’s put so much of his heart and soul into this. He deserves better. Not a half-arsed director who doodles on the register, desperate for a packet of salt and vinegar crisps to soothe a hangover.
The cast arrive, running in with their hands jammed into crisp packets and swigging from water bottles. Jonah Matthews has grown about two foot taller since July. A few latecomers whizz past murmuring, ‘Sorry, Miss,’ and, ‘Sorry, Sir.’
‘In the professional world,’ I project, ‘being on time is considered late. So be early. And if anyone pulls a stunt like this again, you’ll be replaced. Even if I have to squeeze into your costume and play the part meself. Don’t snigger. I am not joking.’
Si starts pounding the keys for the warm-up.
‘Well … good luck,’ I say, and leave.
Instant coffee and staffroom banter will have to do.