Exiting the drama hall, I spot a pupil hanging out in the wrong place. Her large rucksack weighs her down, a single plait swings like a long rope from her droopy head and she seems to be playing with a stone, using the sole of her shoe to scrape on the paving. I look down and see she’s managed to draw a faint heart.
‘Layla?’ I call out.
She jerks upright like a soldier standing to attention, a good girl worried she’s been caught doing wrong. When she sees its me, she loosens a little, her eyes falling upon the heart on the floor. Like with most kids, the summer holidays has bestowed her with growth spurts in various directions. She’s still petite, but more lithe, cheekbones overtaking what was recently puppy fat.
‘Why aren’t you in rehearsal?’ I ask.
Without making eye contact, she just shrugs. I should tell her that’s rude.
‘I’m not doing the musical,’ she mumbles.
‘What?’
‘Just not.’
‘But you’re Layla Birch. Your cast needs you. Mr Sullivan needs you!’
‘No he don’t.’
‘Layla, I hope this isn’t because you didn’t get the lead because you know what Shakespeare said: “There are no small parts—”’
‘Whatever, he’s dead.’
I don’t like her tone. Not that I say this out loud. I’m already bored of hearing myself snapping out the old teacher clichés and we’re a mere three hours into the start of term. Perhaps I had Layla Birch wrong. Maybe that last term was a fluke, or her teenage hormones hadn’t kicked in.
‘So you think dead people don’t matter?’ I ask her.
She looks up at me, softens and with sincerity says, ‘They’re just dead, Miss.’
The tinkle of distant piano chords drifts out from behind me. There’s a noticeable vamp, accompanied by the incoherent lyrics of a Kander and Ebb song, although I can’t work out which one. Layla looks to the drama hall doors. I bet she knows what song this is.
‘What’s the matter, Layla?’ I ask, softly, making the mistake of taking a step closer to her.
She jumps back. I freeze, hold out my arms, tiptoe back a little.
‘Can I have permission to show you something on my phone, Miss?’
‘’Course.’
She drops down onto one knee, her grey school skirt covering her shoes, and takes her phone out of the inside zipper in her rucksack. A good girl. Not hiding it in her pocket to sneak a peek. God, she’s even had the phone properly switched off. I wait whilst the screen lights up and comes to life. After a few taps and scrolls, she hands it over.
It’s a screenshot of Layla’s Instagram, reminding her of a selfie she posted two years ago. In the photo, Layla is with a woman. They’re embracing each other, cheeks pressed together and pulling wide, silly smiles. A younger-looking Layla is wearing a floral headdress and the woman has a single sunflower behind her ear. It looks like they’re at a music festival.
‘Is this your mum?’ I ask.
‘Yes, Miss. She died a few months after that was taken.’
Her words crash into me.
‘Oh, Layla. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.’
‘She had breast cancer.’
We both pause, taking in the photograph. I notice their similar hair, long and wavy, and Layla’s mum’s nose, all crinkled because of the funny face she’s pulling.
‘I’m so pleased you showed me this, Layla. It’s very personal, but lovely to see.’
‘I took the screenshot last term, Miss,’ Layla tells me, taking back her phone and switching it off. ‘The day of the auditions. That’s when it showed up on my Instagram. I’m sorry I messed up. I just, kind of, couldn’t be bothered in the end. You know?’
I nod. I do know.
‘I WhatsApped it to my best friend,’ Layla says, speaking fast, as if she’s worried she’ll get caught spilling this information. ‘I think I wrote something like, “Can’t believe this was two years ago” and she said, “You need to stop being stuck in the past”. I was like, I’m not. And she was like, you are. She said, “The past is gone”.’
The harshness in Layla’s interpretation of her best friend’s words is like venom from a snake. She blinks away tears by gazing at the sky and fluttering her lashes, a trick she seems too well-practised at.
‘I thought she was wrong, Miss. So I posted the photo again, you know, as a memory. It made me happy for like, a minute or something, ’cause it was like my mum was alive again and I had the chance to post a picture of me and her together. Then, I checked my Instagram later that day and only a few people had liked it. I checked again later, and still, hardly any likes. And I’m not like a huge attention seeker or anything, Miss. I just got really confused.’
‘Why’s that, Layla?’
‘’Cause did you see how many likes the original post got? The real one? More than two years ago? Miss, look … It got two hundred and twenty-three likes.’
‘Wow. That’s a lot!’
Layla shakes her head, a cynical laugh escaping her.
‘No, Miss. That’s not a lot. A hundred thousand plus is a lot.’
‘Did you expect to get that many likes?’
‘Not me, Miss, no,’ Layla laughs again, more genuinely. ‘I’m not a celeb. I mean, two hundred likes isn’t a lot in the grand scheme of things – but for me, boring old Layla Birch, it was a lot. I’m not even that popular or anything. I think lots of people from school were at that festival so they connected to it and liked it, or maybe they thought my hair looked good. Who knows? Then I repost two years later and ’cause my mum’s dead, no one cares.’
‘That’s not true. You can’t use likes to determine whether people care.’
‘Yeah, Miss, I can. So many people came to her funeral, Miss. People I didn’t know. It was like the whole school showed up. And everyone was so nice to me. It wasn’t actually nice, though. Like, I didn’t enjoy them being nice. I’d rather it’d just been a normal day, not my mum’s funeral, and everyone just ignore me. But it was like, I dunno, such a big deal. For like, randoms. Kids I’ve never spoken to cried. But they all soon forgot, didn’t they? No one cared about me reposting that photo. Like my best friend said, the past is gone. No point in going on and on about it, is there?’
I need to be careful with my words – I know I’m walking on thin ice.
‘Layla, sorry but I’m a little bit, erm, confused. The school musical is in the future, not the past. Actually the rehearsals are in the present, right now—’
‘There’s no point, Miss. I’m not doing it.’
‘Okay. Fine. But can I ask why not?’
‘Yeah. ’Cause there’s no point.’
‘But you’re talented.’
‘It doesn’t matter, Miss. Everyone’s mum’ll be watching them. Except mine.’
We freeze, the harsh truth shining on us like a spotlight.
‘I used to think she was watching over me,’ Layla says, almost in a whisper, as she slouches into the brick wall behind her. ‘But she’s gone, hasn’t she? She’s not watching over me at all. She’s just … gone.’
If I’d happened to be a cocky fifteen-year-old rather than a responsible adult, I’d liked to have found this so-called best friend and shoved a spike up her tight little arse. But what would my argument be? That she’s wrong? Because I don’t know if she is wrong. I’m not religious, so I don’t believe that Jack is in Heaven, keeping an eye on me from fluffy clouds surrounded by cherubs and harps. I’m not entirely sure I believe in the opposite, either. I struggle with thinking that we’re something until we die, and then BOOM! we’re suddenly nothing. And I’ve never found any satisfactory spiritual beliefs in the middle ground either. Never been to India. Never committed to a yoga class for more than two consecutive weeks. I’m more baffled than cynical.
‘What if she’s wrong?’ I ask Layla, throwing it out there.
‘Who?’
‘Your best friend.’
‘She’s not my best friend any more.’
‘Well, who’s to say she’s right?’ I ask. ‘Does she have hard evidence?’
‘Evidence, Miss?’
‘That when we die, we’re gone? Because if she has, well, I’d sure like to see it.’
She straightens herself and swaps her rucksack to the opposite shoulder, considering what I’ve just said. Her head cocks to the side and she inhales, tense and sceptical, afraid I’m being nice to her because she’s a kid, rather than being honest with her as an equal. I haven’t been a teacher too long, but I’ve seen teenagers do this multiple times. I make the choice to be honest with her.
‘Layla, me boyfriend died a few months ago. I’d like to tell you something he said to me when he was alive. He told me that being a teacher was cool. Hey, don’t roll your eyes, they’re his words not mine. I’m not saying I’m cool.’ I do my best T-Birds impression, badly. Layla loosens up and forces a kind smile. ‘Jack – me boyfriend – he worked in gaming. He’d oversee various projects, launch new online games and stuff, and he enjoyed it, organised events like crazy golf or paintballing and got away with calling them “team-building exercises”. When we got together, I told him that sounded pretty cool. He said, “No, being a teacher is cool. You’re making a difference, or at least trying to.” And I pulled a face. Told him, nah. In reality, it’s stress, it’s targets, it’s listening to your colleagues saying, “Roll on half term!” And agreeing with them.’
‘Really, Miss? Do you hate it?’
‘No,’ I say, surprising myself. ‘Look, Layla. I’ll never know if Jack’s watching over me. There’s a great possibility he’s not – that yeah, he’s gone. But what if he’s not? What if he is watching me, somehow? Am I gonna be the teacher who lives for the holidays? Or am I gonna try to make a difference, even if it’s the teeniest, tiniest inch?’ and I hold my thumb and index finger an inch apart, scrunch up one eye and peek through the space I’ve created. ‘In short, I want him to be proud of me—’
A long whistle from the netball court jolts me: lunchtime practice is coming to an end. I’ve said much more than I’d intended. With each word, I’ve learnt, and in a reversal of roles, Layla has stood listening to me like the non-judgemental teacher. I welcome the light breeze that washes over me, the rustle of leaves so recently fallen from the oak trees lining the street outside the school gates.
‘My mum wouldn’t be proud of me, would she, Miss?’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I’m just bumming around the drama hall instead of, well, you know.’
Grateful that the focus has shifted back to Layla, I’m amazed at how our roles have reverted without me needing to click my fingers or wave a magic wand. Maybe in learning one lesson, I’ve managed to teach one, too.
‘Mr Sullivan’ll never let me back though, Miss.’
‘Leave it with me.’
*
I walk back to the flat rather than get the bus. I’m hot in my cardigan, the September sun still strong when it’s not hiding behind the clouds. The cusp of a new season is upon us and I pass coffee shops where customers bask in the last days of summer with an iced latte. I always walk when I’m either deep in thought or happy.
In this case, it’s the latter.
I’d caught Si at the end of the rehearsal, on his knees. Split binbags of feathers, creased satin and ancient, lustreless sequins had surrounded him like a flamboyant Victorian skirt. Flustered, he’d been ticking off any items he could find from his clipboard list. I’d taken the clipboard and he’d fanned his armpits with a broken Venetian mask.
‘Roaring twenties flapper dress, purple?’ I’d read from the list.
‘Chloe, I’m really sorry—’
‘Si. Forget it. But more importantly, you need to let Layla Birch back into the show.’
‘I can’t do that. She dropped out. She’s unreliable.’
‘Trust me. She’s quite the opposite. She just needs a second chance.’
‘I’ve reassigned her part.’
‘So write her another one.’
‘I can’t—’
‘You can! It’s your creation. You can do anything you want.’
He’d been holding a bowler hat in his hands and clearly couldn’t resist the urge to put it on.
‘You’re right,’ he’d said, holding back a smile. ‘I can do anything I want.’ But he’d checked his watch and started to panic-push the mounds of material back into the split bin bags. He’d sung out a high-pitched, ‘Agh!’
‘You look very pink,’ I’d said.
‘Very stressed, you mean.’
‘Let me do the costumes.’
‘No, you’ve got enough on.’
‘Look, if anyone’s got enough to do, it’s you.’
‘Well …’
‘Si, give Layla a show-stopping role and I’ll be wardrobe mistress. I’ve got experience, haven’t I? Think of it as my second chance.’
I’d given Si a little shoulder shimmy and thrown a feather boa around my neck. He’d chuckled and I knew he’d give in. But deep down, I knew I wasn’t giving myself a second chance. I was giving myself a final warning.
‘I’ve got a free period now,’ I’d said. ‘Let me sort this utter shite out.’
‘It all needs hanging up, though, and some serious TLC. But there’s nowhere to do that in this joke of a school. I asked the head for a costume rail and got laughed out of her office. I mean, look at all that fringe! Tangled! Mangled! Oh—’
‘Si. I’ll sort it.’
I’d rolled a couple of leotards up and popped them into my satchel, planning to repair them tonight while I watch Bake Off. The remaining costumes are stashed in the PE cupboard under the gym horse. God knows if I’ll get away with that. The head of PE is ex-marine.
I’m almost back at the flat when I decide to join in the fun and get myself an iced latte from the coffee shop by the train station. As I wait for my drink, I catch up on Trish’s text from earlier.
Dear Chloe, I hope you’re keeping well. It would be greatly appreciated if you could pack Jack’s clothes into his suitcases and bring them to my house when you come to sign the tenancy agreement. Text me a date and time you’re free over the next week or so and let’s get it in the diary. I can be flexible. I’ll ping you a location pin of my address. Regards, Trish.
My name’s called and I’m handed an iced latte and a paper straw. I take it unwillingly; what I’d thought would be a treat is now just something else I’ve got to carry – it’ll make my hand cold and wet, give me brain freeze and make me feel too bloated to enjoy my dinner. The evening ahead is set to be busy with a task I’m going to find unbearably difficult.
The ripped leotards will have to wait.