Lucy punches a page covered in grey smudges.
Maths is such a waste of my life, she groans,
casting the pencil aside.
You look clever. Are you?
Like, help me.
She pushes her books
across the beach-hut table.
My ex-mate used to be good at this crap.
I can’t be bothered.
I study the sums.
Nothing hard:
I could finish the page in five minutes
and we could go to the lighthouse,
lie on our backs in reach of the sea’s spray.
Shall I teach you how to do it?
No. Just do it. I don’t need to know.
She lights up a joint, starts to smoke.
After a few minutes
I slide the exercise book back to her.
You done? How?
I don’t know. It’s easy.
Lucy leans back, taps her chin with her finger.
Where do you go to school?
Nowhere. I’m homeschooled.
Well, that makes sense.
Why?
Your clothes for a start.
You dress like a wife.
But homeschooled is better actually,
she says with satisfaction.
You wanna earn some cash?