I want to stay here forever, in this seat, talking to Danny.
It’s so easy.
I’ve got to go now.
Bell just went.
Talk later?
Of course.
And hey — who cares if you haven’t got a load of friends to sit with?
You can always sit with me.
: )
I think everyone else is an idiot.
And you sound pretty special.
I smile.
Some of the girls look at me and frown, but I don’t care. They will not remove this smile from my face. I’m happy and their stupid frowns will do nothing about it.
He thinks I’m special.
I add:
You’re pretty special too.
Then I put my phone in my pocket and go to English, unable to stop thinking about what I might say to him when we message later.
16
Will
I have a free period last lesson, so I use it to mark books, and try not to get too irritated with the stupid answers I read.
It’s like these kids learn nothing. Either they are stupid, or they are trying to annoy me.
For the question How do we know x=5 in the equation? a student has written: Because sir told me.
I lean back. Run my hands through my hair. Put the radio on. Something to distract me. A nice dose of radio 4 to keep me feeling calm.
I mark the next few books and check my emails as the news comes on.
“Hartbury College has released a statement regarding the teacher Patrick Armidge who was accused of misconduct by a female student on Friday, stating that the girl has since admitted she made the accusation up because she thought ‘it would be funny.’”
I can’t help but tut. How ridiculous. That girl has no idea what she’s done to that man’s life.
“Patrick Armidge has also released a statement saying that, despite his suspension being lifted, he will not be returning to work as a teacher. Despite the allegations being false, he has stated that the physical abuse, mental abuse, media attention, and the damage it has done to his marriage is undoable, and that he does not wish to return to a career where he was treated as such despite being innocent.”
I shake my head. I hope that girl feels ashamed of herself. I hope that she realises what she’s done to a man just trying to earn a living and support his family.
Lost in thought, I reach for my coffee and knock it over, spilling the contents over the desk and over the box of chocolates bought for me by Destiny.
“Dammit,” I mutter, and lift the box before wiping the rest of the table with a tissue.
Once I’m done, I go to wipe down the box and return it to the table, but it’s pointless. The box is covered, it’s ruined. And I didn’t want it anyway.
I chuck it in the bin and forget about it.
I go to resume marking but I am sick of it. I was sick of it half an hour ago, now I am repulsed by it. The idea of picking up my red pen and writing another moan in another student’s book just makes me want to pull my teeth out.
I stand. Walk around the classroom. Between the tables, stretching my legs. A glance out the window reveals a few students truanting their lessons on the football pitch, wrestling each other and laughing about it. I grow suddenly angry about how they are wasting their lives.
I used to ask kids, “Do you want to have a lot of money?”
They’d look bemused, and I’d prompt them again, and they’d reluctantly say, “Yes.”
“Then work hard in school. The better qualifications, the better the job, the better the money.”
Then I’d add, “I’m trying to help you be a millionaire here,” although they never seem to find it amusing.
They would almost always quote the name of a famous person who has managed to be hugely successful without the benefit of education, and I’d be ready with my reply that they are the anomaly. The odds were far more in their favour if they left school with a few grades.
Now I don’t bother asking them that. If they want to waste their opportunities then go for it. What does it matter to me?
With a sigh, I force myself out of my classroom and meander down the corridor. I need to get out of that room. I spend my life in there, battering knowledge into kid’s heads, insisting they think creatively as they sit in rows and columns that are so rigidly set in their symmetry that I don’t know how anyone could ever be creative in a room setup in such a uniformed way.
I sometimes look into classrooms and see the odd teacher who has their tables set out in a different way, at angles or grouped together or in one long row around the room. It sounds like a great idea, but that’s just inviting students to screw around. I’m better off with the conformity that forces my students to become dull, mindless zombies.
I go to the staff room and approach the coffee machine, finding my mug in the sink with stains inside that indicates someone else has used it. I wash it up, pour the coffee in, then open the fridge to find there is no milk.
In fact, the only milk I can find is powdered milk in the cupboard. I try it, but it tastes disgusting, so I disregard the coffee, return my mug to the sink, and head back to my classroom just as the bell for the end of the day goes and doors open and students burst into the corridor, hurrying faster than they do at any other point of the day. Nothing wakes them up quite like the end of school.
Numerous children barge into me as they run past, but I ignore it. It’s the end of the day. Let’s just finish my work and go home.
When I return to my classroom, I don’t even notice Destiny at first. She is crouched down, on her knees, her face in her hands, and I can’t tell what she’s doing.
“Destiny?” I say.
Her head shakes. She is still covering her face.
She is hunched over the bin.
What is she doing?
“Destiny, I really think you—”
“What’s this?”
She lifts the coffee-stained box of chocolates from the bin.
“Oh, Destiny, I—”
“Do you know how much I spent on this? Not to mention the bus fayre to get into town and buy them for you?”
“Look, I—”
“Why would you do this?”
I go to speak, but don’t. I look around the room, searching for the words.
“I think you need to go,” I finally say.
She looks dumbfounded, shocked, bemused at the impudence of my reaction.
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me why you did this!”
“I spilt coffee on them, Destiny, it was an accident.”
“An accident?”
“Yes, an accident, I’m sorry.”
I stay by the open door, glancing down the corridor, but there is no one there to help me.
She edges toward me, and it occurs to me that I am blocking her exit, so I walk in, moving behind the tables to keep the furniture between me and her.
She walks to the door and I think she’s leaving — that is, until she shuts it.
“Destiny, please open the door,” I say.
She stays in front of it. Slowly rotates toward me. Long strands of hair fall over her face, and she looks strange, disturbed, unhinged, and I want to do anything I can to get out of this situation.