20
Will
I don’t get much sleep. And I don’t even remember eating breakfast.
I’m sure I ate it, but I don’t remember it. I feel like I was a puppet, or being controlled by a parasite. I walked through my house, drove to work, listened to the radio, and tried calling Natalie a few times, and remember none of it.
It isn’t until now, when I am sat at the desk of my decrepit classroom, looking at sparse posters with torn corners and cracked cream walls and tables with gum stuck under them that I think — what the hell am I doing?
Am I getting a divorce?
Am I living on my own?
Am I going to be a single parent?
Natalie didn’t seem bothered about fighting for custody of Harper, but who knows if that will change. Plus, Harper’s old enough to decide where she stays. Why would she choose me?
I bow my head. Run my hands through my hair.
I try calling Natalie again. I have ten minutes. But, after trying three times and receiving no answer, I stop, distracted by thoughts of Harper. We are about to heap so much childhood trauma on her and there’s nothing I can do about it. Watching her mum walk out and her dad breakdown and her parents separate is going to affect her in so many ways. She will probably discuss this experience in therapy someday, she will end relationships because of intimacy issues caused by us, and she will resent me until the day she dies…
And I hate myself for it.
I hate myself so much.
I’m a useless teacher. Useless husband. Useless man. But I really don’t want to be a useless father — yet I have no idea what to do to save Harper from the inevitable pain.
Either way, I’ve got to stop thinking about it. I have a day full of lessons to get through. I have hours of monotony to force upon disinterested adolescents.
God, I’d have hated me as a student. I’d have dreaded my lessons. I’d have taken the piss out of me and wondered if I had a life.
I open my laptop and the screen comes to life, though it will still take another ten minutes to load. On the keyboard is an envelope, one that had been wedged inside my closed laptop, and the front reads Mr Coady. It is written with childish, curly writing, and with hearts scribbled decoratively around it.
My immediate thought is Destiny.
I consider whether to open it. I dread what I’m going to find.
But I have to open it.
Otherwise I’ll have no idea what I’m dealing with.
I turn the envelope over to find that it has been sealed with a kiss — literally, the imprint of lipstick marks the seal.
I close my eyes and shake my head. I could just take this straight to the Headmaster.
But I’ve already given him enough ammunition. He already hates me enough — can I really trust him not to misinterpret the situation? I don’t even need to be guilty — just the accusation alone would be enough to ruin me; look what happened to Patrick Armidge.
I open the envelope, worried about what I might find — but it’s just a letter.
The first line starts Dear Will.
While she addressed the envelope to me as Mr Coady, she is now addressing the letter to my first name.
And I’m scared.
For the first time in this situation, I am not just worried or annoyed, I am fearful for both my career, and my freedom.
Reluctantly, I read the letter.
Dear Will,
I want to say sorry for my reaction yesterday. I understand it would have been an accident for you to spill your coffee on the chocolates. If you’d like, I can go and get some more for you after school. I really don’t mind.
I also want to say how happy I am to have you in my life. It’s taken a while for us to get to know each other, but love grows over time, and we’ve got plenty of time. With each passing day, our affection grows stronger, and I know I mean as much to you as you mean to me.
It is such a cliché to say that you’d die for someone. I’ve always seen it in romance movies and scoffed, thinking it’s just so Romeo and Juliet. But now I finally see what they mean.
Because I would, Will.
I would die for you.
When you meet your soul mate, you know — and I know, just like you do, that we are destined to be together.
Our love is special, unlike any other, and they won’t understand — but they don’t need to.
I will always be yours, whether we keep it a secret or shout it from the rooftops.
Forever and always your girl,
Destiny
X X X X X X X X
I hold the letter in my hands. Re-read it.
It’s shaking.
I don’t realise at first, but that’s because my arms are shaking.
Fuck.
I mean…
Fuck.
This isn’t just someone who has a crush on their teacher, or has an infatuation — she seems to believe her affections are reciprocated.
She seems convinced that this is a two-way thing.
And I don’t know what to do.
Should I report it?
Of course I know I should report it, but it’s not that simple, is it?
I open Google. I type in the name of the teacher I’d heard the news reports about — Patrick Armidge.
Straight away, the top results are news websites with headlines such as:
Teacher Falsely Accused Goes Into Hiding.
Falsely Suspected Teacher Physically Attacked By Parents.
Disgraced Former Teacher’s Wife: “I Want a Divorce.”
This man was innocent. The girl admitted it. It was a lie. But look at what a false accusation has done to him…
His life is over. He’s been attacked on all fronts.
I wouldn’t care. My marriage is over, my life is shit anyway — but what about Harper?
Could I put Harper through that?
She’s disappointed enough in me, I know she is — but if she believed I was doing something with a student, how much more would she hate me?
God, what if I lost her…
What if she was taken away…
What if she was attacked because of association…
I know I should report it, but even a false allegation, some sort of retaliation for my reporting it, would be enough to destroy my daughter’s life.
I can’t make things any worse for her.
I’ll talk to Destiny. I will. I’ll talk to her properly, and make it clear that this is not okay, that there is no love there.
That’s what I’ll do.
I’m not sure if it will work, but it’s the next step, it’s what I will try next.
Destiny is unstable. Perhaps we’ll understand each other. Two messed-up people with broken hearts.
I just hope it works.
I do.
I really do.
21
Harper
Lunchtime arrives and I’m still thinking about last night.
Normally my parent’s marriage doesn’t bother me for this long. Maybe it did when I was little, but I’ve become so used to it that it’s rarely more than a mild irritation. Like the fleeting annoyance I get when a teacher sets homework or the router needs resetting — it’s just part of life.