Then again, sometimes I wish she would rebel a bit more. Would be a bit more normal.
No, I don’t mean normal. That’s a horrible thing to say.
Just more…
Someone who fits in. Not for my sake, I don’t care that she’s an outcast — I just worry that she’s never going to make any friends. And I don’t mean the friends she makes online, when she sits on the computer for hours on those message boards; I mean real friends. She has never asked to go to a sleepover, or for me to drop her into town to meet someone, or if she could go to a party. If she came home drunk one night, I’d probably be grateful she had someone to get drunk with.
Then again, maybe I should be grateful she has so little of her mother in her.
“Would you like a lift to school?” I ask.
“No thanks.”
“Are you sure? I don’t mind, you don’t have to walk—”
“I said no thanks.”
Sometimes I wonder where I went wrong. When did I mess up my marriage so badly, and what did I do to make my daughter hate me?
At least I’m trying.
“Would you like me to pick you up at least?”
“I said no.”
“I really don’t mind.”
She doesn’t look up.
“Okay. Right, well, have a good day. I will see you this evening.”
I smile at her, though she won’t see it, and I take the box of books I was supposed to mark and make my way to my plain grey Mitsubishi Mirage. The gear stick gets stuck as I try to move into reverse, but a little force helps, and I back down the drive of a house I bought ten years ago with all the love and aspiration a family man could ask for, and ignore the overgrown weeds that surround it.
5
Harper
A lift.
He offers me a lift.
Like a dad would.
Like it makes up for anything.
I want to say to him, “Why are you so pathetic? Why do you pretend that you can lift your head up high? Why don’t you admit what you are?”
But I don’t.
Mum already tells him. I hear her, sometimes. When they think I’m asleep, or not listening, or when I have my headphones in but my music off.
They think I hear nothing, but I hear everything.
When I’m around, they don’t talk, like they think the silence spares me the arguments, but the silence is even worse. At least when they are arguing there’s passion behind it; when they are silent, it’s like they are dead.
He finally leaves and he finally stops talking to me, and I drag myself to the front door, hoisting a bag full of books and folders over my shoulders, and make my way out. I see my reflection in the window, and the weight of my bag is making me hunch over. I don’t know how everyone else at school manages with their little handbags or tiny rucksacks.
Then again, they are the ones who always ask to borrow a pen, because they don’t bring anything with them in those tiny bags. And it’s always me they ask.
I approach the school and it’s full of eyes and full of faces and I try not to look at any of them. Some people laugh and I don’t understand how they can enjoy being here so much. As soon as I am among the crowds of students wearing the same school uniform, I feel like I’m in the middle of a zoo and surrounded by predators.
I walk through the corridor with my head down and I hear sniggering and I wonder if it’s at me. It’s like they all look at me yet no one notices me. I am invisible, yet I feel like I stand out.
A girl barges into me. She doesn’t even flinch. She carries on laughing, holding hands with a boy just as pretty as she is.
I walk into an IT classroom for registration, take my seat on my own at the back, and avoid making eye contact with anyone. My tutor talks but I don’t hear anything. She gives some letters out and one drops on my table but I don’t pay attention to it.
When registration is over I wait for everyone else to leave so I can go. My tutor says hello and I try to smile though I know my lips barely move.
In science, we are told to get into twos or threes for an experiment. No one comes to join me, and I look away from anyone who walks past. I end up working on my own, and either the teacher doesn’t even notice, or they do and they choose to let me so they don’t have to force anyone to go in a group with me.
She forced Charlene to go in a group with me once. I hated it. She hated it. She told me I was ratchet, and I don’t even know what that means. I thought ratchet was a cog, and she laughed when I didn’t look up to meet her stare.
For a moment, I look forward to being able to go home.
Then I remember what home is like.
And I look forward to nothing.
6
Will
On the way to work I get stuck behind a tractor, and a large queue of cars continually honk their horns at me. I’m not sure why their aggression is aimed at me, as it’s a twisty road and there is nowhere for me to overtake, yet the gestures made by the fella riding the bumper of my car makes it quite clear what he thinks of the situation.
I end up pulling over into a layby to let him pass, and receive a middle finger out his window. I’m not sure what I was meant to do, but I try not to think about it as I join the large queue of cars from the opposite end.
I tune into the local radio. There is a news report of a teacher in Manchester who has been suspended pending investigation. I turn the volume up.
“A fifteen-year-old female student has made allegations that her geography teacher attempted to kiss her. Police are currently investigating the matter but, like many similar situations, it appears that it’s going to come down to his word against hers.”
I shake my head. The fool. That is why you keep your classroom door open if alone with a student, and ensure there is a space between you and them.
“Despite the teacher, twenty-eight-year-old Patrick Armidge, vigorously denying the accusation, he says he has already been the subject of abuse. Police have confirmed that, over the weekend, eggs were thrown at his house and a firework put through his letterbox.”
I flinch. In a way, I feel sorry for the guy. He hasn’t been found guilty yet, but not only will his career already be over, and not only will the media be camped on his lawn, he is being persecuted for something he may not even have done.
Then again, I don’t feel that sorry for him. Guilty or not, it is a situation he could have avoided.
“The girl, who cannot be named because of her age, has been suspended from the school numerous times. Her parents have condemned the actions of her teacher, and do not wish to comment further.”
So it was a vulnerable child as well; one that a teacher knew he should be careful with.
I turn the radio off. It’s men like him who make a mockery of the teaching profession.
I arrive at school, and search for a space in an overcrowded car park. The only one I can find is between a jeep and a van, but I manage to fit, even if I have to slither through a small gap to get out.
I cross the field to the entrance to the maths block. As I do, Tyler, a delinquent I despise teaching, says, “Hello Mr Coady.”
“Hello, Tyler.”
As soon as I’ve passed he says, “Goodbye, bender,” and his group of mates snigger and cackle like it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard.