‘You could go to college and repeat the year?’ Philip suggested. ‘The tech in town runs O level courses and you’d get to sit the exams again.’
Bessie shook her head. ‘No way! I’m not going to the tech. I don’t want to.’ She raised her voice. The tech had a rubbish reputation and she couldn’t stand the idea of joining their ranks, knowing the humour Melanie Hall and her gang would find in that. She would find a way, but not that way.
‘It’s okay, love,’ her dad intervened, reaching across the table to take her sweaty hand into his. ‘No one is going to make you do anything. You have a lot of options.’
‘I do?’ She so wanted to believe him.
‘Sure you do.’
The telephone rang in the hallway and Philip sprinted to answer it. Bessie might be a proper thicko, but even she knew he was desperate as ever to hear from Carmen the vegan.
‘Just a sec,’ she heard him say before he raced back into the kitchen. ‘Bessie! It’s Miss Carter.’
‘There now, what did I tell you?’ her mum said, as if she were a baby, and it drove her crazy. She resisted the urge to snap at her mum – it wasn’t her fault she’d messed up.
Miss Carter was her form tutor and head of year and had always been an ally. Bessie sniffed and went to take the call.
‘Hello?’ She gripped the receiver and closed her eyes, while her stomach flipped with nerves heaped with embarrassment.
‘Hi, Bessie, it’s Miss Carter here. I wanted to check in and see how you’re doing.’
‘Not great.’ Her voice was no more than a squeak.
‘I guessed as much. I spoke to Mr Watts, who told me you were upset in the hall, and Miss Bartram saw you leave and said you looked a little pale. I wanted to grab you before you left, but got caught up in an exam appeal for one of the other students.’
‘Do you think I can appeal?’ Was this why Miss Carter was calling? Bessie had a brief image of herself and Michelle walking into the sixth-form centre together – in matching outfits, natch.
‘Oh! No, lovey, I’m afraid not.’ Miss Carter gave the smallest titter, a scythe to Bessie’s already failing optimism. ‘Appeals are made when a student feels a particular grade is unfair or challenges a decision regarding a piece of work, but it’s usually based on past performance and, as I say, is usually just for one subject, where that single grade might make a difference, but with you . . .’ She heard her teacher take a deep, slow breath. ‘It’s all of your grades that are challenging, so they wouldn’t entertain an appeal.’
‘I see.’ Fresh tears slid down Bessie’s face, washing away the image of her and Michelle.
‘Exams are not where you shine, Bessie! I think part of the problem is your handwriting. I know all of your reports across all subjects talk about the need for improved legibility and penmanship’ – she paused – ‘but I guess there’s no point in going over that now or picking your performance to pieces. I was really only calling to see how you were feeling and to say that it might seem like the end of the world right now . . .’
‘It does,’ Bessie interjected.
‘But it won’t always feel that way. You will move on, find your path, and this will be no more than a footnote to a lovely and successful life. You mustn’t let it hold you back, Bessie.’
‘Thank you, Miss.’ She didn’t know what else to say but tried to picture the school year pared down to a select clever few, an elite group of which she would not be a part . . . Philip was right – this was how they weeded out the numbers for a much reduced sixth form.
‘Take care of yourself, Bessie.’
‘You too, Miss Carter.’ She put the phone down and sat on the stairs with her head in her hands. Her legs were shaking and a sick feeling swirled in her gut. What was she going to do? She thought about going to the tech, a drab, square red-brick building with a flat roof, where students, mainly dum-dums and boys training to be mechanics, gathered noisily on the steps. She hated even walking past, always looking the other way with a cloak of self-consciousness about her shoulders. She shuddered at the very idea of walking up the steps and into a class at the start of a new term and into a building full of people who were also there to repeat the year. But the fact was, this was where she actually belonged. Her results confirmed it. She wrapped her arms around her torso and thought she might actually throw up. What she wanted was for things to remain exactly the same and to be able to walk to school with Michelle each morning, chatting about stupid things, laughing about the inane and using their special code to talk about boys.
This thought was immediately followed by the memory of her friend’s face looking at her with eyes wide, excited at the mere mention of the boy she liked. Her boy! Her breath came in fast bursts that left her a little light-headed and with the start of something close to panic building in her chest. She gripped the banister and slowed her breathing.
Come on, Bessie! Get a grip!
Okay, so what was the alternative to the tech? Maybe she should write to the airlines straight away? See if she could work her way up? It felt like the beginnings of Plan B and gave her the smallest lift.
‘What did Miss Carter say?’ Her mum’s voice made her jump.
‘She said I would feel better in time, or something like that.’
‘And she’s right!’ Her mum gripped the banister.
‘The thing is, Mum, I knew I hadn’t sailed through the exams, they were hard, but I filled pages with answers, and I thought they’d at least be able to pick out some stuff that was worthy of marking.’ She shook her head at her own naivety. ‘That’s what I thought.’
‘You mustn’t dwell on it, love.’
‘It’s hard not to. I thought I’d go into sixth form and then up in the air! But now what?’ She looked up at her mum, who looked a little lost for answers.
‘I guess you regroup and rethink and make a new plan.’ She ran her hand over her daughter’s pineapple ponytail. ‘And Miss Carter’s right – it’ll all come out in the wash. You have options. There’ll be another way to achieve your dreams.’
Bessie stared at the letterbox, knowing that, any day now, her results would plop on to the coconut welcome mat, written proof along with a stamped certificate that she was the second from last most stupid person in the school year – a fact that loomed large in her thoughts. The phone rang on her lap. She shoved it towards her mum, who grabbed the receiver. Bessie was in no mood to chat right now.
‘Oh hello, Michelle, love – how did you do?’
Bessie buried her face briefly in her hands and felt the pull of tears. She could hear her friend’s excited tones, if not the actual words, as Michelle catalogued her middle-of-the-road success to Mrs Worrall – a middle-of-the-road success that was way beyond Bessie.
‘Well, that’s marvellous! Well done you. I’ll just pop Bessie on. Here she is.’ Her mum held the phone out at arm’s length and she took it reluctantly.
‘Hi,’ she said, her voice low.
‘Just thought I’d give you a ring to see how you’re doing.’
Peachy!
‘M’okay,’ she lied.
‘You know, you weren’t the only one, Bessie – lots of people didn’t do so well.’