Read by Clareine Cronin
‘Nar, miss, I don’t get it!’
‘You’re just thick, Izzy.’
‘Shut yer fat face, ya tosser, I’d rather be thick than ugly.’
Year 9 at a momentary lull in their usual arsey-ness. I’m struggling between the tipped-back chairs, desperate to prove to the deputy head at the side of my classroom that I am a good teacher and that none of this will phase me. My hips and thighs are bruised. Trousers grown baggy over the past month threaten to fall down.
I trip over bags and PE kits, almost over-balance onto Baz’s head. A small prayer to the-nothing-above-or-below and I manage to hip-twist hard and step into my balance again. I’ve glanced at Baz’s ePortal records, and to say that the extensive notes are alarming is an understatement. Disturbing mutters in the staff toilets confirm my fear of this kid. Maybe I should have fallen on him, taken a couple of head shots, compensation package and early retirement. Dammit, opportunity missed. I reach the table, tripping over another boundary wall of PE kits and malicious destruction of school supplies.
Lee. Of course. I hate teaching Lee. Any Lee, really. They’re all the same; miserable little pricks, the lot of them. Can’t stand school, hate the uniform, but love their roadman gear outside school. Gives them an identity, see? Number 2 hair, tracks for the daring ones, zirconia glittering from one ear only, two’s gay. FFT government data targets all Lees nationwide at achieving an E; I always predict prison. Of course, I don’t tell that to the parents of a Lee; if their hell-spawn is that bad, I don’t want to anger the demons who created it. I’m spared that vivisection; parents of Lees do not attend parents’ evening.
I can’t help it. I can feel the red creep across my face, feel the heat rising, feel the acrid taste in the back of my mouth. Fight or flight. Neither is an option. Not here. Out on the street, Friday night, sure. Kick the shit out of him, and happy to do it. Keep that happy thought locked away. I stare, keep my mouth shut, keep my acid breath in. I crouch, eye-level with this scrote, and now it’s a game in my head to stare at him, to not blink, to not react, to not reach out and tear his eyeballs from his useless skull.
The maelstrom sweeps through the room – vicious laughter, and ooooos and hands over mouths and a lame ‘burn’ or two – and I barely hear it. Don’t think about my hair. It’s been days since I’ve used anything but dry shampoo and deodorant. The fear sucks away time. I am lessons and marking and dry heaves and vomit. I am tears and snot and no lunch. Don’t think about any of this. I don’t have time.
My dead eyes meet Lee’s dead eyes, and we dead-stare at each other. He blinks first, so that’s something. My hand a shield in front of my mouth, I turn back to help Izzy. The noise picks up, as the others smell weakness and week-old sweat and bile. Laughter and balls of paper fly back and forth through the air over my head. I explain and check, stand up.
My vision fades black at the edges.
One breath in and the students are a demonic chorus of malice, howling their victory over yet another teacher. One breath out and I have nothing left for teaching. That bit in-between, that pause held the sweetest peace. I wonder if that pause is what death would be like. I wonder how soon I can return to the peace in-between.
I let them scream and howl. I go through the usual dance steps – Red-Amber-Green and plenary and ‘thinking homework’ because half these kids don’t have pens at home – and get out of the way for Pavlov’s stampede. I pick up detritus and chairs. I ignore the antsy-cough of management wanting a ‘quick’ word before next lesson. It’s a trap: never quick, and I get written up for starting the next lesson late.
I open the door, nod that I will stop by their office after school, and wave the next horde into the room. Year 7s buzz and burble and I smile, enjoy the energy. Flash-freeze as I realize they will become those Year 9s. Nothing I do will stop it. Because there is nothing left. I am empty. The peace between breaths calls to me. I want to stay there forever.
I remember little of the lesson: no sparks of genius or of anger, which makes it an above-average lesson these days. Cold and numb, nothing touches me as I stagger through the motions. Smiles will become sneers in two years, and I am powerless to stop the change.
Empty classroom, at last. I am thought-less and drained, sweat gathering in pits and along my matted hairline. Another teacher enters, and I scuttle out before she can see my face, before she can guess what is happening. I hide in the stock room. My back to the long thin window in the door, my phone held to my ear. Breathing in shudders to keep the black visions at bay. I wait in darkness. I try to find again that peace in-between breaths.
The voice on the phone says no appointments. My calm cracks, pleading. A shocked sound, a pause in-between, then a lifeline is offered. My hands shake, resisting belief and relief. I wipe at my face, not realising I was crying. Jaw set, teeth together, lips pressed thin to keep the mask in place, I walk out of the stockroom, back to my classroom. I collect my bags and some precious books. I glance around the room, jettison the rest. I walk out of the school to my car. For the first time, strange laughter flows with my tears.
I have not laughed in weeks.
(c) LMA Bauman-Milner, 2017
LMA Bauman-Milner is a librarian by light, and an author by night. Her first collection of short stories, Dark Doors, was long-listed for a Saboteur Award in 2016. She usually haunts cafes and open mics around Leeds. Follow her on www.darkdoors.co.uk, www.facebook.com/lmabaumanmilner and @LMABaumanMilner.
Clareine Cronin trained at Drama Studio London. Stagework includes Susan in The Future (Pentameters), Tanya in Paper Thin (Barons Court Theatre) & Eva in Tough Luck (Hen and Chickens). Screen credits include Tiz in Forna, Teresa in Making It Mean Something and The Bill. She's also an experienced corporate roleplayer. www.clareinecronin.com
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