“Shit”.
He checked his watch again. It was seven-thirty a.m.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit.” He knew he would have to make a move soon. He knew that soon he would be leaving the warmth and comfort of his flat, to walk down the cold granite street to his car. That he would get in, key in the ignition, a blast of cold air in the face, a quick re-tune on the radio and then he would be off to start his career. All this he knew.
And yet, while his heart was in it, his head and guts betrayed him and, quietly, he died inside at just the thought of putting his coat on.
Nothing had changed. The granite still made the building look depressing, even more so because it was a school which, to a teenager, was already the most depressing place on earth, a reputation that it had maintained for more than seventy years
Voices still echoed in the hallways, while the classrooms, with their massive air conditioning vents, were so dry that they could have evolved their own eco-system. The air smelled of chalk dust and disinfectant, while the huge windows taunted the building’s inhabitants with the knowledge that there was a whole world out there.
It was always the same, five days a week. Six if you were to count Sundays, which never really felt like a day off due to the dark cloud of Monday morning looming over your head. The students all knew they lived for Friday nights and Saturday mornings. Yep, nothing had changed.
Nothing ever changed.
It was with this frame of mind that Jodie started her last year at Brushwood Academy.
She had already gathered two Higher Grades the year previous, for English and Mathematics, which had earned her an ‘A ‘and ‘B’ respectively.
This year she intended on gaining three more, in Art and Design, Drama and Geography.
She had planned it that way, really. She had wanted her last year to be creative, freeing and fun; to be a perfect send off to her secondary education and a welcome pre-cursor to the next step, University.
It was this step in particular that had led her to apply for sixth year studies in English, sort of an extra credit that would involve in-depth discussion and study of serious works of literature. One week you would be assessing the prose style of Hardy, the next breaking apart the structure of Dickens.
It was perfect for Jodie, who had a vivacious appetite for reading as well as a genuine desire to study English Literature at University in a year’s time. This class would make that desire a lot easier to satisfy.
Entering through the large double doors of Brushwood, Jodie took a deep, uncomfortable breath, as did every student that day, all left with no doubt that the summer break was truly a memory and that the next few months would primarily take place within this large, grey building.
She stood for a moment, scanning the reception hall for familiar faces. None to be found, she made her way over to one of the large notice boards on the wall, absorbing any information that might be important or relevant to her. She didn’t get very far with this though, as her sight was suddenly obscured by a pair of hands that wrapped round her head from behind.
“Guess who?”
It was a female voice, warm, familiar, a slightly sarcastic tone.
It had to be Laura.
“Mum?” Jodie replied, wryly.
“Close enough.”
She removed her hands from Jodie’s eyes, allowing her to turn and face her. They shared a friendly hug.
“Morning loser,” was Jodie’s way of saying that she had missed her this summer.
“Morning bitch,” was Laura’s.
Pleasantries out of the way, the two friends began to walk slowly down the hall, falling back into the never-ending conversation that had existed between the two of them since they first met four years earlier at a play rehearsal. And while they hadn’t seen each other in the last five weeks, thanks to Laura’s father living in Milton Keynes and it being his turn to spend the summer with her, it felt as though no time had passed. A sign of true friendship.
“And so it begins,” said Laura, with a melodramatic head tilt.
“It’s only one more year.” Jodie said this to be consoling, but really it sounded more like a judge passing a criminal sentence.
“Says you, little miss perfect.”
“Laura, we’ve been over this. If you fail sixth year, they don’t make you re-sit it, they just throw you out.” Jodie laughed and gave Laura a gentle nudge with her shoulder.
“Well, that’s comforting,” she replied, with a roll of the eyes.
“So, you’re really doing this, are you?”
“Doing what?”
“The whole sixth year studies thing?”
“I kind of have to. The head of department called my mum about it. They seem to think it would be ‘beneficial’ for me.”
“Listen,” Laura added, “if we’re going to hang out together this year, can you stop using big words like ‘mum’?”
“Ha-ha!” Jodie humored her, “Did you get your timetable yet?”
“Yeah, take a look.” Laura pulled out a freshly laminated piece of card from her coat pocket and handed it to Jodie. Laura’s timetable was erratic and confusing; Jodie raised an eyebrow.
“This doesn’t bode well for me, by the looks of it.”
“Well, you can dry your eyes on mine,” Jodie replied, handing her own timetable to Laura, who studied her friend’s schedule with a certain degree of envy, before shaking her head and looking at her own one again, saying,
“It’s pretty shit, isn’t it?”
Jodie didn’t know what to tell her, but gave it a crack anyway.
“It’s not shit; it’s just...well yeah, pretty shit.”
The two friends looked at each other and chuckled.
“Did you hear,” Laura added, “Mr. Phillips retired?”
“Is that right?” Jodie replied, genuinely surprised, given that he was supposed to be her English teacher this year, “So that means..?”
“That means,” Laura continued, “new teacher. Lucky you, I can just see him now: short, blazer wearing, bearded.”
“And if it’s a woman?”
“Same.”
The two friends shared a laugh, safe in the knowledge that if they were to endure another year at Brushwood, at least they were to endure it together.
Rob arrived at ten to eight, but had had trouble finding a parking space in the staff car park. Eventually, he managed to squeeze his Fiesta between a Mini metro and a motorbike, although he had to climb over to the passenger’s side to get out. He had made his way to the reception desk, passing by students, all of whom studied his every move with glances, not sure what to make of this obvious new arrival.
“Hi, I’m Robert Peer,” he stated in an oddly high pitched voice, to a receptionist who appeared to be one hundred and twenty years old, “I’m starting today in the English department.”
The receptionist stared at him for what seemed like an eternity. Rob tried smiling at her, but that just seemed to make her angry. She typed his name into her computer, before sliding him a small card with his schedule on it.
“Someone will be with you shortly,” she said.
God, Rob thought, she even
sounds
one hundred and twenty.
“Thanks.” Rob took his schedule and sat down in the waiting area beside the reception desk. He tried to stay calm, but nerves were getting the better of him. He found his right leg wouldn’t stay still, only content to bob up and down repeatedly, while his hands were shaking.
He took a few deep breaths, but that just made him feel sick. He looked up, scanning the walls. A large wooden sign bore the Brushwood Academy logo, with a small quote underneath.
It read
‘Big trees grow from little sticks’
.
Or at least that’s what it would have said, had someone not used a marker pen to replace the word
‘sticks’
with
‘pricks’
.
Rob took a certain comfort in the knowledge that school pranks never really changed, but it was a passing comfort at best. In the end, he decided to focus on his schedule, which might as well have been written in Latin, as no one had explained it to him yet. It looked more like a mathematical equation than a schedule.
Rob heard the squeak, squeak, squeak of trainers on linoleum and looked up to be faced with a man-mountain, dressed in tracksuit bottoms, t-shirt, carrying a clipboard with a stopwatch draped around his neck. The mountain spoke.
“You must be Rob.”
Rob stood up and they shook hands.
“That’s me,” he replied, his voice thankfully back to its normal tone.
“John Marker. I’m head of P.E. The rector wanted me to show you around.”
“Oh, right. He’s not here right now?”
“No he’s here, it’s just you know, being the first day of school and all, he’s a little busy.
You’re scheduled to meet him later today for the traditional ‘meet and greet’ in the faculty lounge. Until then, you’ve got me.”
“That’s fine.” They smiled at each other and John pointed down the hallway saying,
“Follow me,” quickly turning to the receptionist as they went and giving her a cheeky wink, “Thanks gorgeous.”
She didn’t even smile.
The two men walked together, John pointing out various rooms and departments. Rob’s head was spinning trying to take it all in.
The school had been built to be functional, not logical. Therefore there were doors everywhere, and endless corridors, some of which appeared to lead nowhere. Rob’s shoes made skidding noises on the tough carpets, made from what felt like rough leather.
Around them, students went about their business, searching for their new classrooms, timetables in hand, sweat and alarm on their faces. Rob could relate. John took some paperwork from his clipboard and handed it to Rob.
“Here’s your itinerary for today. Now your first class is about to start. Don’t worry, I’ve been told another member of your department will be popping by in around twenty minutes to show the ropes. In the meantime, just familiarize yourself with the class.”
“Familiarize?”
“Yeah, you know, introduce yourself. Tell them your likes, dislikes. It’ll be fine. These sixth year studies are only ever full of kids that actually
want
to learn, so don’t panic. Dicks don’t go to college,
your
kids will. It’s the other classes you’ve got to watch out for, especially the forth years. Little bastards are just counting the minutes until they can leave for good.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Rob, although with all the information John was throwing at him, he was beginning to feel like his brain had reached maximum capacity.
“You’re younger than I thought” said John.
“Really, is that good or bad?”
“Oh, I mean it as a compliment. There aren’t many young teachers at Brushwood. I worked it out once. The collective age of the faculty in your department was something like Four hundred. I guess you make it Four hundred and thirty?”
“Four hundred and twenty-five.”
“You’re twenty-five? Jesus!”
“Again, good or bad?”
“Well, let me put it this way, I have two kids. My eldest is twenty-three.”
“Maybe he and I should go bowling,” Rob quipped, although he wasn’t sure if this remark would get the right reaction. Thankfully, John smiled and gave a chuckle.
“I might take you up on that. He could use the exercise.”
“Really? I thought being a PE teacher you’d be all over that.”
“C’mon, did you ever do what your parents wanted you to? What about your father?
What does he do?”
Rob hesitated before responding,
“He’s an English professor.”
John turned his head, looking to Rob’s face for any hint of sarcasm. There was none to be found.
Only irony.
“Is that a joke?”
“He’s at Edinburgh University.”
John nodded his head.
“Well, I guess you’ll do just fine then. This is you.”
They had come as far as they could go. The hallway led to a dead end, save for one door.
Rob poked his head through to look upon the half full class of students. He swallowed, hard. John tapped him on the shoulder.
“It’s not too late to run. But I have to warn you I’ve been told to give chase, and I’m pretty fast.” He gave Rob a warm smile and a wink, “You’ll be fine. I’ll tell you what; I’ll come back here in a couple of hours. We’ll have lunch.”
“Thanks John, I appreciate it.”
And with that, John started to walk off, back down the hallway, passing a couple of students as he went. He turned back to Rob and shouted,
“And don’t let the little buggers piss you about.”
One of the students turned his head in shock. John pointed at him, “Yeah, I mean you.”
He kept walking, turned the corner and was gone.
Rob had never felt more alone.
A bell rang. That was his cue. The last of his class shifted past him and took their seats.
Rob took the time to hang back, collect his thoughts, took one last deep breath. And then he walked into the room, closing the door behind him as he went.
Jodie didn’t notice Rob entering the classroom. She was too busy rummaging in her bag for her notebook. By the time she had found what she was looking for, he had already walked across the room and placed his coat over the back of the chair at his desk.
He looked up briefly to check if his presence was being acknowledged, but it seemed all his earlier anguish had been for nothing.
The classroom was modest in size, the body count even more so. From the few glances he had given, Rob thought that there couldn’t have been more than fifteen students in total.
He confirmed this with a quick look at the class role call sheet lying on his desk. The small numbers of pupils made him breathe a little easier. This class, at least, he knew he could handle.
Still unnoticed by his pupils, he began writing his name in large letters on the chalkboard, including a large arrow, which lead from his name to the desk, before calmly taking his seat, quietly confident that this was just quirky enough a touch to garner the attention of his class, if not their devotion.
There were no allusions here. He knew that this wasn’t
“Dead Poet Society”
and he most definitely wasn’t Robin Williams. However, now he was in the room, looking out on the fifteen-strong group of students that were now under his guidance for the year, he found his confidence growing with every passing moment.