Page 31 of Textbook Romance

I spy Mia and Ed not too far behind at the end of the corridor. When they reach us, Mia stops to put her hands to her knees. Ed stands next to his wife to support her.

‘This is why I go running,’ Ed tells her.

‘I’m seriously going to yack,’ she says, turning to us. ‘Some help, guys. I can’t even…’

And one last look and smile before Jack heads off to join in with the running.

I’m not going to run, obviously. But I really don’t think I should be looking at Jack’s arse as he runs away from me, should I? Who the hell am I?

Jack

‘Well, Mr Damon. I’m pretty sure this is the best turnout we’ve ever had for homework club,’ Drew, the head of maths, tells me, looking at the half-full classroom in front of me. ‘Well done, everyone.’

I know Drew teaches maths so it shouldn’t be hard to figure out that the room is eighty percent girls and I have a feeling that the reason half of them are here, not to toot my own horn, is to come and check out the new male teacher. For the past forty-five minutes, I’ve seen little homework – they’ve mainly been using this computer room to check their social media, look on YouTube and barrage me with questions. I have a feeling I may also have been part of a series of Snapchat fan-cams. If they have posted them, I hope they’ve used the right filters.

‘So where do you live, Sir?’ a girl asks me.

‘Did you want a specific address? Maybe a whatthreewords to my front door?’ I say, sarcastically. This is apparently funny. ‘I live in London.’

‘Boring!’ the girl answers. According to the register, this girl’s name is Hayley and I have no idea how she’s keeping her eyes open as her upper lids are weighed down with fake lashes. As with the majority of girls in the school, her school skirt is rolled up so it resembles more of a belt and on the desk is what I thought was a pencil case. It’s not. It’s a make-up bag filled to the brim. I’ve been around women. I know how much Gucci lip oil costs. Yet even just to have those thoughts run through my mind makes me realise how I’ve made the leap into judgemental adulthood in just one week of being here. Because, in reality, being in this school has really rehashed many unpleasant memories of what it was to be a teen: learning how to live in new skin bubbling with acne; raging with hormones; covered in a light mist of grease and Lynx Africa. Trying to work out a style, what you like, what you don’t. Being asked to choose subjects that determine the rest of your life, hoping you get things right, most of the time getting it wrong. And for once, I feel infinite amounts of empathy for all these kids. I want to shout clichéd mantras at them about ‘powering through’ and ‘you got this’ without sounding condescending, without sounding like the enemy.

‘Sir… is this right? I don’t know if this is right? Could you check this is correct?’ a voice suddenly says.

It’s a mixed bag in here today. There are the Year Elevens, here out of curiosity, but also some of the new Year Sevens who I suspect are actually here to do some homework. I head over to the front desk where this little one is sitting. Her pens are labelled, and her school jumper is possibly two sizes too big. This is someone here to do some work and make me feel like I’m earning my overtime. I peer over at her book, the date and title underlined.

‘I’m no geography expert but that looks good, like it may make sense. Hayley, do you do Geography? Maybe you could help…’ I point to the keen bean, Year Seven.

‘Bonnie, Sir.’

‘Could you double check this…?’ Instead of sitting there chatting about nails. Maybe this is how I make this crowd work for me.

Hayley moves over and Bonnie’s body tenses, looking absolutely petrified. ‘Yeah, that’s good, Bonnie. I like your highlighters,’ she says, peering over her desk.

‘They smell fruity,’ she says, still scared.

‘Really? Can I?’

Bonnie smiles and just like that I’ve given Hayley a small little friend she can adopt for her last year here. I’m all about building student relationships. I hear a camera phone click and turn to see three Year Nine girls giggling. Do I pose? Do I confiscate the phones?

‘It was Isla, Vee and Polly,’ a boy says at the back, slightly older from the looks of it. Here to do homework by the appearance of the books out in front of him.

‘SNITCH!’ one of them screams.

He sticks a middle finger up at them and I try to get in between them so it doesn’t break down into a full-on fight.

‘Girls, I don’t appreciate it. Phones away, please. Thank you for looking out for me…’ I wait for him to give me his name.

‘Gabe.’

‘How’s the homework going, Gabe?’ The lad looks up at me cautiously. I can’t quite figure him out. The black trainers in place of school shoes tell me there’s rebel in him but the majority of rebels wouldn’t give the time and care to do their homework. I look down and see it’s maths. ‘Who’s your teacher?’

‘Mrs Swift.’

I can’t help but smile to hear her name but think back to that conversation I had with her earlier, during lunch break. It was sad to hear all that self-deprecation, to hear her feel like any attention I’d given her was forced or born out of pity. I’d text her to tell her differently, but I know she’s scared of my texts now. That’ll teach me to text in emojis.

‘What do you think of Mrs Swift?’

‘Best teacher in this dump,’ Gabe answers without hesitation.

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