Page 24 of Lesson Learned

If it wasn’t for being confronted by my own gaping failures as a man, I could even describe it as pleasant.

The warning bell for the next lesson goes, and the class stands, ready to decamp. I position myself in front of the girl, waiting until the other students are leaving before I whisper, “Could I see you after your last class of the day?”

“Come on, Pais,” her friend with the busted face says, grabbing her arm and marching her out of the classroom before she can answer.

The overprotectiveness leaves me worried. That’s not the gesture of someone eager to get to their next class. It’s someone who’s scared because of a confession from her friend.

At least I have a name.

Or partial name, as it turns out.

I start my next class, first years, on an assigned reading of the Merchant of Venice, then quickly scan the school roll for the previous lesson.

Paisley Hubbard.

Sounds like the kind of name you’d get if you crossed a hippie with a farmer, but of more interest than her name is her date of birth.

Today. It takes me reading it three times to be sure.

Today is her eighteenth birthday.

I slump in my chair with relief. I’ve still made an awful mistake, one that could put a blight on my record, but it’s also an honest mistake, made by two adults.

The age of consent is sixteen, and I wasn’t her teacher, not till today. Her use of a false ID to enter a bar also puts some of the blame on her, and it sits a lot more comfortably than if she were younger.

The junior class cruises by as does the next one. At least some of the grace the kids are showing me today will be down to novelty. Latitude granted for a new teacher. Hopefully, I’ll recover my equilibrium before it dissipates.

I go to the staff room for my lunch, smiling and joking and ingratiating myself with the other staff.

Someone asks about the bruise in the corner of my eye, the scrape on my forehead, and I pass it off as losing a fight with a rug and a sidetable.

Despite applying a few dabs of concealer, the damage caused by the bartender is still evident. The few blows he did land on me were glancing, the worst of them a result of an unlucky angle and his rings.

Any details I give them are purposely vague. Mostly, I sit back, keep quiet, and listen. My job here isn’t to make friends, it’s to avoid raised eyebrows while I garner information.

When I’m able to leave and go sit in my empty classroom for my first no-contact period, it’s a relief.

I busy myself reviewing Paisley’s student files, then use that information to move outside the school records, diving into council reports, government registers, pulling together all the information to gain a high-level view.

Her father is unknown. Her mother is dead. An uncle raised her alongside far too many of his own children, while his wife abandoned him halfway through the job.

Just reading her postcode makes me wince. Not a place I’d kennel a dog let alone raise a child.

But buried amongst all the grubby poverty, the grinding awfulness of her home life, her grades sparkle. Precious gemstones that she’s redeemed for a ticket out.

Apart from that, she’s nothing. She’s nobody.

I can safely turn her name over to Patrick, to Creighton, and if they decide she’s too much of a threat, they can eliminate her with no one raising a whimper of protest. A tidy scenario, even if it makes my chest ache until I dig the heel of my palm into my sternum to relieve the sensation.

Hopefully, they won’t decide that. But if they do, she’s just a one-night stand out of a two-year stretch where I’ve swapped out a different woman every time. I didn’t go out last night, couldn’t stand the thought, but that was because I was worried about thisjob, not some girl.

I close out of every website, clear the history of every program. My eyes burn from reading screens for too long, and I screw them shut.

Images of her flood my head. The ache in my chest grows worse.

But I’ve already decided.

If Paisley breathes one word to the wrong person, the board will drum me out of here without bothering to ask for an explanation. Creighton barely tolerates me as is. To upset his hard work would put me on a disastrous trajectory.

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