Page 106 of Sex Ed

‘That’s not what we’re supposed to do?’ I reply. I go over and throw my arms around her neck out of sheer relief. ‘I will see you on Monday. Thank you for everything you did to make this happen. Seriously, thank you so much.’ There may be a tear in my eye to think that this short debacle is over but that I can also go back to something that I’ve grown to love.

‘One more thing,’ she mentions, sitting down and flicking through the paperwork in her lap. ‘Your review came back and it’s all perfect, a few things to run through when you get back but nothing I’m hugely worried about.’

I sit down next to her, puffing my cheeks out that the good news just keeps coming.

She pauses on one piece of paper. ‘And you’re not supposed to see this, but I thought maybe you should. It’s a peer review. I mean, I’m pretty pissed off because it beats mine hands down but I thought you should read it. Please read it,’ she says, handing the piece of paper over as I eye her curiously.

I first met Mia Johnson when we joined Griffin Road at the same time. From the outset, it struck me that this was someone deeply embedded in getting to know people, not just her students. She’s an incredible ally and counsellor to all members of staff and encourages a wonderful sense of inclusion in all she does. She gets to know people, almost intimately. But when she does, she makes them better versions of themselves, she pushes them out of their comfort zones, she floods them with kindness and unwavering support until they have no choice but to go with the flow, to swim, to not be scared of the water anymore. Ask any student or teacher and they will tell you she’s acutely funny, sociable, helpful and an amazing champion of community both in and out of school. She is not only the best of teachers, she’s the best of people. My only wish for her? I wish she just knew that about herself. I wish she knew that I’m the teacher and person that I am because she’s been by my side the whole time; in that way, she’s the best educator I could ever wish for.

Edward Rogers

(Science – Biology)

I look up and Beth is crying. I realise I am too at Ed’s perfect words and we sit there together, sobbing, my heart aching, wondering why he couldn’t have just said this to my face, though, you know?

‘Shit, did you get fired?’ Rachel says from the doorway, a bunch of kids by her side.

I shake my head as she tries to work out what’s happening and I clutch the piece of paper to my chest.

‘Look,’ Beth says, wiping the tears from her eyes. ‘I haven’t got involved up to this point but please, go to him. Tell him how you feel. I beg you. I want this to have a happy ending. You don’t write like that about someone you don’t love. And we should know, we teach English Literature.’ She smiles broadly.

‘Are you sure he wrote this?’ I ask her.

‘Every word. Go to him,’ she pleads.

I nod, standing up. ‘I guess he’ll be at home, I could go over now.’

Beth shakes her head. ‘He’s at prom.’

‘Prom? That’s today?’

‘It is.’

I look down at what I’m wearing, denim cut offs and a T-shirt. ‘I can’t go to prom like this!’

‘You could borrow one of my dresses?’ Rachel says, standing there grinning.

‘I can do your hair with clips,’ Florence adds.

I sit there looking down at the words. Oh, Ed. The very wonderful Mr Rogers. I’m going to have to shave my legs again because I’m coming to find you. It looks like I’m going to prom.

ED

Did you know Priya Vijay spent £800 on her prom dress? I know because she’s told everyone as she got out of her limo and walked up to Richmond House Hotel where prom is taking place. I suspect she’s been drinking.

‘It’s red, Mr Rogers, and it cost £800!’ she tells me excitedly.

‘You look amazing!’ I tell her in return. ‘Have fun!’ I keep telling them to have fun. What I really want to tell them is to approach tonight with a sensible head. If your parents have spent this much on your outfits then try to keep them clean so they can attempt to re-sell them, don’t drink so much that you have zero memory of the night, don’t live the evening on your phones.

I scan the lines of kids waiting to get into this grand place, limos and sports cars lining the gravel drive and one horse and carriage that has held everything up as the horse decided to take a dump halfway down the drive. I used to have my reservations about this end-of-year ritual, but I quite like how our proms, at least, have become a celebration of every type of kid in our year; no one turns up alone, they find their tribes, they dance and laugh, moan about the buffet and every moment seems to be a mass celebration of their five years in our school.

‘That’s some serious drip, Mr Rogers,’ a voice says from behind a pair of sunglasses and a burgundy red tuxedo.

‘I almost didn’t recognise you, Jerome.’

In a move where for a moment I think he’s going to punch me, Jerome goes to fist bump me and I manage to meet his fist with mine. Look at me, I’m dripping, apparently. Which hopefully means I am slightly cooler than I was three minutes ago. I stand there like some sort of teacher-bouncer in my Marks & Spencer suit. Yes, the same suit I wore for my graduation five years ago and that I also wore to a cousin’s wedding and have worn to four proms already. I may not be stylish but, by God, I am thrifty.

‘Oh, to be young again and not have to wear a bra,’ Alicia says to me as she, too, watches everyone file past us. I’m slightly perturbed to hear Alicia talk about her boobs, but I smile all the same. I love how she’s come in her everyday work suit but with a fancy necklace to tell us she can also get dressed up when needs be. ‘By the way, lovely work on the photo backdrop, Mr Rogers.’

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