Page 107 of Sex Ed

We glance over to see my handiwork propped up by the hotel entrance, transported here in the school minibus, strewn in some fairy lights my mum found in her loft. I like how the girls have already used it for their numerous group photos and selfies. I like how the boys have no idea why it’s here.

‘It was my pleasure,’ I reply.

‘Now, can you help me work out that smell? Is that weed?’

‘Oh no, I think it’s just a heady mix of Dior Sauvage, Lynx Africa, vape and fake tan,’ I joke.

She laughs but in an instant switches to her serious headteacher face. ‘Well, remember to look out for alcohol, Mr Rogers. I don’t want a repeat of last year.’

I nod. Last year, someone spiked the chocolate fountain with rum and a lad called Billy Bonewell fell face first into it, spoiling one girl’s white dress and resulting in a £300 cleaning charge. I remember that moment clearly as Mia thought the chocolate was poo and was convinced a child had defecated themselves. Oh, how we laughed. I sigh to think about how we’ve both used prom in that way, seeing it as an end of year jolly for ourselves. Where we would stand and laugh at some of the girls’ ridiculous dresses, Mia would partake in photos and dancing with some of the students, and then stuff her clutch full of sausage rolls for the car ride home.

‘I can’t believe he’s done that. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!’ I hear as a girl runs past me, once perfect make-up streaming down her face. Oh dear. Unfortunately, at these events, there’s always one, but given it’s the first hour of this evening I need to check she’s OK. I head outside to see her standing by some box trees, sobbing, not a friend in sight.

‘Hi, all OK?’ I ask her, passing her a tissue from a stash in my pocket. It’s Lola from one of my classes.

‘Do I look a state, Mr Rogers?’

I can’t tell a sixteen-year-old she looks like a very pretty goth, can I? I don’t think that was the look she was going for.

‘You may just need to tidy up the eyes.’ I gesture in a mascara applying motion. ‘Who do you hate?’ I ask her.

‘RYAN LONGSTAFF!’ She caterwauls that name through the night air like a banshee hell-bent on revenge.

‘Did he hurt you?’ I ask.

‘He turned up to prom with Isla. I’m going to kill him! KILL HIM!’

I shudder a bit at the volume, but I can understand the emotion, having had my heart trampled on recently. ‘Or not. You’ve just done your exams. You don’t want to go to prison,’ I reply, calmly. ‘Look, Lola…’

‘Yeah.’

‘Please don’t let him spoil your night. Don’t make it about him. That means he’s won.’

She looks at me for a moment. ‘He’s just a shit fake pair of Jordans.’

She’s lost me with that analogy, but I nod and smile.

‘How do I look?’

I get out my phone to show her her face.

‘FUCK! Can you stand there for a moment while I sort my eyes?’ I nod as she gets out tissues, eyeliner and seems to solve everything in one fell swoop. Like a lot of the girls here, the dress is not quite there. The sort that might disintegrate in the rain which isn’t good news for her as my weather apps tell me there’s a seventy-eight percent chance of rain at eleven o’clock. I hope she has a coat. But hey, maybe now isn’t the moment for practical. ‘Is that better?’ she asks me.

She still looks like spiders are attacking her eyes, but I nod and give a thumbs up. ‘Try to have fun tonight,’ I tell her.

‘Oh, I’m just going to dance it out,’ she says, looking down at my footwear, possibly judging me for it. ‘Miss Johnson was right about you, you’re a good sort, Mr Rogers,’ she tells me, grabbing me in a hug, before scuttling away in what looks like very unsupportive high heels.

I stand there for a moment and close my eyes to take that in. She always bigged me up, didn’t she?

‘You are a good sort. I was right.’

As soon as I hear the voice, something just feels brighter, more right with the world. I look out into the darkness of the hotel grounds and Mia emerges from behind a hedge in a strappy black cocktail dress and blue earrings. But it’s the smile I really notice, the one that’s always made me smile back. I take in a sharp breath. I then scan down to her feet.

‘Alicia better not see those trainers.’

‘You know I can’t walk in heels,’ she says, grinning. ‘Stellar advice there for young Lola, by the way.’

I shrug my shoulders. ‘Just me bonding with the youth, you know,’ I say, throwing up what I think might be a gang sign but probably isn’t. I study her face for a moment and realise how much I’ve missed it, how much I’ve grown to love her blue eyes, the way she wrinkles her nose at me, the way she bites on her scrappily painted thumbnail when she’s concentrating.

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