Page 102 of Sex Ed

I poke my tongue out at Donna and stick a middle finger up at her. Rachel looks over at me and laughs.

‘Just pick up your ukuleles and hold them against your tits. Not you, John, you don’t have tits,’ she continues. ‘And altogether, we will start with a G-string. Come on, John, show us your G-string.’

Rachel continues to laugh. Told you it would be fun. But that’s quite tame for Donna, you wait till she talks about strumming.

ED

There’s one day of the year in this school where if I were in charge, I’d throw it in the bin and maybe set it on fire. I’d ban it for eternity and I think at least eighty percent of the kids would be on board with that and they’d cheer for me and hold parades in my honour. That day is sports day and I hate it with a passion. Where is Maths day? Biology day? English day which could be a day of Scrabble or reading books aloud? You see, sport is a very divisive topic for me. I run to keep fit because, as a biologist, I understand the benefits of increased lung capacity, fitness and exercise. However, I also know from experience that it was the kids who were good at sport that ruled the roost. They were kings who could do no wrong because the school relied on their sporting achievements to build their name and brand. Kids who were good at Maths raised the grade averages, but they were not the rockstar football kids who could win you trophies. So, yes, I have resentment towards the sporty kids because it turns out you can leave school and come back and it’s still the sporty ones who get all the accolades. Case in point, as I stand here watching Tommy chatting to Caitlin by the long jump pit, flirting in front of all and sundry. Christ, he may as well be dry humping her leg.

‘I need you in your colour houses, please! Mr Sachs, can you tell us why you’re wearing tracksuit bottoms and not the school P.E. shorts today?’

‘Because this day is a pile of wank,’ young Mr Sachs replies. I look down to the floor as Mr Sachs is led away from the sports day activities for the morning.

‘God, I hate this,’ says Henry from Geography. This is Henry’s first sports day and he has a face on him like he’s been chosen to be a tribute in the Hunger Games. He doesn’t run, he claims his body doesn’t even know how. His sport is played on a PS4. I know this because I play FIFA with him and he’s a known and awful cheat. Alicia likes to drag us all out for sports day, thinking this will give us a sense of community but all the adults who aren’t inclined when it comes to sport become hugely resentful about it. ‘I’m literally wearing pyjama shorts because I own zero sports clothing.’

‘You own tracksuit bottoms,’ I tell him, on the assumption that most men do.

‘Ed, I’m not like young Mr Sachs out there. My trackies are not used for sport. They’re my stretchy pants that I use when I’ve eaten too much.’ I laugh under my breath as he smooths down the T-shirt over his gut and picks off what might be an old cornflake.

‘Can I hide here?’ asks Beth, as she comes over. I can tell Beth is also not that way inclined as she is in Converse. ‘I hate this so much. Also, half these kids aren’t wearing sunscreen, they’re going to fry. Look at that blond kid there, he looks like a plum already. We’re going to get a letter from his parents, for sure.’

‘Are we sure he’s not having some sort of episode?’ Henry asks, a little too calmly given that the three of us have a duty of care.

‘Who knows?’ replies Beth. She sees me looking over at Tommy and Caitlin again and bites her lip. She’s friends with Mia so I suppose she knows more about that whole situation than most. ‘Oh Christ, look at Ted,’ Beth exclaims, trying to distract me. Ted is from Music and refuses to retire, the sort of person who has stories about this school when they first got computers and still has a flip phone. Ted is wearing a floppy hat, sandals with socks and we’ve got him up a ladder with a big stick sorting out the pole vault. I hope we know where the defibrillator is.

‘That’s one metre, two,’ Henry tells me, and I write the number on my clipboard. We are in charge of the shot put today. I have no idea what we’re doing but Henry is just pulling a tape measure around and all the kids are telling us this strange cannonball we’re getting them to toss about is too heavy.

‘Are you sure?’ the kid asks, obviously hopeful that he had more upper arm strength than he really did.

‘Yeah,’ I confirm.

‘But in the Olympics, they throw them, like, miles,’ the kid continues to argue with me.

‘Yeah, and they’re also Russian, eat five chickens a day and take a lot of steroids. You’ll make up for it in the running, I’m sure,’ I say, trying to find some sort of school spirit in me.

‘AND NEXT WE HAVE THE TEACHERS’ RUNNING RACE. 400M ON THE TRACK. PLEASE, IF YOU’VE SIGNED UP FOR THIS THEN CAN YOU MAKE YOUR WAY TO THE START LINE!’ an excitable voice echoes through the tannoy. Did I sign up? I did because someone from the office went round with a clipboard and I was guilted into it, but this was before Caitlin, before falling out with Mia. Mia always tells me to dodge the clipboard. I never listen.

‘You’ll have to take over shot put duties, this is me,’ I say to Beth, unenthusiastically.

‘Really? That’s exciting,’ she tells me.

‘It really isn’t. Half of these kids have their phones on them despite the fact they shouldn’t so it’s likely they will take pictures and videos of my running face.’

‘Can I cheer for you?’ she asks. ‘Henry! Ed is running!’

Henry salutes me. ‘Taking one for the team, Sir.’

Or not. I stroll over to the start line which feels more like a firing line. It’s a bizarre selection of staff members, all regretting their life decisions, all wearing sports socks they’ve stolen from family members, one in cycling shorts that perhaps reveal too much. Ted from Music should really not be here. I see someone lunging. Shit. That’s Tommy, isn’t it? Caitlin comes over to give him a water bottle and they both look at me.

‘Ed,’ Caitlin says to acknowledge me. We’ve never really finished our relationship. She didn’t even try to text to explain, and I didn’t chase. Naturally, seeing her every day here is awful, so I spend a lot of time avoiding her, leaving school at lunch and eating my sandwiches in the leisure centre car park down the road. I put a hand up to say hello then turn away. The humiliation continues.

‘And we have a really varied selection of staff today in this race. Please can we ask you all to step up to the line…’

‘GO, MR ROGERS!’ I hear a voice scream from the crowd. I think that was Beth. I hope she’s monitoring the shot put properly because those things can cause a lot of damage. But then another voice, a boy, screams the same. ‘YOU GOT THIS, MR ROGERS!’ Who was that? I can’t quite tell if they were genuine or mocking the voice from before.

‘Ready to lose again then, Steady Eddie?’ says a voice next to me.

Really? I mean, I probably will. He’s a P.E. man, an ex-footballer, he has the calves for running. Mia told me my Asics are the sort of trainers old people wear on cruises. I don’t reply but still hear the murmur of cheers in the crowd. ROGERS, ROGERS! chants a group of girls.

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