Page 12 of Sex Ed

A few of the kids laugh, snapping their fingers. ‘I’m gonna tell him. Mr Rogers on the television would be mad.’

‘You guys like him then?’ I say.

‘He don’t shout, that’s always a good start, but he tries hard,’ Lola explains.

I smile in return. Ed’s not a big character teacher but that describes him to a tee. I look at Lola’s well-foundationed face, wondering how someone so young managed to get up so early to apply that eyeliner. How the hell is it so straight? I’m twenty-eight and still can’t manage that. Next to her, a lad has his hand on her knee, and it brings me back to when I was that age. Sitting on a bus, going to school, an aisle separating the girls from the boys as we flirted with each other, the banter strong, the skirts still as short as they are now. Talk of parties, fake IDs and stealing our sisters’ clothes, gateway moments to losing one’s virginity at that age.

‘Is he married?’ one girl asks, laughing.

‘That’s not for you to know, young lady.’

‘Is he gay?’

‘Also, none of your business.’ Christ, was Ed telling me he was a gay virgin? There’s a lot to unravel from his revelation.

‘Are you married, Miss?’ a voice says from the throng of kids.

‘I will answer, purely to avoid speculation; yes, I’m married to Harry Styles. We haven’t told many people because we want to keep it low-key, you know? I don’t even wear a ring.’

They all laugh a little too loudly at this, so loudly I see the bus driver’s eyes in the rear-view mirror looking at the source of the volume. I shush them. The last thing I want is to get thrown off the 65 with a bunch of kids.

‘You wouldn’t be a teacher if you were married to Harry Styles,’ one of them jokes.

‘Excuse me, just because I’m married to a global millionaire superstar, doesn’t mean I would leave you guys and my vocation in life. I am all about the education and the young people,’ I say in earnest tones.

They all howl merrily in response like groups of teens do and to have won over this small crowd on a Monday morning already feels like a victory.

I seize the moment. ‘Speaking of which, we’ve been doing English boosters at lunch. Miss Callaghan and I never see any of you there?’

‘You don’t provide food,’ one boy says.

‘Would that make a difference?’

‘Yes,’ the boys all shout in harmony. I hadn’t realised it was that easy to win them over.

‘Well, now I know, I expect to see all of you there tomorrow. We’re coveringMacbeth.’

‘He the one with the crazy bitch wife?’ a voice says.

‘Yes, but I will teach you different ways to write that for your GCSEs,’ I say, trying to sound teacher-like.

The bus pulls to a stop outside the large sprawling school building, and we all disembark, the bus driver still glaring at us. Griffin Road is one of those schools undergoing expansion so it’s a mix of redbrick buildings with primary coloured windows, next to crumbling seventies buildings that are eighty percent concrete and leaking roofs. It is early so not all the lights are on. I see Zoe from Maths getting out of her car, a sensible raincoat over her floral dress, weighed down with plastic bags full of exercise books. Fun weekend for her then. I follow the kids over to the Biology block to see the classroom already lit and boxes of muffins and juice boxes waiting.

‘Well done for getting in everyone. Take a seat… Help yourself to food,’ I hear a familiar voice say.

I stand there by the doorway, waiting to catch Ed’s eye. How does he look so fresh and orderly this Monday morning? I’m messy bun and half-arsed make up whereas he looks like he’s showered, the chinos are ironed, not a hair is out of place. He’s lined up everything so nicely. There’s also milk for anyone who wants tea and I know for a fact he’ll have gone out of his way to buy that from the big supermarket because he gets angry about how the smaller shops charge him 40p more.

As soon as he sees me, he responds strangely by waving. ‘Hello, Miss Johnson!’ he says in unnatural tones, rolling up the sleeves of his green jumper.

‘Mr Rogers!’ I say, entering the classroom. ‘Good morning.’

‘What are you doing here?’ he mutters as the kids organise themselves and take off their coats. Please don’t be weird with me, Ed.

‘I was told you do a breakfast service,’ I say, nicking a muffin.

He stops for a moment as I grab at one, smiling with clenched teeth and I see his shoulders relax as he exhales softly. Look at him with all his treats for his kids. He’s an excellent human, a good teacher.

‘Food thief,’ he mutters.

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