Page 5 of Sex Ed

‘You look fine,’ Ed tells her, his eye twitching to let us know he thinks differently.

‘You are shit at lying, Ed,’ she says, laughing. ‘If you’re making sandwiches for everyone, I like ham,’ she says, laughing and grabbing her belongings. ‘Stay cool, kids – wish me luck.’

You can see Ed’s brain working overtime; he’ll have to buy more pesto. As Beth leaves the staffroom, she holds the door open for the P.E. lads. My nostrils flare instantly, and Ed recognises this look so offers me another of his sacred crisps. The P.E. department have their own staffroom, which admittedly is a shoe cupboard that smells like crotch, but they like to come here of a lunchtime and just linger, and when I say linger, they perch on desks, manspread and ask the foreign languages department what they did at the weekend. Tommy is the main culprit for this. I’ve never known a man to adjust his balls as many times as Tommy does when he’s talking to the very blonde, very petite and very married Sylvie who teaches French. If I sound judgemental, it’s also my bitterness shining through, as I possibly fell for all his P.E. teacher charms last parents’ evening, and we had a quickie in the shoe cupboard office that smells like crotch.

Tommy waves at me from across the room when he clocks me and even though I love this sandwich that I’m holding, it takes all my will not to throw it at him. He never called me after we slept together. He did the teenage boy thing of ghosting me by text and then avoiding me in the corridors. The worst thing is that he’s very good looking, very charming. He hangs around with the similarly handsome Steve and they charm all the older female teachers who feed them biscuits and puff their hair out when they’re in the room.

‘If looks could kill…’ says Ed, grinning.

‘My eyes would laser off his penis.’

‘Ouch. That would be a sight. Would it fall to the floor, or would it evaporate into thin air? The latter would be less messy, I guess, and it would cauterise the veins, so essentially help with any corrective surgery.’

‘Spoken like a true biology teacher.’ I cackle and it captures Tommy and Steve’s attention for one second. Yes, I’m talking about you and the ways I would remove your penises. I move closer to Ed and try to look interested in him to see if I can evoke some sort of reaction from Tommy. The only reaction it invokes is from Ed. He raises an eyebrow and shuffles away from me along the sofa.

‘That’ll work. Don’t drag me into your drama and use me like a pawn. I have feelings,’ he says, sarcastically.

‘But you love me. You made me a sandwich.’

‘Because I worry about your health, Mia Johnson. You’re mostly made out of biscuits and carbonated drinks. You are better than him in many, many ways.’

I nudge him cheekily with my elbow. ‘Ta, Eddie. I still can’t believe how relentlessly he pursues Sylvie. She literally got married last summer. Have you seen her husband? He looks like Henry Cavill. I like how Tommy thinks he’s even comparable. Do you know who Henry Cavill is?’ I ask him, knowing he doesn’t always get my pop culture references.

Ed looks offended. ‘He’sSupermanandThe Witcher. I’m a geek, Mia. I know some things. Word is that they have bets about how many they can bed within these walls,’ Ed says, nonchalantly tearing at a piece of flapjack.

‘Hold up there, sparky. You’re telling me I was part of a bet?’

Again, Ed’s eye starts to twitch. ‘Possibly. I don’t know. I’m not party to their games. He’s a knobhead. He calls me Steady Eddie,’ he says, looking hurt.

‘Because of your steady hand?’

‘Because I had to car share with him once at a conference and he mocked my driving.’

‘Because you respect the law of the road.’

‘I can’t tell if you’re taking the mick out of me now. You’ve been in my car many times; I don’t feel the need to use my driving skills as an indicator of my machismo.’

‘Which is why I love you.’

‘Now you’re taking the piss. Eat your sandwich.’

‘Umm… hello? Hello.’ Our conversation is interrupted by a shrill voice from the middle of the room and a slow clap which can only mean it’s our headteacher, Alicia. She likes the slow clap to control a room like we’re all eight years old in a singalong music session. Everyone comes to a standstill, people put down their mugs and devices, a bird stops chirping outside, even the kettle stops boiling. Only Henry, newest recruit to the Geography department, who still doesn’t know what it means, starts clapping, trying to join in.

‘So, some of you will have heard that Monica in Maths fell down the A-Block stairs the other day. She wants to thank you for all the cards and hampers and the person who sent her the soaps. Anyway, we are very lucky that as a temporary replacement, St Quentin’s have sent us Caitlin Bell to help. I am sure you will all make her feel very welcome.’

I visually sift through the crowd of people by the door until Caitlin comes into view. Please be nice, please be normal, please be a pub-at-lunchtime kind of girl. Well, she looks like she’s about our age, light brown hair, pinafore dress, Alice band. Very straight down the line, which is fitting given she teaches Maths. She will not like my swearing, will she? Is it strange that when I meet other women for the first time, I always check out the footwear? Are we the same size? May I potentially be able to borrow shoes from her? I peer at her feet. Patent leather moccasins. Maybe not. She clutches a satchel and lunchbox close to her as the Maths department regulars come over to introduce themselves. Naturally, my eyes fall to Tommy and Steve, already talking in whispers. Fresh meat. Bastards.

‘You can already tell they’re plotting. It’s so unbelievably predictable. Poor girl. Maybe we should go over and warn her,’ I mumble, finishing the last of my sandwich and looking over at Ed. ‘Eddie? You alright?’

But his eyes are fixed in one direction. It’s a perfect time to steal a couple more crisps.

ED

I made Mia a sandwich because a month ago she got stomach flu after eating a bad kebab and she’s not looked right since. She looks gaunt and in certain lights, when her eyes shine a certain blue and her messy brown bob falls right, she can look a bit vampiric. Her self-care regimen is the worst I know. She washes her face with shampoo, sleeps on a mattress she found on the street (I know, I helped her carry it and made her steam clean it first), she’ll call me at eleven at night when I’m listening to my happy sleep podcast and she’s frantically marking, fuelled by energy drinks and bad pizza. She tells me all pizza is good pizza but I’m not sure that’s the case if you have to smell it three times before you put it in your mouth to check it’s still good.

Mia and I bonded in this place because even though she’s one of the cool kids, she’s a nice cool kid who took me under her wing and has never dropped me. She has a wonderful sense of inclusivity, knowing how to make everyone laugh and feel part of the conversation. Do I wish she’d order her life, make better choices and not steal all my pens? Yes. Is she one of my best friends? Also, yes. But don’t tell her that. She’ll call me sad and do something weird like kiss me and announce that she loves me to a whole busload of people who don’t need to know that information.

She also has the worst taste in men. If I take my Psychology A-Level and analyse why, it’s because beneath the loud and confident exterior is a girl who just wants to be loved and validated. You see it in how she dates. She finds a man on Tinder, she has and enjoys sex with him, and she revels in telling me about the sex (in far too much detail). But then she’ll get drunk after school on Fridays, I’ll walk her home from the pub, and she will cry over her cheesy chips and philosophise about why this sex she’s having never blossoms into relationships, how maybe she’ll be alone forever. I tell her she’ll always have me, but she usually laughs in response to that.

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