Run to Me (3 page)

‘You know its Nicole. And do you ever think of
anything else?’

He smiles. ‘Why should I? Give me one good
reason.’

‘You’d stop annoying me so much.’

He laughs. ‘Whatever.’

I keep my face dead pan. ‘You think I’m joking?’

Reggie ignores me, leans over and starts
shifting through his bag. The zipper has snapped off so the bag is permanently
open and I can see chewing gum wrappers and scrunched up scraps of paper, an
old stained-brown tennis ball and a red baseball cap lying amongst the junk
inside. No school books or pens, but I see the edges of a condom wrapper, unopened,
as he pulls out a half-drunk bottle of Coke. I watch as he screws off the lid,
tilts his head back and takes gulp after gulp, draining the bottle.

‘Ahhh,’ he says, jerking his head to one side
and wiping his mouth with the back of his right hand.

A piercing bell screams out of the loud speaker
above the canteen door and the students start to drag themselves off towards
the classrooms.

Reggie slaps me on the back again.

‘Let’s go get ‘em,’ he says.

Two

Peter Stewart halts and gestures towards the
next red-brick building, one I recognise from the introductory tour they gave
me after I took this job. The building is long, narrow and curves around in a
semi-circle. The outside of the curve houses rows of large square windows,
perfectly situated for overlooking the grassy quad. It’s what the English
Department calls home.

We lug open the heavy glass door and enter the
blue-carpeted hallway. To the right are a few rows of canary yellow lockers,
all numbered in mottled black ink. Straight ahead is a glass walled office with
three wooden desks and a single, grey filing cabinet. One desk is piled high
with papers and books. The other two seem empty, as though discarded.

‘Mr Rowe, the senior music teacher, appears to
have taken over that office. I need to have a word to him about that.’

As though to suggest his comment is
self-explanatory, or none of my business, he turns left and walks briskly down
the corridor. I skip a little to keep up. There are classrooms on either side
of the corridor. The ones on the right have windows that look back into the
hallway. I glance into the rooms as we walk by. Rows of the typical
standard-issue laminated-topped desks face the whiteboard at the front of the
room. Each desk has space for two, with those blue plastic chairs that are
meant to mould so comfortably to the student’s bum. The first classroom is bare
but the second houses a full-sized plastic human skeleton, on which someone has
hung their school tie, and a number of anatomy posters.

He pauses outside room thirty-two.

‘Well here we are.’

Peter Stewart pushes the door open and gently
directs me inside by laying his hand on my shoulder again. This room is much like
the first; completely bare and generally lacking in atmosphere. At the front is
a rectangular wooden desk and a plush, cushioned, high-backed chair on wheeled
runners.

He flicks on the light switch and we are doused
in florescent white. This horrible glow seems to magnify the bareness of the
room, making it a very unappealing space. The blue carpet is dull and incessant
scuffing of students’ shoes have left it frayed and pilling around each and
every chair leg. The room’s one saving grace is its wall of windows with a view
of the quad.

I place my bag onto the teacher’s desk and start
to aimlessly pull my books from inside. I have an
Oxford Dictionary
and
Thesaurus
,
The Complete Works of Shakespeare
, Brontë’s
Wuthering Heights
and
Joyce’s
Ulysses
. The rest are at home, spread out on the dining table,
waiting.

The distant ting of the bell drifts in from the
hall and I can make out the movement of students in the quad. They amble slowly
towards the classrooms, their conversations starting to wind down, the bliss of
their post-holiday catch ups replaced with the inevitable dread of reality.
From the edge of the quad I see my couple emerge, swinging their joined hands
playfully between them as they walk. I can see she is flushed and he has the
smile of someone who has just been given some fabulous news. When they reach
the end of the path he leans in to kiss her softly on the cheek and his free
hand tugs gently at her earlobe. They finally part, their held hands stretching
as far as they can possibly go before being released.

Peter Stewart clears his throat. ‘It’s a nice
room, isn’t it?’

I nod. ‘Sure.’

‘Now I assume you have some of the lesson plans
from Mrs Lewis. She was very thorough. Shame she had to leave us,’ he says,
shaking his head. ‘But then we wouldn’t have been able to welcome you to our
ranks, Abby.’

‘Yes. Thank you. Actually, I have most of my own
lesson plans. This isn’t the first senior English class I’ve taught.’

‘Oh no. I’m well aware. I didn’t mean to
suggest...’

‘It’s fine.’

I stare past him into the hall, where the crowds
of students are wandering. I’m waiting for him to leave so I can just get into
it. I don’t like it when the senior teachers feel the need to watch over me
like a hawk. Anyone would think this is my first year out of university. I
should be thankful they consider me still young, but at times I wish there was
more equal footing around these places. You’ve got to put in the years, I
suppose, to gain their respect. You’ve got to show you’re made of the right
stuff. I don’t know what I’m made of, but I don’t work well with others
hovering over me, that’s for sure.

‘So I think I’m OK here. I’m sure you have a lot
of work to get back to.’

He smiles at me.

‘Yes I do, but I’ll stay to introduce you to
your class.’

‘Ohh, that’s OK. I can manage.’

He’s still smiling.

‘I insist,’ he says.

I accept defeat and move around to stand
directly in front of the desk. A few students start to sidle into the room.
When they spot me they give each other curious looks and start whispering. One
girl’s eyes roam over the entire length of me, from head to toe. She lingers on
my sensible, low-heeled shoes and I have to fight the urge to follow her gaze.
I don’t want her to know she’s made me feel self-conscious. I grin at her and
she quickly looks away.

‘Hurry along,’ says Peter Stewart, ushering a
few more in the door. ‘Take your seats. The bell went five minutes ago.’

Two girls in the front row snigger and pull
faces behind his back. One of them makes a big spectacle of holding out her
hands, as if he has asked to inspect them. I notice she is sporting an
immaculate French-tipped manicure, something I am sure is against school rules.
She sees me staring and quickly hides her hands under her thighs. I check to
make sure Peter Stewart is otherwise occupied and I wink at the girl. For a
second confusion splashes across her face but then she gives in to me, releases
her hands with the flurry of a magician, and smiles.

***

Reggie and I run into Matt and Nicole on our way
to the classrooms. They have come from the gym, as Reggie predicted, and they
are both red and sweating.

I look at Nicole to see if she’s doing that
girly embarrassment thing she does sometimes. But her face is clear, not like
the time I did actually walk in on the two of them at Matt’s house. She
couldn’t look me in the eye for a week afterwards.

‘Matt, you dirty son of a bitch,’ says Reggie,
giving him his trademark slap to the back.

Matt rolls his eyes at Reggie but says nothing.
We let Reggie carry on most of the time, just because he seems to enjoy it so
much, but he drives me insane with all his sexed-up bullshit. He’s probably
still a virgin. All talk and no action, the way we all have been over the
years. But Matt and Nicole are pretty tight, and I had Amanda there for a
little while. That just leaves Reggie hanging out on his lonesome, hoping for a
bit of skirt.  

Matt turns to me and elbows me in the ribs.

‘How are you, mate? What’s news?’

‘Nothing much,’ I say.

‘Matt I have to go. See you at lunch?’ It’s
Nicole, grabbing hold of Matt’s arm and giving him the pout.

‘Yeah righto. See you then.’

They smooch briefly. Nicole reaches up to tug on
Matt’s blonde curls and his hand is planted directly on her butt. Behind them
Reggie makes yakking noises and pretends to gag.

‘Knock it off, dip shit,’ says Matt, swiping at
Reggie but missing him by a fraction.

We join the crowds shuffling through the quad.

‘Hey did you hear we’ve got some new bird for
English? Five bucks says she’s ugly.’ Reggie holds out his hand to shake on it.

‘No bet. They’re always ugly,’ I say, shaking my
head.

When we make it to the classroom door I see a
flash of blonde hair as someone moves away from the whiteboard towards the
windows. Once I get inside I see her, standing by the window and struggling
with the latch. Her blonde hair has fallen over her face, concealing her, but
it takes nothing to notice her tight arse. It’s practically poured into that
brown skirt of hers.

I don’t know why but I head straight over to
her, ignoring Reggie and Matt who have saved me a seat up the back. When I draw
level with her I get a whiff of honeycomb and I see a small round birthmark,
tinged purple, on her left forearm. Her muscles are straining as she fights
with the lock.

‘Here Miss,’ I say, reaching out and yanking the
latch free. My fingers brush against hers and she swipes her hand away quickly.

She stands back, brushing her hair swiftly
behind her ears and straightening her shirt from where it has bunched up around
her breasts. I try not to look down her shirt, but I can’t help it. Her
cleavage is there for all to see. I turn away from the window to look at her.
Her eyes are the colour of granny smith apples and they study my own for what
seems like ages.

I am suddenly aware that I haven’t brushed my
teeth.

‘Thank you,’ she says, with a curt nod.

I talk through pursed lips so I limit the amount
of pizza breath coming out of me.

‘No worries.’

She turns around and heads back to the whiteboard.
I walk to my desk and slide into my seat. Still my eyes are on her, watching as
she glances at each and every student. When she gets to me her right eye gives
a slight twitch, as though a bug has just flown into it. I smile at her, but
her eyes have already moved on.

From his vantage point at the side of the room, Stewart
starts to clap his hands to get our attention. He has to wait a while. The
chatter briefly intensifies, out of defiance, but is then slowly whittled down
to a bare murmur. Reggie is the last one to shut up.

‘Ohh yeah, boys. Check out the hot new Miss.
Have we scored here or what? Ohh yeah. I’ll take some of that action any day...’

Matt finally shushes him.

I haven’t taken my eyes off her.

‘That’s enough everyone.’ Stewart wanders to the
front and stands next to her. I swear I see her flinch as his arm comes to rest
around her shoulder.

‘Now as you are all aware Mrs Lewis retired last
year so we have her replacement here. This is Mrs Fox.’  

‘Fox? Fox?’ Reggie is half out of his chair, his
copper mop twitching, directing the question at me as though he doesn’t believe
his own ears. ‘Ohh yeah, bring it on foxy mama. Little miss
fox-y
.’

I elbow him away from me. But I can’t help but
smirk.

She clears her throat and with both hands again
pushes her hair behind her ears. ‘Good morning class. As Mr Stewart has said,
I’m Mrs Fox. And yes, I have heard all the puns when it comes to my name so how
about we give it a rest, huh?’

She raises her eyebrows at Reggie.

‘Sure thing Miss,’ he says, giving her a wide
smile.

Stewart looks at her with his eyebrows creased
together but says nothing. Instead he nods towards us and then leaves, pulling
the door behind him.

She watches Stewart leave and waits a full
minute before turning to look at us again. A few people are whispering,
including Reggie who is still on about how hot she is. She doesn’t say anything
at first. Her eyes wander over us all, waiting for silence. She smoothes down
her skirt and bends over to pull a file from her bag. Like a vulture I watch
her every move.

‘Right. Straight down to business,’ she says
with a fleeting glance at me. ‘Let’s mark the roll.’

***

‘Julie Anderson?’

‘Here.’

‘Paul Beckett?’

‘That’s me.’

I look up from my roll and directly into those
eyes. He is smiling at me and raising his hand slightly, as though to leave no
doubt that he is Paul Beckett. When he moves, a few strands of his brown hair
uncurl from behind his left ear and fall into his eyes. He jerks his head to
flick them away.

I nod at Paul and continue to mark the roll. I
know his eyes are on me, like they were over by the window, and I feel self-conscious
for the second time since I entered this room. I’m used to the response I get
from the boys, but it still makes me feel uncomfortable. It was the same when I
was in high school. Any young, remotely attractive teacher is a welcome break
from the matrons that usually roam the halls. I imagine what they must think of
me and you can almost pluck the raging hormones straight out of the air.    

I drop the completed roll onto the desk and pick
up my copy of
Wuthering
Heights
. I take a deep breath to steady
myself and walk around the front of the large wooden desk. I lean back on its
edge and cross my legs at the ankles. I hold the book up for everyone to see.

‘This year we’ll be starting with Emily Brontë’s
Wuthering
Heights
. If you don’t have your copy now I expect you
to bring it to our next lesson.’

There are a few groans from up the back, but I
do notice a few of the girls nodding with approval towards me and the book. It
is always a winner with the girls, being a love story and all that. Getting the
boys interested has always been the hard part.