Peer Pressure (4 page)

It was at this point that he decided a persona was in order, something to distinguish him from the other faculty members. And so Rob, the twenty-five year old English graduate; Rob, the man that had recently been on a three day bender (his brother’s twenty-first birthday); Rob, who earlier that morning had had trouble leaving his flat; became Rob, the teacher.

He sat back in his chair and gazed at his class, most of who were still chatting or looking for pens, and spoke.

“Good morning.”

His voice was strong and assured, with a hint of wit to it. The whole class looked up.

Jodie was the first to lock eyes with him and, almost immediately, she felt her stomach muscles tighten and her throat becoming dry. But while his eyes moved on to look upon the rest of her classmates, Jodie’s stayed fixed on him and her mind started racing. As quickly as questions were popping into her head he began answering them as if reading her mind.

‘
What’s his name?’

“My name is Robert Peer.”

‘
Where did he come from?’

“I just moved here from Edinburgh...”

‘
What’s he doing here?’

“...and I will be your new sixth year studies English teacher.”

Rob stood up and walked round to the front of his desk sitting on its edge. Jodie followed his every move.

“You can feel free to drop the formalities. Let’s face it you’re as good as alumni at this point, so there will be no need for Mr. Peer. You can call me Robert or Rob. But please try to keep the ‘Peer-Queer’ comparisons to a minimum. I’ve heard them all before and this is an English class, so let’s try to at least make the name calling a little more creative and original.”

Then Jodie laughed.

Some of her classmates also gave a snigger, but Jodie laughed. Quick as a shot, she processed what had just occurred.

‘
Was it?’

‘Did I?’

Yes, it was definitely a laugh and a bloody loud one too. It took her by surprise.

‘
Where the hell did that come from?’

Rob acknowledged it by turning to face her and simply saying,

“Thanks for that”, with a smile

‘
Oh my god, that smile!’

Jodie felt her face start to burn. Her brain started to scream at her,

‘Oh God! You’re blushing. Why are you blushing? Stop it you moron, keep it together!’

Thankfully, the focus of her embarrassment was brief, as her classmates were curious of their new teacher.

“What happened to Mr. Phillips?” asked Paul, a lanky, scruffy haired boy with a jaw that jutted out just a little too far.

“Who’s Mr. Phillips?” Rob replied.

“He was supposed to teach this class this year.”

“Oh,” Rob shrugged, “Well, I guess he retired.”

“He was only fifty-three.”

Rob was already heading towards the chalkboard, changing the subject as he went.

“Early retirement then. Good for him. Right, back to here and now. Sixth year studies, what’s it all about?”

The students were silent, a room of blank expressions. Jodie desperately searched her brain for something brilliant to say, something that would allow her to claw her way back from the dignity crushing laugh she had just let out. However, her brain just continued to mock her,

‘You laughed, you daft twat! What are you going to do next? Piss yourself?’

“It’s preparation,” replied Steph, one of the girls from the back of the room.

Jodie looked at her from over her shoulder, a hint of jealousy creeping into the back of her mind. Rob, however, nodded,

“Correct. This class will prepare you for University, those of you that seriously wish to study English, that is. I’m a graduate of English Literature from Edinburgh University, but eight years ago, I was sitting in a class just like this.”

Jodie started counting.

‘Eight years...that makes him...twenty five! Christ, he’s so young,’

No wonder he seemed so interesting. It was energy, that’s what it was. That’s what made him different from the other teachers she had endured in the last five years at Brushwood.

Or was it?

If that was so, then why was she so fixated on his appearance? On his hair; his smile; on the way he dressed. And why did she feel so nervous all of a sudden? All these questions and more, continued to pose themselves, as Rob continued.

”Literature is amazing, you know? It’s an artistic expression. An individual’s statement on the world they live in. Most of the books in your curriculum this year were written in the last century, by men and women who wanted to reflect their experiences as they perceived them. That’s fine, but they’re all dead now. They’re dead and we’re not. So, how can we relate to them? That’s where I come in. I love books. I have more books at home than I have CD’s or DVD’s. I don’t expect such enthusiasm from all of you, but for those of you with a genuine interest, you’re in the right place. Any questions so far?”

Again the class went silent.

Rob deflated a little inside; suddenly getting the feeling he could barely inspire himself, let alone a room full of pupils.

In the end, in spite of the silence, his feelings turned out to be premature. Slowly, one by one, hands started to rise in the air.

It was at this moment that Rob felt a buzz of satisfaction. The kind of buzz he imagined you only found in the heat of battle, or when your football team scored that crucial goal in a cup final. He knew the feeling couldn’t last forever, that at some point it would be rudely interrupted by the day-to-day aspects of his job, but, for those brief few seconds his head was in the clouds.

What he could not have known was that as Jodie started to raise her hand, armed with a multitude of questions for this mysterious, fascinating new man that had just entered her life, her head was up there too. And as far as she was concerned, the view was amazing.

Ten minutes prior to Rob entering his classroom, another new arrival walked through the main entrance doors of Brushwood Academy.

He was tall for a seventeen year old, with the build of a football player and jet black hair.

He walked with an air of confidence that hid the nerves of the
‘new kid in school’
title he was soon to be knighted with. His school uniform was stylishly scruffy, his tie sitting slightly askew to the right, his trousers slightly baggier than would be considered normal and his bag slung over his shoulder.

He was good looking and would no doubt have turned a few heads had the reception hall not been practically empty.

He stood for a moment studying his surroundings, thinking
‘another year, another s
chool’
, before turning his attention towards the reception desk.

The ancient receptionist was already looking at him, which almost made him jump. They locked eyes, she with a look of distain, he with a look of confusion.

Walking towards her desk, he attempted a smile as he stopped before her. The smile was not returned. She merely blinked with a slight head tilt, like a pigeon staring at a discarded crisp packet.

“Hi, I’m new and I think I might need to sign in or something?” He smiled again, but to no avail. She just continued to stare. It was starting to freak him out a little.

“Um, I was told to report to the reception desk when I arrived” he explained, rummaging in his bag for his letter of acceptance. Finding it, he slid it across to her. She looked at it as though he had just passed her a soiled tissue. At this point, he went for broke.

“Can you blink if you understand me?”

This did the trick. She snorted, before glancing at her computer and typing a couple of numbers into it. Her eyes then whipped back to meet his.

“Name?” she snapped.

“Sean. Sean Lewis,” he replied.

She typed his name into the search engine, before pointing past his shoulder to the seating area behind him and abruptly barking “Wait there.”

She then spun round in her chair and walked off towards another office. Sean gave her a two fingered salute as she went, behind her back of course, with a cheeky “Cheers!” for good measure.

He almost felt like he was about to be condemned and had been left to wait while a jury decided his fate, as he turned and walked over to the chairs. He took his seat and sighed.

He’d been through all this before, many times, of course.

The way he saw it, it was character building, but really it was a means to an end. He had no choice. With his father in the Oil industry, he went where his father was sent, be it Afghanistan, Belgium or, now, the Granite City. If he had any nerves, he didn’t show them, and what little enthusiasm he had for finishing his secondary education in a new environment, far from the friends he’d made two years previous, in Germany, was hidden deeper still. Instead of complaining, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a stick of gum. It was as he was un-wrapping a piece he heard a voice address him from his right.

“Are you Sean?”

Sean turned his head to discover a boy sitting two seats away, staring at him.

“Sorry?” he replied. The boy repeated the question, but this time turning his attention towards the handheld games console he was holding.

“I said, are you Sean?”

Sean looked at the boy curiously. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen, and was short with glasses and hair that a blind monkey could have done more with. And yet, he appeared to know who he was.

“Yeah, who are you?”

“Patrick.” Again, the boy didn’t look up. Sean nodded slightly, allowing himself a pause before his next query.

“Okay Patrick, nice to meet you. How do we know each other?”

“We don’t,” he answered quietly, “I was told to meet you here. You’re new. New people need someone to show them around. That’s me.”

Sean nodded again.

“That makes sense, I guess. Do you want a piece of gum?”

“No thanks. It gets stuck in my braces.” Patrick quickly brought his head up and bared his metallic teeth at Sean. Sean put the gum back in his pocket and Patrick went back to his game.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway, as a man approached Sean; a tall, authoritative looking man, with demonic eyebrows and a dark suit. Sean stood up as he stopped before him.

“Sean Lewis?” asked the eyebrows.

“That’s me, sir.”

“Have you met Patrick yet?” he asked, gesturing towards the boy, who was still immersed in whatever fantasy world the game had taken him into.

“We just met,” Sean nodded.

“He’ll show you around, make sure you know where you’re going. Classes have started, but you won’t be missing much. It’s first day of term, everyone’s getting back into the swing of things.”

“Yes sir.” Sean smiled before offering the man a
‘and you are?’
tilt of the head.

“Oh, I’m Mr. Fletcher, the school rector.” He extended his hand, albeit rather begrudgingly, and Sean shook it with a touch of mock aggression.

“It’s nice to meet you Mr. Fletcher.”

Mr. Fletcher was a little taken aback by the strength the lad seemed to have. He looked him up and down, searching for any signs that he might be taking the piss. He found none.

Sean was a good faker when he had to be.

“Yes, well, quite,” was all Mr. Fletcher could muster, before turning his attention to Patrick, who was still sitting, head down in his game, “Patrick?”

Patrick didn’t look up, giving only a disinterested;

“What?”

Fletcher sighed, before turning and grabbing a sheet of paper from the reception desk, balling it up and throwing it at Patrick’s head. This got his attention. It even got a rise out of him, as he lost a life on the game he was playing.

“Oh Motherf...,” he began to shout, before jumping to his feet, remembering where he was, “Sorry, I mean, yes sir.”

Mr. Fletcher rolled his eyes, handing Sean a small folder.

“Your timetable, Mr. Lewis.”

“Thanks.”

“Any problems just see one of your teachers.”

“Sure,” Sean replied. Mr. Fletcher gave Sean another look up and down, noticing the build on the boy. His eyes suddenly lit up and a little smile sneaked onto his face.

“Do you play football, Lewis?” he asked. Sean shook his head.

“Basketball.”

Mr. Fletcher’s smile faded.

“On your way then, boys.”

And with that, Mr. Fletcher walked back towards his office.

Sean turned and began following Patrick, who was already halfway up the corridor. As Sean caught up, he asked;

“What was that football stuff about?”

“Oh,” Patrick replied, “Our team is utter shit. He’s always talent spotting.”

“Sorry to disappoint him, I guess.”

“Don’t be. Our Basketball team’s utter shit too. Follow me.”

They walked a little further down the corridor together. Patrick continued to fiddle with his game, as he asked;

“So, where’s your first class?”

Sean looked at his timetable.

“Um, English department, first floor.”

“Right, the stairs are this way.”

They continued to walk for a moment, before Sean noticed the elevator.

“Why don’t we take that?”

“It’s a death trap. Always take the stairs.”

Sean gave him a mock salute and a ’Yes sir’ before asking, “What’s your last name, kid?”

“Fitzpatrick.”

“Your last name is Fitzpatrick?” Sean asked, confused.

“That’s what I said.”

Sean tried to stifle a smile, “So, your name’s Patrick Fitzpatrick?”

“Well done,” Patrick replied, not even attempting to hide his contempt.

“Your parents weren’t Catholics by any chance were they?” asked Sean, starting to laugh.

Patrick shook his head.

“Hurry up dickhead; you’re late for class already.”

Being alone was just like riding a bike; you never forget. As Katy reveled in the eight weeks just passed, she found an odd comfort returned to her as she settled back into her very own school term routine.

For one thing, the early mornings meant a head start on the housework, which always seemed to fall a little by the wayside during the summer. She would have liked to believe that Jodie would help out around the house while she was at work, but Jodie always had other plans, none of which involved a vacuum or a duster. Come to think of it Katy wasn’t even sure if her daughter knew where those things lived?