To Be Honest (18 page)

Holly hangs baubles from both the door hinges. Megan loops tinsel round strip lights. Loads better than crap paper snowflakes, the huge flashing snowman in front of the whiteboard’s amazing. I’m basically letting them do it all like we’ve always wanted but not been allowed. Health and Safety etc, etc..

“Fab, Miss, innit?” Megan’s eyes gleam as she prances on tables, fat fronds of silver makeshift feather boas round her shoulders.

“It’s great,” I admit, and it is. Competition over Christmas decorations in classrooms is always intense. Mr Morlis is judge and we’ve half an hour to makc IT3 look like it’s never left Debenhams.

Jenny hangs small teasel figures of angels above my desk. In the breeze of activity, they switch and swing over my head. And my class — Miss Mint’s class — are all joining in, even Ricky who’s quite happy just making a din with his two empty Quality Street tins, banging lids like he’s Johnny Rooster in
Jerusalem.
Not that I’ve seen it, but Miss Mint was telling me. I’d quite like to go.

“Miss, Miss, can we put lights on Ricky?”

It’s not a bad plan.

“Like a Christmas tree! Yes!” Siobhan’s fringe clears her eyes in excitement. Ricky’s eyes lift with mild interest. Mr Morlis arrives.

“Ricky Moore, off the floor,” he says gently and pad-springs right over him.

“Miss Mint,” he says, “I believe you have flaunted some rules.”

I curl up like a cellophane cracker fish in his hand.

“What d’you mean?” It’s a whisper.

“Don’t worry,” he chuckles. His brow does the wrinkle. “I love it but unplugging thirty computers for what looks like huge flashing dildos should technically equal disqualification.”

“They’re icicles!”

Ricky looks stunned. Mr Morlis is laughing but it’s like I’ve been punched. I’m so stupid! Of course: flaunting rules, even class decoration ones does, probably, count as dishonesty. I chuck a large bag of Starmix at Megan for distraction, who folds like a parachute as hordes descend.

I tell Mr Morlis my fears and he says, “it’s ok. It’s not like you’ve lied. You’ve been honest; keep going. It’s clear that you’ve both tried incredibly hard. Miss Mint has as well. I’ve got a good feeling today. Time will tell. There’s six hours to go before three pm. Cheer up. Come on, please. You owe it to year 10.” Then he winks and I breathe out and over my head, angels dance.

“Oh yes, just one thing. Alicia Payne,” I say as he starts off past Rylance.

He comes back and I tell him. I say,

“ ... so it’s fine, ‘cos she’s owned up, you see. So we don’t have to worry ‘bout dishonesty.” I’m so happy. I twirl five party poppers in each hand. But can I do six?

I look up. Mr Morlis has fixed me in place with a stare.

“She did what?”

“Um, she cheated.” It’s true. “But it’s fine. I’ll ring parents; I’ll tell Mr U and we’ll sort it all out today. But it’s the end of term and Review and all that. I thought it could wait ‘til break at least.”

My face falls as I watch his melt down.

“Lisi, don’t you see what this means?”

No, I don’t.

“Just listen. If Alicia’s parents and you have to go to the Head and discuss what to do, you’ll be asked for proof of QTS. Which you do not have.”

What do sofas have to do with it? I think, but then I remember from the meeting on TLRs, when I thought I’d quite like one and acronyms flew back and forth like that word game I played with year 8 and this one was mentioned.

“Qualified teacher status. Yeah, what’s the prob?”

He’s incensed which is not like him. “You doing this job is illegal!” he jogs on the spot: one, two, three, four, five, six and I wish I could sit him down; force a Horlicks on him or something. “And I know!”

But it’s half-past nine. He’s classrooms to judge and he’s run out of time at Miss Mint’s. We agree that we’ll meet up at break and discuss what to do.

“Sir’ve we won?” Megan calls as he leaves.

“Not yet, no, Megan. No. There’s a long way to go,” he says grimly. “And take down the icicles.”

* * *

Tutor time’s muted a bit after that. We do
Secret Santa
, play
Charades
from a hat, then it’s break. Miss Mint finds me.

“You’ve got to come. Quick, there’s not long ‘til the bell goes,” and her face — well, my face, I mean, sort of glows with something I’ve not seen before.

I let her drag me through the clogged-up canteen and up the stairs to the dance studio. She plugs in an ipod, fiddles with music, strips off her sweatshirt and starts to warm up.

I always thought dance was a joke. Stretching and lengthening never did me any good in Miss Anderson’s lessons. I’d ache after games but I’ve always thought choreography, all of that stuff, was a complete waste of time. Erin and I would hang out at the back and just gossip.

Miss Mint pushes her hands down her body unselfconsciously. A bendy pipe cleaner, she looks in the mirror and I don’t think she sees her face, hair, skin or thighs. She checks herself clinically: all angles and eyes.

Rach and Courtney arrive.

“Oh, hi, Miss.” They’re surprised but too focused to care that I’m there.

I sit on a stool. Bag on floor. Take my place. I bet it’s Rihanna.

“We ready?”

They all stand there, facing the mirror. Four beats and four flicks of their wrists and they’re off.

It’s Rihanna but only to start with. ‘Cos Miss Mint and Rach made a mix so then it’s old skool:
Let the Sun Shine
and some Warren G but I’m caught up in the moves and the pace and the glee on their faces; the amount of grace Miss Mint’s given my body. I thought it was ok. I thought I could move, you know; bob up and down a bit on a dance floor, but seeing it there, soaring, leaping and weaving, completely in time with my friends is quite moving.

It’s over. The girls pant and sweat. Miss Mint spins round. She’s laughing and Rach takes a great, heaving, wet gulp of her water, wipes mouth with sleeve, puts it away and takes out a big,
big
bar of Galaxy and breaks it; shoves some in her mouth and the other two take some as well. Then it’s offered to me. Rach looks pained.

“Do you want some?” And her voice is all strained and I realise she’s noticed Miss Mint’s weird food moods just like she had: must have noticed stashed chocolate as well and the calorie counts.

And I think, Oh Em Gee all these teachers: they’re not just old founts of knowledge; they’re also the ones that we copy; admire. And I take out fruit scones Kai had made for my tutor time, that I’d forgotten. I bite one and say, “thanks, Rach; I’ve got these lovelies: nothing like making teeth rotten,” and Miss Mint and I look at each other then. A cloud passes swiftly.

It’s five to ten, time to go. Courtney’s quite pongy. The bell rings.

“Oh no — my spray’s in my locker.”

She goes of with Rach, which leaves Miss Mint and me.

“Five hours to go.” And she nods, looking stressed. “Kai’s coming to see it,” I say, “he’ll be well impressed.”

“You do know he was really into it, don’t you? The idea, I mean? Back when he thought I was you, not Miss Mint? He said that you needed to learn how to dance.”

I think back to the party. To Courtney’s. The last thing I’d done was to run off to Josh. And fast. So Kai was left standing. But that’s in the past.

“He went off with Courtney, which was quite a nasty thing to do.”

“But didn’t he say? He tried to convince you to dance but you wanted to fly away, off to find Josh. Also you looked too grown-up in that skirt. He said you were wearing a dress to flirt in, not get to know him.”

She shrugs. But another thing tugs ‘cos although I hear, there’s so much more to discuss. I say,

“Listen. I need your help as a teacher.”

She looks at me sideways.

“You’ve gone for that TLR, haven’t you?”

“No, no, no,
no
,” I say. “It’s Alicia.” And I tell her everything. “What do I do?”

She’s in thought; could say lost. She looks off to one side.

“So you say that the cost of you not proving true QTS, after all of this effort we’ve gone through, could mean that I stay as Lisi and you as Miss Mint ... forever? And what about KaiTaff?”

It’s my turn to shrug, “I don’t know what to do. If I show your papers then that’s lying too, ‘cos I’ve taught as you for almost a fortnight now. When in fact, I’m me.”

I think about time. How it’s running like sand away from us both, and how Dad’s in a land that’s hundreds and thousands of miles from here. And I want to see him. I blink. Miss Mint stares, refocuses; sucks in her cheeks, then says, “seems a bit doomed but there’s one thing to try.” And she packs up without looking me in the eye.

“Where you going?” I ask, as she heads through the door.

“Need your keys.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to ring the exam board.”

* * *

But there’s no time at break to do that. Miss Mint’s foiled as Rachel, all jumpy, kidnaps her. A coiled up spring of excitement, she carries her off and away to tighten the infamous Beyonce sway.

I head back to form where we wait ‘til we’re called to the hall for a pre-lunch run-down of thrills, spills and triumphs of term. The high and the low. Mr Underwood, Anderson, Morlis, Debono are there, all lined up tight with the thought of three weeks off at Christmas in sight.

While Underwood’s giving his annual showcase and proving he’s with it by dropping in ‘mate’ to the new PE teacher, Mr Buck, who’s only been here a week. But I hope he stays at Fairmere ‘cos he’s good: much, much better than Anderson is. Taff’s talked to him. He’s into rowing and shizz and kite-surfing; baseball too. I think he’ll find that surfing this lot’s a whole new ball game, mind.

“Miss Mint!”

A loud whisper beside me. It’s Mum.

“
Mum?!”

She looks at me like I’ve lost it.

“I mean ... Mrs Reynolds. Come this way, please.”

I hadn’t heard the door to the hall open. Why’s she here? Miss Mint’s eyes are on me as we both disappear. Out in the atrium, all is revealed.

“I’m sorry; I’m lost. It’s rather left field but I wanted to visit my daughter. See how well she dances. She’s never quite made it somehow, in the way of performance or drama or anything, really.”

She looks at me, grabs for my hand. Says, sincerely, “I made all their costumes, you know? For their piece? Jeans hotpants. I never thought little Lisi would wear them but still, they all think it’s quite fun to have embroidered bears plastered; one bear on each bum. It would be a thrill if I saw their routine. I took the day off work especially.”

Assembly’s ending. Mr U’s monotone is solemn, descending. The creaking of chairs and young bones filters through from the hall and Mum’s staring at me. I think, of course Mum. Of course you can see me do dance. The only thing is, it’s Miss Mint. But skirting the subject’s not dishonesty, I don’t think. Then I do. Wait. ‘Cos talking of skirts, Mum’s standing there in an old tunic-style shirt and a strange woolly hat when she could wear my dress, all grown up.

“Here’s an idea. Parents aren’t meant to come to end of year Review. But knowing Lisi, she’d love you to watch. So would you be able to put on a frock and come back after lunch? Because that’s when they’re on.”

“You think if I dress up, and maybe wear
mon
chapeau
too, that’s ok?”

She’s trying so hard that I can’t disappoint.

“Your hat looks amazing. But not vital, I’d say. Just come in a dress. Something festive. Like red, black or short ...”

Doubt’s stamped on her face as I struggle for answers. But something’s occurred and I need to digest it. And what’s the harm anyway, Mum? What’s the harm, I think. I don’t want her hanging around during lunch and I have learned that outfits can wow. And that dress still needs to prove itself on Mum, somehow.

* * *

We meet at the gate: I’m on duty. Miss Mint’s a bit late which makes me all stressed: it’s nearly eight minutes to one and Kai’s due here soon and there’s boards to be rung. Wish we’d done it at noon. Then we’d have twelve whole hours to go. We’ve eleven still, though. All’s not lost.

Swimming like salmon we battle upstream to the office and let ourselves in. There’s a ream of thank you cards, Christmas cards. Cake tins and boxes of chocolates. Miss Mint sweeps a space and then plonks the phone down on her desk. I mean, my desk. She looks all professional and serious. She’s already got phone numbers to hand. Says she knows someone there and she picks up and dials and gives me a death stare.

“Go outside,” she hisses, “just in case we get surprised.”

Good thinking, Miss Mint. Though I can’t pretend I wouldn’t like to be seen through the glass making phone calls on this, the last day of the year. ‘Cos my year 9s would make sure they behaved ‘til the end.

It takes seven minutes. She rings off, comes out. It’s noisy out here and she can’t help but shout,

“It’s all ok. We don’t have to worry. It’s fine. If Alicia had written her work line by line and then copied it down; got it teacher approved, then it’s not all that easy for the goal posts to move.