by Hayley Doyle
But I’ve got this.
They’re thirteen going on fourteen. I’ve got almost two lifetimes on them.
I perch on the desk. Echoes gradually get louder from beyond the open door. I check my phone is on silent and see two messages.
Break a leg today! Show ’em what you’re made of. Love you. Mum x
Even if I’d gone into accountancy, she’d think it worthy of applause.
The next message is from Trish. We’ve agreed to me becoming an official tenant, but she hasn’t given me a contract to sign yet. There’s no time to read the message though – I must lead by example. I drop my phone to the bottom of my satchel.
‘Find a space, guys,’ I call out, trying too hard to sound friendly. ‘Sit yourselves down.’
The kids filter in, glued to their phones, some alone and some stuck to a pal, sharing a screen. I straighten my back, elongate my neck, although my soul sinks deeper and deeper into the chair. My day is about to begin with words like ‘confiscate’. Already I’m bored of myself, and I haven’t even greeted them with a proper good morning yet.
I stand. Instant status.
A boy saunters past, at least a foot taller than me, with patchy facial hair.
‘A’right, Miss,’ he says.
‘Year Nine?’ I sing lightly with a warm smile, my final attempt at being on their side.
‘Miss?’ I hear. ‘Has anyone ever told you you’ve got fingers like sausages?’
Baffled, I instantly make the mistake of examining my own hand and for a split second, I wonder – when it comes down to it – whether everybody has fingers like some sort of sausage; hot dog, chorizo, cocktail …
The whole class is laughing, and of course they’re talking about actually getting fingered now. I should’ve known better. My drama training kicks in and I fill my lungs with air, clench my abs.
‘YEAR NINE!’ I bellow.
Let the battle commence.
*
‘Si!’ I squeal, ecstatic to see his pointed little face behind the piano in the drama hall.
He doesn’t hear me though. He’s tinkling away, warming up before the cast reunite for rehearsals. I pull a chair over to sit beside him and unwrap the tuna sandwich I grabbed from the Sainsbury’s Local on the way to school this morning. I’ll wait until he’s completed the song before I give him a massive bearhug.
With a dramatic bang of chords, Si lifts his fingers and spirals around to face me. He’s embracing the new term with a new goatee, trimmed and symmetrical. A distinct lack of enthusiasm oozes from him. I check the big round clock on the wall. I’m not late. I touch my chin. No crumbs.
‘What?’ I ask, wary. ‘Not a fan of tuna?’
He sighs, his shoulders slump.
‘Look, Chloe. I’m over the moon to see you.’
‘Hmm. Sure sounds like it, hun.’
‘I’m conscious of time – the cast are arriving any minute and I need to ask—’ Si stands abruptly but loses his balance and slips into the piano keys. His clumsiness causes a moment of alarm married with the plinky-plonk sound effect.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘Are you all in, Miss Roscoe?’
‘I can’t tell if you’re being serious or taking the piss.’
‘Are you with me on this? The musical. Because I totally, totally understand if you’re not feeling it, and …’ he lowers his voice, moving his lips like a cartoon, ‘I know you’ve been unsure about staying or going, and I fully support you. But this means a lot to me.’
‘I’m in, Si. Chill out.’
‘Please don’t tell me to chill out. Can you prove it?’
‘Prove it? Si – erm, Mr Sullivan – I thought we were mates.’
He’s so jittery, I wonder if he needs the loo.
‘We are mates,’ he says. ‘But we’re also colleagues. I’m sorry, I don’t like saying this, but how do I know you won’t let me down? I’ve spent months working on this musical. I thought I might be left without a director. Gosh, I even thought you might leave the whole flipping profession!’
‘I never said for sure …’
‘I even asked! When you messaged me about being in London. I asked if you’d had a change of heart and can you remember what you replied?’
‘Erm, I can’t say I—’
‘Because you didn’t.’
‘Huh?’
‘You didn’t reply. You just left me hanging.’
‘There’s no need to be so dramatic, hun.’
‘Actually, hun, there is!’
‘Calm down, Si—’
‘I. Am. Calm,’ he whispers loudly. ‘But Chloe, I care about this musical. A. Lot. And yeah, most people won’t “get it”. It’s not a huge football game or a die-hard rock concert, but hey, it’s my passion. I love it. I created it. And I don’t want it to be anything less than the absolute best that it can be.’
‘I know.’
‘Do you?’
I allow Si’s question to digest. ‘No. I don’t.’
‘I really do want to work with you, Chloe, but I think I need to do this … without you.’
‘Ouch,’ I say, regretting my immaturity and closing my eyes.
He’s right, though. I’m not what Si needs. He’s put so much of his heart and soul into this. He deserves better. Not a half-arsed director who doodles on the register, desperate for a packet of salt and vinegar crisps to soothe a hangover.
The cast arrive, running in with their hands jammed into crisp packets and swigging from water bottles. Jonah Matthews has grown about two foot taller since July. A few latecomers whizz past murmuring, ‘Sorry, Miss,’ and, ‘Sorry, Sir.’
‘In the professional world,’ I project, ‘being on time is considered late. So be early. And if anyone pulls a stunt like this again, you’ll be replaced. Even if I have to squeeze into your costume and play the part meself. Don’t snigger. I am not joking.’
Si starts pounding the keys for the warm-up.
‘Well … good luck,’ I say, and leave.
Instant coffee and staffroom banter will have to do.
32
Exiting the drama hall, I spot a pupil hanging out in the wrong place. Her large rucksack weighs her down, a single plait swings like a long rope from her droopy head and she seems to be playing with a stone, using the sole of her shoe to scrape on the paving. I look down and see she’s managed to draw a faint heart.
‘Layla?’ I call out.
She jerks upright like a soldier standing to attention, a good girl worried she’s been caught doing wrong. When she sees its me, she loosens a little, her eyes falling upon the heart on the floor. Like with most kids, the summer holidays has bestowed her with growth spurts in various directions. She’s still petite, but more lithe, cheekbones overtaking what was recently puppy fat.
‘Why aren’t you in rehearsal?’ I ask.
Without making eye contact, she just shrugs. I should tell her that’s rude.
‘I’m not doing the musical,’ she mumbles.
‘What?’
‘Just not.’
‘But you’re Layla Birch. Your cast needs you. Mr Sullivan needs you!’
‘No he don’t.’
‘Layla, I hope this isn’t because you didn’t get the lead because you know what Shakespeare said: “There are no small parts—”’
‘Whatever, he’s dead.’
I don’t like her tone. Not that I say this out loud. I’m already bored of hearing myself snapping out the old teacher clichés and we’re a mere three hours into the start of term. Perhaps I had Layla Birch wrong. Maybe that last term was a fluke, or her teenage hormones hadn’t kicked in.
‘So you think dead people don’t matter?’ I ask her.
She looks up at me, softens and with sincerity says, ‘They’re just dead, Miss.’
The tinkle of distant piano chords drifts out from behind me. There’s a noticeable vamp, accompanied by the incoherent lyrics of a Kander and Ebb song, although I can’t work out which one. Layla loo
ks to the drama hall doors. I bet she knows what song this is.
‘What’s the matter, Layla?’ I ask, softly, making the mistake of taking a step closer to her.
She jumps back. I freeze, hold out my arms, tiptoe back a little.
‘Can I have permission to show you something on my phone, Miss?’
‘’Course.’
She drops down onto one knee, her grey school skirt covering her shoes, and takes her phone out of the inside zipper in her rucksack. A good girl. Not hiding it in her pocket to sneak a peek. God, she’s even had the phone properly switched off. I wait whilst the screen lights up and comes to life. After a few taps and scrolls, she hands it over.
It’s a screenshot of Layla’s Instagram, reminding her of a selfie she posted two years ago. In the photo, Layla is with a woman. They’re embracing each other, cheeks pressed together and pulling wide, silly smiles. A younger-looking Layla is wearing a floral headdress and the woman has a single sunflower behind her ear. It looks like they’re at a music festival.
‘Is this your mum?’ I ask.
‘Yes, Miss. She died a few months after that was taken.’
Her words crash into me.
‘Oh, Layla. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.’
‘She had breast cancer.’
We both pause, taking in the photograph. I notice their similar hair, long and wavy, and Layla’s mum’s nose, all crinkled because of the funny face she’s pulling.
‘I’m so pleased you showed me this, Layla. It’s very personal, but lovely to see.’
‘I took the screenshot last term, Miss,’ Layla tells me, taking back her phone and switching it off. ‘The day of the auditions. That’s when it showed up on my Instagram. I’m sorry I messed up. I just, kind of, couldn’t be bothered in the end. You know?’
I nod. I do know.
‘I WhatsApped it to my best friend,’ Layla says, speaking fast, as if she’s worried she’ll get caught spilling this information. ‘I think I wrote something like, “Can’t believe this was two years ago” and she said, “You need to stop being stuck in the past”. I was like, I’m not. And she was like, you are. She said, “The past is gone”.’
The harshness in Layla’s interpretation of her best friend’s words is like venom from a snake. She blinks away tears by gazing at the sky and fluttering her lashes, a trick she seems too well-practised at.
‘I thought she was wrong, Miss. So I posted the photo again, you know, as a memory. It made me happy for like, a minute or something, ’cause it was like my mum was alive again and I had the chance to post a picture of me and her together. Then, I checked my Instagram later that day and only a few people had liked it. I checked again later, and still, hardly any likes. And I’m not like a huge attention seeker or anything, Miss. I just got really confused.’
‘Why’s that, Layla?’
‘’Cause did you see how many likes the original post got? The real one? More than two years ago? Miss, look … It got two hundred and twenty-three likes.’
‘Wow. That’s a lot!’
Layla shakes her head, a cynical laugh escaping her.
‘No, Miss. That’s not a lot. A hundred thousand plus is a lot.’
‘Did you expect to get that many likes?’
‘Not me, Miss, no,’ Layla laughs again, more genuinely. ‘I’m not a celeb. I mean, two hundred likes isn’t a lot in the grand scheme of things – but for me, boring old Layla Birch, it was a lot. I’m not even that popular or anything. I think lots of people from school were at that festival so they connected to it and liked it, or maybe they thought my hair looked good. Who knows? Then I repost two years later and ’cause my mum’s dead, no one cares.’
‘That’s not true. You can’t use likes to determine whether people care.’
‘Yeah, Miss, I can. So many people came to her funeral, Miss. People I didn’t know. It was like the whole school showed up. And everyone was so nice to me. It wasn’t actually nice, though. Like, I didn’t enjoy them being nice. I’d rather it’d just been a normal day, not my mum’s funeral, and everyone just ignore me. But it was like, I dunno, such a big deal. For like, randoms. Kids I’ve never spoken to cried. But they all soon forgot, didn’t they? No one cared about me reposting that photo. Like my best friend said, the past is gone. No point in going on and on about it, is there?’
I need to be careful with my words – I know I’m walking on thin ice.
‘Layla, sorry but I’m a little bit, erm, confused. The school musical is in the future, not the past. Actually the rehearsals are in the present, right now—’
‘There’s no point, Miss. I’m not doing it.’
‘Okay. Fine. But can I ask why not?’
‘Yeah. ’Cause there’s no point.’
‘But you’re talented.’
‘It doesn’t matter, Miss. Everyone’s mum’ll be watching them. Except mine.’
We freeze, the harsh truth shining on us like a spotlight.
‘I used to think she was watching over me,’ Layla says, almost in a whisper, as she slouches into the brick wall behind her. ‘But she’s gone, hasn’t she? She’s not watching over me at all. She’s just … gone.’
If I’d happened to be a cocky fifteen-year-old rather than a responsible adult, I’d liked to have found this so-called best friend and shoved a spike up her tight little arse. But what would my argument be? That she’s wrong? Because I don’t know if she is wrong. I’m not religious, so I don’t believe that Jack is in Heaven, keeping an eye on me from fluffy clouds surrounded by cherubs and harps. I’m not entirely sure I believe in the opposite, either. I struggle with thinking that we’re something until we die, and then BOOM! we’re suddenly nothing. And I’ve never found any satisfactory spiritual beliefs in the middle ground either. Never been to India. Never committed to a yoga class for more than two consecutive weeks. I’m more baffled than cynical.
‘What if she’s wrong?’ I ask Layla, throwing it out there.
‘Who?’
‘Your best friend.’
‘She’s not my best friend any more.’
‘Well, who’s to say she’s right?’ I ask. ‘Does she have hard evidence?’
‘Evidence, Miss?’
‘That when we die, we’re gone? Because if she has, well, I’d sure like to see it.’
She straightens herself and swaps her rucksack to the opposite shoulder, considering what I’ve just said. Her head cocks to the side and she inhales, tense and sceptical, afraid I’m being nice to her because she’s a kid, rather than being honest with her as an equal. I haven’t been a teacher too long, but I’ve seen teenagers do this multiple times. I make the choice to be honest with her.
‘Layla, me boyfriend died a few months ago. I’d like to tell you something he said to me when he was alive. He told me that being a teacher was cool. Hey, don’t roll your eyes, they’re his words not mine. I’m not saying I’m cool.’ I do my best T-Birds impression, badly. Layla loosens up and forces a kind smile. ‘Jack – me boyfriend – he worked in gaming. He’d oversee various projects, launch new online games and stuff, and he enjoyed it, organised events like crazy golf or paintballing and got away with calling them “team-building exercises”. When we got together, I told him that sounded pretty cool. He said, “No, being a teacher is cool. You’re making a difference, or at least trying to.” And I pulled a face. Told him, nah. In reality, it’s stress, it’s targets, it’s listening to your colleagues saying, “Roll on half term!” And agreeing with them.’
‘Really, Miss? Do you hate it?’
‘No,’ I say, surprising myself. ‘Look, Layla. I’ll never know if Jack’s watching over me. There’s a great possibility he’s not – that yeah, he’s gone. But what if he’s not? What if he is watching me, somehow? Am I gonna be the teacher who lives for the holidays? Or am I gonna try to make a difference, even if it’s the teeniest, tiniest inch?’ and I hold my thumb and index finger an inch apart, scrunch up one eye and peek through the space I’ve creat
ed. ‘In short, I want him to be proud of me—’
A long whistle from the netball court jolts me: lunchtime practice is coming to an end. I’ve said much more than I’d intended. With each word, I’ve learnt, and in a reversal of roles, Layla has stood listening to me like the non-judgemental teacher. I welcome the light breeze that washes over me, the rustle of leaves so recently fallen from the oak trees lining the street outside the school gates.
‘My mum wouldn’t be proud of me, would she, Miss?’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I’m just bumming around the drama hall instead of, well, you know.’
Grateful that the focus has shifted back to Layla, I’m amazed at how our roles have reverted without me needing to click my fingers or wave a magic wand. Maybe in learning one lesson, I’ve managed to teach one, too.
‘Mr Sullivan’ll never let me back though, Miss.’
‘Leave it with me.’
*
I walk back to the flat rather than get the bus. I’m hot in my cardigan, the September sun still strong when it’s not hiding behind the clouds. The cusp of a new season is upon us and I pass coffee shops where customers bask in the last days of summer with an iced latte. I always walk when I’m either deep in thought or happy.
In this case, it’s the latter.
I’d caught Si at the end of the rehearsal, on his knees. Split binbags of feathers, creased satin and ancient, lustreless sequins had surrounded him like a flamboyant Victorian skirt. Flustered, he’d been ticking off any items he could find from his clipboard list. I’d taken the clipboard and he’d fanned his armpits with a broken Venetian mask.
‘Roaring twenties flapper dress, purple?’ I’d read from the list.
‘Chloe, I’m really sorry—’
‘Si. Forget it. But more importantly, you need to let Layla Birch back into the show.’