by Kiki Archer
The silence was deafening.
‘Because no one cares here either way, but everyone is talking about it and I thought I would just ask.’
The only noise was the sound of Mr Bridges putting his pen and paper firmly on the floor. Kat clasped her hands together tightly and leant against her reassuringly strong wooden desk. ‘Yes I am gay.’ She looked at them all individually. ‘Anything anyone else wants to get off their chest while we are here?’
People started to shuffle. Jason put his hand up and looked at the inspector, who gave a nod of encouragement. ‘Well, do you think you were born that way? Because what I know about lesbian women is that some could never image being with a guy, some don’t mind being with a guy and some think they are guys in girls bodies.’
Freya felt a surge of panic, poor Kat, she looked so fragile and vulnerable stood at the front suddenly faced with this onslaught; but as Kat continued Freya started to relax.
‘Thank you for that insight Jason,’ she paused running her fingers through her loose blonde hair, she would just have to go for it. ‘I simply developed a preference for women, just like I developed a preference for sports and music.’ Sod it, she thought. I know I am a good teacher, my classes know I am good teacher so what is the priority for me right now? She realised that it was to deal with their genuine questions and issues, so she sat on the wooden desk and smiled. ‘Come on lets debate it.’
‘Are you sure Miss?’ asked Bea lifting up her black fashion spectacles and nudging her head towards the inspector.
‘Absolutely,’ said Kat with true meaning.
The class debated thoughtfully and logically. She was proud of them. Everyone got involved, critiqued their own opinions and developed their arguments further. Ten minutes left until the bell, where on earth had the time gone she thought completely engrossed in the unique once in a lifetime lesson? ‘Right lets summarise. Bea, some quick questions; Coke or Pepsi?’
‘What, you want me to say what I prefer?’ Bea adjusted her posture and sat tall in her chair, loving the engagement.
‘Yes.’ Kat knew this game inside out.
‘Coke.’
‘Ant or Dec.’
‘Ant.’
‘Take That or Westlife.’
‘Westlife.’
‘Eastenders or Corrie?’
‘Corrie.’ Bea raised her eyebrows as if that was obvious.
‘Summer or Winter.’
‘Summer.’
Kat was firing off the questions. They were tame compared to the ones asked by a slightly tipsy Lucy on Saturday night during their pizza, film and wine evening.
‘A face full of warts or permanently bad breath,’ Lucy had giggled.
‘Warts,’ said Kat. ‘I would get them removed.’
‘You can’t they are permanent.’
‘Ok bad breath then.’
Lucy sucked in a large breath of air and grinned, ‘Give a tramp a blow job or drink a teaspoon of your own period blood?’
Kat and Jess screamed.
‘I am going to be sick.’ Jess was telling the truth, she thought her lingering stomach bug had gone; it hadn’t.
‘The tramp has got lots of knob cheese.’ Lucy was in her element.
Their stomachs had started to ache from laughing too much.
‘My period blood,’ said Kat retching at the thought.
‘Let a man wee all over your face or let him poo on your tits?’
Kat was in absolute hysterics now, ‘Poo on my tits.’
‘McDonalds or Burger King?’ asked Kat, her mind back in the classroom focusing on Bea.
‘McDonalds.’
‘Red or blue?’
‘Red.’
‘Men or women?’
‘Women.’
‘Ok do you see what I am getting at,’ said Kat not registering her final answer. ‘It should make absolutely no difference to anyone other than yourself whether you like guys or girls. Who cares? It’s your preference and you should treat it in the same way as all of your other preferences, just something that lets people know a little bit more about who you are and what you like.’ She raised her hands and looked at the class in summary. ‘Bea likes Coke, McDonalds and...’ Kat suddenly realised, ‘....Corrie.’
The bell rang and Mr Bridges was the only one to get up and leave the room shutting the blue dented door behind him. Freya was staring at Bea.
‘What Freya?’
‘Wow!’ She put her arms out and squeezed her friend tightly.
Tom and Jason did not want to stand up, both now had images of Miss Spicer spanking Bea’s pert naked bottom.
Harley squealed, ‘That was the best lesson of my life!’ He meant it. ‘Miss...’ dramatic pause ‘Bea...’ dramatic pause, ‘We are taking over the world!’
As they all finally left her classroom Kat sighed. What was her alternative she thought? Desperately trying to convince herself that she had done the right thing.
Chapter 6
‘Will you come to mine for a bit?’ asked Bea as she walked alongside Freya heading out through the busy main entrance, both oblivious to everything outside of their little bubble; a bubble full of the days adrenaline and intrigue.
‘Oh I would love that, I have always wondered what your home was like.’ She linked Bea’s arm, then groaned. ‘Ah sorry I walked in today, Mum needed the car.’
Freya only lived ten minutes from the school but would always drive in when possible and would have loved to have driven Bea on their first outing to her house. Freya’s father’s car sharing idea seemed to be working well and the family’s new pale blue Clio was starting to be referred to as Freya’s Car. As an only child her parents were wary of spoiling her, but in the same respect they were so proud of her for passing her test first time that they devised the car sharing scheme. Freya would have access to a nice, new, safe car but with the additional responsibility of knowing she always had to ask when she wanted to use it; another method for the Elton Parents to keep tabs on their very pretty, very grown up, only daughter. She was their pride and joy, excelling at school, performing well on the tennis court, always being referred to as a lovely young lady. Yes she had caused some huge family arguments in her early teens with her outrageous temper, but they were pleased to have seen it subside over the past few years. Furious Freya had disappeared; Fiery Freya was still known to appear every now and then, but predominantly the person remaining after the turbulent time called Puberty was Pretty Freya, the girl with the glint in her sparkling green eyes.
‘It is fine, I always get the bus,’ said Bea.
Freya still found it hard to imagine her getting on a bus and likened it to Jennifer Lopez shopping in Aldi – something that just doesn’t look right.
‘Little Maston isn’t it?’ She knew the area, but had no idea where Bea’s house actually was. She had driven through the area with her driving instructor who always made the same comment, “How the other half live,” much to her annoyance. But then to be fair Freya had made her own conclusions when she heard that the new smouldering girl in their A - Level History and English classes, with the lovely clothes and bags, lived in one of those posh houses in Little Maston; not my sort of person she had thought at the time.
‘Yes, I get the number nine.’
They stood at the public bus stop on the main road opposite the school. There were far too many pupils crammed on the chewing gum covered pavement, all shoving and barging around trying to decide whereabouts the bus would stop. It was imperative that you got a good seat. It classified power and popularity for some and simple desire to stay alive for others. Chianne Granger was pretending to push Chantelle Mann into the furious oncoming traffic, much to the amusement of her mobile phone holding fans. Bea did not care where she sat, but she always tried to read her latest book, never actually managing to absorb the chapter or so which she then had to re-read later at home. She would often pick out the most vulnerable looking child and guide them into the window seat next to her for the journey. Th
e chosen child was safe and forever grateful to the gorgeous, tanned Sixth Former, who they regarded as their guardian angel. Today however the vulnerable would have to go it alone and swim in the dangerous Chianne infested sea.
‘Joy, it’s here!’ she groaned as the red double decker approached the curb in a highly inappropriate manner given the number of children diving around on the pavement. The overweight and under shaved driver didn’t care; he hated most of his route which stopped opposite Coldfield Comp. His usual passengers chose to stay at the bus stops and wait an extra twenty minutes for the number 12. In particular he hated the big thumping girl who looked just like Miss Piggy with jet black hair and a gravity defying quiff. She had once offered to give him a blow job instead of her £1.20 which she wanted to spend on cider at the corner shop.
‘Coming through,’ boomed Chianne. ‘Oi move out of my way you dirty little scrote.’ Chianne claimed her back seat as usual and plonked down hard making the tear in the worn red fabric even bigger.
‘This is horrible,’ Freya could hardly believe her eyes. Coldfield Comp students had taken over the bus, pushing, shoving, hurling bags and shouting abuse.
‘You get used to it.’ She had yet to pass her driving test and make use of the brand new red sports car sat on her parent’s huge gravel driveway. She was an over analyser in all areas of her life and this included driving. Forty three lessons and four tests in and she had resigned herself to the fact that it may take some time. She had questioned whether the examiner had taken an immediate dislike to her, or was it because the day was overcast, or was it her inability to just turn left when asked instead of debating whether it would be better to take the second left instead? She acknowledged that her braking could do with some work; should she brake yet, no not yet, not close enough yet, is that close enough, no, wait, hang on, BRAKE, and her timing on the clutch was not great either; change gear, crunch, oh hang on, clutch down, clutch up, change gear, crunch, BRAKE. So she took the bus to and from school every day, feeling sorry for the people at the stops who stood up when they saw the number 9 approaching and straight back down when they saw its contents. Often passengers who had timed their journey poorly and got on before the pickup opposite Coldfield Comp enjoyed a long refreshing breath of fresh air on their way home, having jumped off at the very first available stop, counting their blessings that they did not have children, or that their son had never brought home anything as abhorrent as that Miss Piggy lookalike, or that they had opted to send their children to John Taylor’s down the road instead.
The bus was pulling away and picking up speed, tilting deliberately at corners and braking sharply whenever possible, the hacked off driver giving the shouting, standing, and sometimes moonying kids exactly what they deserved. Chianne had taken up her residence on the middle back seat. She sat opened legged - standing was far too much effort for her - and anyway, anyone who was anyone was close enough to hear her latest crude anecdote or see her latest footage on her state of the art phone, recently nicked from a girl in Year Eight.
‘Oi Pissy Pants.’ Chianne was hollering at a small, immaculately uniformed Year Eight girl.
The girl froze.
‘Oi Pissy, you with the frizzy hair.’
The girl with the frizzy hair looked straight ahead shaking inside.
‘What’s in the box?’ Chianne had instructed one of her henchmen to grab it.
The girl panicked. Where was that nice Sixth Former? The girl turned to see a skinny blonde Chantelle Mann reaching for her case. ‘Please don’t, it’s my new flute.’
‘My new flute,’ scoffed Chianne in the poshest voice she could manage through her badly bucked teeth. ‘My new flute. You rascal give it back, scoff scoff.’
‘Please I only got it today.’
The girl’s parents had been saving up for lessons and she had been thrilled when called, with a variety of other students, to pick up their instruments on loan from the LEA. She had been delighted with it, excited by the hard black mottled plastic box. Her best friend had picked up a violin and her other best friend had picked up a trombone and all three had walked around the school paths at lunchtime with their new, interestingly shaped, black boxes on display; they felt incredible.
‘Please, you don’t open it like that.’ A tear started to roll down her cheek. ‘Please, its got a clasp.’
‘Give it here,’ barked Chianne quickly impatient with a fumbling Chantelle. The case cracked open, three pieces of flute hit the ground, two rolling quickly down towards the front of the bus.
Chianne picked up the remaining piece, ‘Only one use for this now,’ she wailed spreading her legs akimbo pretending to work the flute. ‘Ooo, look at me, I’m Miss Spicer, I don’t like cock.’ She jerked the flute and fluttered her mascara clogged eyelashes. ‘I let my bitches use a flute on me instead,’ she gasped.
‘Here, Miss Spicer let me suck your tits,’ screeched Chantelle adding to the chaos of the show. ‘I’ll let you suck mine.’
‘Piss off Chantelle,’ bellowed Chianne chucking the piece of flute on the filthy floor. Chantelle was always getting it wrong. Whenever she tried to impress Chianne it failed, even if she was doing exactly the same thing as her. She knew they were mates though; Chianne didn’t let just anybody carry her bags or spray her black quiff ... or take the rap for her.
‘What the tall History one? She likes tits?’ yelled a Chianne Fan as they were known to their leader. A heavily dolled up Chianne could be found chanting out, in Lily Allen style, on her YouTube homepage; ‘My names Chianne, do you wanna be my fan? Well get off your ass and come and join my gang.’
‘Yeah, Lesbo,’ bellowed Chianne with an authority that no one dared question.
‘Dirty bitch,’ jeered Chantelle.
‘She’s always starring at my tits,’ lied Chianne - one because she was not in any of Miss Spicer’s classes and had only seen her on a handful of occasions, and two because Chianne didn’t have any tits. 44 double a; bra’s only available online.
‘Yeah mine too,’ nodded Chantelle looking for approval.
Bea and Freya had been sat at the front of the bus and were not aware of the sex show going on at the back due to the deafening noise coming from absolutely everywhere. Freya looked out of the dirty window and Bea opened her weighty English novel, only to shut it again two minutes later. Slowly the bus emptied, the big crowd from the back got off at the Peachells Estate with most heading straight for the greasy chippy; the centre of their concrete domain. Freya started to relax and watched as the roads got gradually wider and quieter and the scenery got much prettier. The driver sighed and rolled his shoulders, the lunatics had got off and the nicest part of his route was coming up. Houses started to separate from one another and step back from the road. Wrought iron gates appeared and hanging baskets became flamboyant and large, with pristine gardens clearly in competition. The bus was moving calmly now as it finally drove down a picturesque road with rows of tall old oak trees standing magnificently on either side.
‘This is my stop,’ said Bea flicking her masses of dark shiny hair with a sigh of relief.
They thanked the driver and got off the bus, their hearing still slightly impaired. The wind picked up as they walked quickly down a long wide pebbled footpath, neither wanting to start the incredible conversation they knew was ahead until they were well and truly warm and settled. Freya knew the footpath with its evergreen hedges and wild flowers would be utterly idyllic on a warm summer’s day and hoped this would be the first of many visits. They turned a corner and she saw it. It was beautiful. A charming black and white timber thatched cottage extended and improved in its own original style. It was massive. It was quaint. It was just like Bea she thought; mysterious yet charming.
Bea didn’t mention the red convertible sat on the drive with number plate BEA 17. She was already eighteen and would probably be in her late twenties before she could drive it properly; Freya stared at it in disbelief as Bea fumbled in her Prada bag for her house keys.
The huge oak door swung open. ‘Darling, Hi.’ A handsome, slightly short, balding man, whose mild ethnic origin Freya could not quite place, stood open armed, kitted out with a paint splattered apron, corduroy shorts and fabric mules. He hugged Bea with meaning. ‘The first time you bring a friend home and you got on that ghastly bus, you should have called me.’
‘It’s fine Dad.’
He looked at Freya, ‘I am always telling Bea that I will pick her up but she has none of it, she doesn’t like the Bentley.’ He spoke in a perfectly matter of fact, but friendly, manner.
Bea’s tanned cheeks turned noticeably red, ‘Dad this is Freya, Freya Dad.’
‘Hi.’
‘Hi there, call me Cal.’ He stepped back and made a rectangle with his index fingers and thumbs framing Freya’s face. ‘Natural beauty, real natural beauty, you would be a brilliant portrait, and those sparkling eyes, oh sensational.’
‘Ok, yeah Dad thanks, we will be in my room.’ Bea rolled her eyes.
‘No worries darling,’ he winked. ‘I will not disturb, lovely to have met you Freya.’ He meant it.
Freya sat clutching her knees on the end of Bea’s large soft bed, the embroidered white quilted divan felt heavenly under her bare feet. She looked up at Bea who was sat shoes off, flawlessly dressed as ever with her legs crossed at the plump white headboard. Freya thought it was a lovely room up in the eaves of the old house. The views of the surrounding fields were beautiful; a derelict barn in the distance, horses galloping to the fence. Freya spotted the gate from the garden into the field; surely the field wasn’t theirs as well? The room was decorated with pretty, large print wallpaper, similar to something Freya had noticed in the window of Laura Ashley, pink and yellow flowers the dominant design. There was a large oak wardrobe, two chests of drawers and a bookcase full to overflowing with more novels stacked neatly on the plush, deep pile, brown carpet.