‘You should have told us that you were struggling,’ says Nick, his face pale. ‘We’d have helped you out, son.’
‘Who’d pay you to pole dance?’ scoffs Scarlet, gazing at the photo. ‘Although, that is quite impressive.’
‘I’d forgotten how ridiculous you lot are.’ Dylan sits back in his seat and smirks at us. ‘But you can all stop freaking out. Harley and I both decided to join Pole Dancing Society. We aren’t strippers or anything – it’s just a club and it’s actually a major workout. Pole dancing is a hell of a lot harder than it looks!’
‘So Harley isn’t a stripper?’ I clarify, just to be sure.
‘And you aren’t selling yourself for cash?’ adds Nick.
Dylan nods. ‘Harley is a student on my course and I’m actually not doing too badly for money,’ he tells us. ‘Although the train ticket home cost an absolute fortune.’
‘We’ll pay for that,’ I say quickly. ‘Just let us know if you’re running out of cash and we’ll figure something out.’
He smiles at me. ‘Thanks, Mum.’
‘She’s actually very pretty,’ says Scarlet, taking her phone back and swiping back to the picture of Harley. ‘I can see the attraction from your side but what’s in it for her?’
Dylan shrugs. ‘I’m a catch,’ he tells her. ‘What can I say?’
I stand and walk across to open the kitchen door. ‘Benji! It’s time for pudding!’
‘Is it safe to come back in?’ he calls back, plodding out of the living room. ‘I’m not coming if you’re all still talking about disgusting stuff.’
‘Sex isn’t disgusting, darling,’ I tell him, removing the iPad as he walks past me. ‘It’s natural and normal and—’
‘Can we just not?’ demands Scarlet, gathering up the plates. ‘Just for once, can we pretend to be a nice family and talk about something ordinary?’
‘Here, here,’ agrees Nick. ‘Dylan – you can get the ice cream out of the freezer and Scarlet, you can get some bowls and provide us with our next topic of conversation.’
‘Okay.’ Scarlet beams at him. ‘How would you feel if I started dating someone with a criminal record?’
I sink into my seat and close my eyes. I will not dignify her with a response. I am better than that.
‘I’d be concerned,’ Nick tells her mildly, opening the dishwasher out of habit before frowning and stacking the plates in the sink. ‘And it would obviously depend on what the criminal record was for.’
‘But would that really matter if he’d done his time and served his sentence?’ Scarlet probes.
‘Err, yes it would matter,’ I inform her, my eyes flashing open. ‘It would be highly relevant to anyone who is considering dating someone who has been in prison.’
‘But if he’s been let out of prison then he’s obviously not a concern,’ she insists, slamming the bowls onto the kitchen counter. ‘And everyone deserves a second chance, you’re always saying that.’
‘That’s naive and shortsighted,’ I snap back. ‘And you know it.’
‘Even criminals deserve love, Mum!’ she shouts. ‘I can’t believe that you’re being so tabloid-y about this.’
‘Does he actually exist, then?’ mutters Dylan as he brings the ice cream over to the table. ‘Because he sounds made up to me.’
‘And if he does exist, would it be a fair assumption to presume that he rides a motorbike and is covered in tattoos and has strange piercings?’ I ask. ‘Because I don’t want to leap to conclusions.’
Scarlet scowls at me. ‘Why are you so judgemental about people?’ she asks. ‘Honestly. Just because you live a boring, middle-class, middle-aged life doesn’t mean that everyone else wants to be like you.’
I flinch. ‘Do you really think that I’m boring?’
She shrugs. ‘I’m not trying to be rude, Mum. But look at you. You’re a mum and a teacher and a wife. You go to school and you come home and you don’t really do anything else. You’re just a lot of middle, you know? Average.’
She pauses and then sees the look on my face.
‘And all of that is totally fine,’ she rushes on. ‘If you’re happy with only being those things, then that’s all that matters. I’m just saying that I hope my life is a bit more exciting than yours is when I get to be as old as you.’
I open my mouth.
Boring?
Old?
Average?
Let’s see what she thinks about her boring, old, average mother when she finds out that I’m actually a successful writer of erotic (tasteful, non-offensive) fiction and there is the tiniest of possibilities that I’m going to sell the performance rights for my first book and probably become a zillionaire.
I clamp my lips together. Actually, let’s not. It’s not worth the thirty seconds of satisfaction that this announcement would allow, for the lifetime of trauma that would be sure to follow. It’s one thing for me to start feeling more chilled out about this stuff and I have been thinking that the day is coming when I might possibly relax my rules around remaining completely anonymous, but it’s quite another to contemplate Scarlet discovering my alter-ego. She would never cope and I’ll let the entire universe find out who I am before I risk her getting wind of it.
But bloody hell – it’s harder than I possibly thought it could ever be to sit here and let her think that I’m a washed-up waste of a woman.
‘Watch yourself,’ warns Nick and for a second I think he’s talking to me until I see him giving Scarlet a firm look. ‘God knows that your mother is many things but boring is definitely not one of them.’
I think there’s a compliment in there, but it’s a little hard to tell for sure.
‘This crime lord sounds like a bit of a dick, if you ask me.’ Dylan sits down and stares at his sister. ‘An imaginary dick.’
‘Can we get back on topic, please?’ snaps Scarlet. ‘It doesn’t matter whether you think he exists or not. It’s the principle of the thing. You guys act like you’re so liberal but then you can’t cope with the idea of me bringing anyone home who doesn’t fit into your perfect idea of who I should be dating.’
‘It was you that freaked out first when you thought Harley was a stripper,’ points out Dylan.
‘I don’t mind who you bring home,’ adds Nick, passing Benji some bowls. ‘But if you could preferably choose someone who has the skills to fix the bloody dishwasher then that would be a bonus.’
‘I’ve missed this,’ Dylan says, sitting down next to me. ‘Uni is great and I’ve met so many excellent people but there’s something about the crazy of home that I don’t think you can find anywhere else.’
‘And don’t you forget it,’ I tell him, patting his hand. ‘You can travel the world and stay up all night debating the big questions in life but you’re never going to find this level of sophisticated conversation anywhere else on the planet.’
‘I think I’ve just swallowed my wobbly tooth!’ howls Benji, dumping the bowls onto the table and clasping his hand to his mouth. ‘Will the tooth fairy still give me money if I can’t leave it out for her?’
‘Don’t worry,’ I say, getting up. ‘Let me have a proper look.’
‘Did you just assume the gender of the tooth fairy?’ snipes Scarlet, pulling the tub of ice cream towards her. ‘God – the stereotyping in this family is unbelievable.’
‘I don’t care what gender it is,’ whimpers Benji. ‘I just want my money.’
‘Open your mouth.’ I tilt his head back gently and peer inside. He’s definitely lost another tooth. I’m going to have to liquidise all his meals if he keeps going on like this.
‘You’re going to have to wait for the tooth to pass through your system if you want to get paid,’ Dylan tells him, leaning across the table to take a big spoonful of chocolate chip. ‘And then you’ll have to fish it out of the toilet and give it a good clean before you leave it under your pillow.’
‘Would that work?’ asks Benji. ‘How am I supposed to find it?’
Dylan
shrugs. ‘Maybe you could make some kind of filter system?’ he suggests. ‘You need to find something that you can push your poo through and leave the tooth behind.’
Scarlet shoves her bowl away from her.
‘Stop talking!’ she shrieks. ‘Mum! Tell them to stop being so foul!’
‘Don’t be so uptight!’ shouts Dylan back at her.
I pass Benji a tissue to dab his mouth and then sit back down, smiling at Nick as he tops up my glass. Our offspring start screeching at each other but I’m not going to let it spoil my evening. I’m getting better at standing back and letting them get on with it. They don’t need me to micro-manage their every discussion and action. They can deal with things themselves and I can remove myself from the conflict and let them develop important independence skills. I can let the cacophony of sound wash over me.
I can rise above.
‘Would this work?’ Benji’s voice wafts up to my higher level of being, yanking me back down to reality and I shove my chair back and wade into the chaos, desperate to save the new shiny and unsullied sieve, that I treated myself to from Ikea, from being used as a poo filter.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Year Ten, Class C are waiting for me when I walk into my classroom. Well, perhaps waiting for me isn’t exactly the right phrase. They are actually engaged in what can only be described as warfare. Elise and the rest of the girls are gathered on one side of the room while Brody, Vincent, Wayne and the boys are huddled on the other. Missiles are flying through the air and the floor is littered with balls of paper.
‘What is going on in here?’ I yell, slamming my hand down on the desk and making them all jump. ‘May I remind you that you are Year Ten now – not aged ten.’
They mutter and mumble under their breath but I stand there until every single one of them is seated. Then I perch on the side of my desk and reach for The Box.
I have not been looking forward to this lesson. Not one bit.
‘Are we doing that today, Miss?’ calls Elise, her voice sounding nervous. ‘Because I think I might be on library duty if we are.’
I shake my head at her. ‘Yes, we’re doing it today and no, sadly for you, you are not on library duty.’
She sinks despondently into her chair. I can’t say I blame her. I’d rather be somewhere else too – anywhere but here. But Adele, in her infinite wisdom, has convinced Miriam that we are failing to address the students’ personal, social and emotional needs and that the solution is to have a weekly session where the kids can submit anonymous questions which I then have the misfortune of attempting to answer.
What could possibly go wrong?
I reach through the opening of The Box. We had a staff meeting on this last week and Adele was adamant that we have to read out every single query. Apparently there is no such thing as a stupid question and if we start to censure what the kids are asking then we will be failing to build an environment of trust. I politely reminded her that I teach Year Ten and that every word that ever comes out of their mouths is ridiculous and pointless but she wouldn’t budge.
I pull out the first piece of paper, holding my breath. But the gods of educators are clearly looking out for me and this first offering isn’t too bad.
‘So, our first question is about the range of healthy food available in the canteen,’ I start before Brody interrupts me.
‘You have to read it out properly, Miss,’ he announces. ‘Exactly how it’s written on the paper. Miss Wallace said so in assembly. Otherwise you aren’t giving us a voice.’
Excellent. The one time that Brody actually chooses to pay attention in one of Miriam’s boring assemblies and it’s this one.
‘Of course,’ I say, smiling at him. ‘I was just paraphrasing for speed. The precise wording reads: “If I eat chips and a jacket potato for lunch, does it count as two of my five a day?”’
I resist the urge to sigh. According to Adele and Miriam, it is crucial that we do not project any negativity about their questions, for fear of invalidating them.
‘And does it?’ asks Vincent. ‘Does it count?’
I stare at the ceiling for a second and then plaster on my most sincere smile.
‘No. It does not. Next question.’
I reach into the box and wince as my fingers touch something that is clearly not paper. Pulling it out, I hold it aloft in front of the class, filled with relief that it is still in its packet.
‘I wondered where that’d got to,’ yells a boy at the back of the class. ‘Thanks Miss – chuck it over, will you?’
‘As if you’ve got a use for a Johnny!’ screeches Wayne. ‘Come on lads – whose is it?’
The room fills with howls of hysterical laughter from the boys. The girls all fold their arms and scowl. I walk across to the bin and drop it inside, making a mental note to give my hands an extra good scrub at break time.
‘What makes you think that this belongs to one of the boys?’ I ask, making my way back to my desk. ‘That’s a big presumption to make.’
‘Err – cos girls don’t have willies, Miss?’ offers Vincent, causing yet more hilarity from his side of the room.
‘How old are you?’ demands Elise. ‘My little brother calls it a willy and he’s four.’
‘I am so sorry,’ Vincent says. ‘I obviously meant to say that girls don’t have dongers.’
‘Or cocks!’ shouts Brody.
‘Or todgers!’ calls another boy.
‘Or wing-wangs!’ yells Brandon Hopkins, silencing the room in a heartbeat.
‘Did you just say wing-wangs?’ asks Elise, her face screwed up as if she’s in pain.
‘Knobs!’ roars Wayne, and the room erupts once more.
It is the first time that Wayne and I have ever agreed on anything.
‘I am aware of the fact that girls do not have a penis,’ I inform the class at large, once the noise has died down. ‘But contraception is everyone’s responsibility. This could easily have been bought by a girl.’
There is a bit of disbelieving murmuring and I glance at the clock before reaching into The Box for a third time. With any luck this will be another random question about food or acne or the meaning of life. If I take my time and pretend that I know what I’m talking about then I can probably spin the next question out until the bell rings.
Lady Luck is clearly not playing ball today though. Not with me, anyway. I pull out a crumpled piece of paper that looks like it was written in a hurry and read the words before closing my eyes and praying for a miracle to whisk me away from this place. I am not paid enough for this crap.
‘What does it say?’ The clamouring voices inform me that despite my best attempts, I am still standing here in front of Year Ten, Class C. ‘Is it a good one?’
I can’t read this out. It’s not appropriate. I’m just going to have to shove it back in The Box and choose another one. There’s no way that I can have a conversation about this with a class of fifteen-year-olds.
I hover my hand over the opening in The Box and then I pause. Somebody wrote this and yeah, sure – it’s ninety-nine percent likely to be a way to disrupt the lesson and embarrass me. But what if it wasn’t meant as a joke? What if someone wrote this because they really want to know the answer and they don’t have anyone else to ask? There’s no way that I could have talked about this with them a few months ago but maybe I can now. Maybe I just need to treat them like the mature young adults that they are becoming. Maybe I don’t have to bluff my response. Maybe what the person who wrote this really needs is some honesty. Can I really afford to take the risk and dismiss it? Even if there is only a one percent chance that it’s a genuine question?
I turn back to face the class.
‘This question is a bit more personal,’ I start. ‘So I hope you will all be sensible and respectful. Because it takes great courage to seek advice about matters that may be of a more private nature and whoever wrote this, I admire your courage.’
‘Just read it out!’ shouts Brody.
&nbs
p; I clear my throat and read from the paper, ensuring that my voice is as neutral sounding as possible.
‘The person asks “How do I get someone to have sex with me?”’ I lower the paper and look at the class. ‘Now, I think the most important thing here is for us to—’
‘Loser!’ bellows Vincent and it’s the signal they’ve clearly been waiting for. The room descends into chaos as the boys bang their hands on the desks and the girls rock back and forth, clutching their stomachs and howling with laughter.
I give them a minute and then I raise my voice above theirs.
‘Alright, settle down!’ I call.
Nobody responds. If anything, the noise increases in intensity. I wait for another minute, hoping that their mirth will die down but it becomes clear that they are utterly unable to control themselves without some kind of intervention.
‘Anyone still making a sound in five seconds time can expect to be in detention for the rest of the term,’ I holler, and finally they listen. The room quiets down and I fix them all with a hard stare. ‘That was a highly inappropriate response. I thought you were better than that, I really did. I’m very disappointed in you all.’
Elise drops her head and I feel a pang of regret. They might behave like chimpanzees at a tea party most of the time but the one thing they do actually seem to care about is having people feel proud of them. It’s like teaching a class of overgrown toddlers.
‘Sorry, Miss,’ mutters a voice and then a few others join in. I stand and glare at them until I’m sure that the insanity has well and truly passed and then I relax my shoulders and drop the paper onto the table, intending on telling them to get their books out for the rest of the lesson.
A hand shoots up in the middle of the room. It is Brandon Hopkins, no doubt about to tell me that he desperately needs the bathroom and that if I don’t let him go then he can’t be held accountable for the resulting carnage. We have this conversation about three times a day and it never ceases to remind me that it’s time I got a new job.
‘Yes?’ I raise an enquiring eyebrow. ‘What is it?’
Faking It: The most hilarious and laugh out loud page turner you’ll read this year! Page 26