To Be Honest (7 page)

“I’m ok. How’s Mum and Josh?”

“Your mother’s upstairs on the computer; Josh’s watching a cookery programme. I’m outside. I needed air.” She sounds wobbly. “Lisi, tomorrow, if we wake up and find ...”

I can’t say it either. “I know.”

“... you’ll have to call in sick. There’s no way in the world you can teach. It’s so dishonest.”

Do you know, I hadn’t even thought of that.

“It’s ok,” I say, again like I’m the grown up. “We need to meet. I’ll be fine. It’s not like I don’t know everyone’s name or anything.” And I laugh and it comes out weightless, like a stream of light, so I believe it.

I think she does too.

“OK.” She’s quiet again. “Get a taxi. There’s cash in my purse.”

When she’s gone, I eat.

There’s such nice food in Miss Mint’s fridge I don’t know where to start. I can’t get the oven to work; it’s too much hassle and I don’t want cold pizza so I settle on making a big, crusty bread sandwich with thick ham and a big pickle all cut up and some cheese for good luck. Then I pour a glass of water ‘cos I’ve got good skin now and I don’t want to jinx it and I eat it all.

Then I curl up on the bed that smells of my teacher and I cry a little bit ‘cos who can I talk to about this and I miss all my friends and I can’t wait for morning and I know I won’t sleep.

But I do.

* * *

That night I dream of Josh.

He’s in the middle of Trafalgar Square, with his hair all matted ‘cos pigeons keep dive-bombing him. He’s waving, swiping them off like he’s cool but I can read him; he’s not. Frankee’s close by and her hair’s pigeon’s wings: all feathery too and she’s giggling that hysterical way she does.

Then he gets cross and starts grabbing the pigeons by their legs and pushing them under the water in the fountain. He’s drowning fistfuls; great grey wads of fluff go in and come up bedraggled like seaweed and he’s throwing them at Frankee, into her hair.

Felix comes out of nowhere with Kai and they start a basketball match, using the pigeons, picking them off Frankee’s head and slam-dunking them back in the fountain ‘til they’re all gone. Then they huddle together and all three of them walk like grinning robots towards Josh; pick him up, then bounce him, once, on the hard grey slabs and into the water.

He doesn’t come out.

* * *

And when I wake up I’m almost relieved to be still in Miss Mint’s bed and her body if it means I can help my best friend.

The taxi’s here early and I’m still not dressed. Choosing from Miss Mint’s wardrobe is honestly like being a millionaire in the middle of Oxford Street.

When Erin, Rach, Courtney and I are feeling massively organised we sometimes do swaps of things like denim shorts or vest tops. But we all know each other’s clothes like they’re ours anyway and if one person gets something different it’s like we’ll all want it and get it as well.

Miss Mint hangs her clothes in colour order, in whole outfits.

So on the left there’s all black leggings but good ones, not
Primark
, with floaty silk tops and scarves looped round the hangers and then underneath, in a protective bag there’s underwear.

Seriously. I’m not kidding: Miss Mint hangs her underwear with the rest of her clothes so she doesn’t have to rummage round in drawers. I could sell this information. Make a fortune.

Right, I
can
be decisive and since maroon’s in this season I pick a long dress in jersey that clings to hips and waist I didn’t have this time yesterday, and shove on all the jewellery I can that matches, including the bangles. There’s some high heels I’ve seen Miss Mint wear once and wanted for the rest of the week and I hunt through the shoe boxes with photos on the end ‘til I find them.

Wow. I’m
really
thin.

She wears flesh coloured tights that I nearly forget about but then there’s something scratchy on my back and when I take the dress off again to see, it’s them.

I’m a little bit worried now that Miss Mint’s not human.

The taxi beeps and I feel like a businesswoman; like one of the ones from
The Apprentice,
but then I look at my face, which is still gorgeous but has no makeup. So I grab some bits so I can do it in the taxi. Her stuff and her skin’s so great I don’t need much.

In the taxi I realise I’ve picked up a purple lipstick which doesn’t match the dress
at all
but on it goes ‘cos it feels and smells like fabric conditioner and the tube’s solid gold I think.

When I get to school there’s no one there.

I mean, kids are running around and everything and I spot Kai in the distance, swigging Lucozade in the bike shed with the boys. But where are all the teachers?

“Miss, I like your dress!” A breathless year 7 scampers up like a cartoon mouse, smiles, skitters off.

“Miss Mint, I got my essay,” booms a scruffy year 11 and I look at him straight ‘cos I can’t remember his name.

He flinches as his mate flicks his ear.

“Miss, I think you ... like your lipstick,” and he covers his mouth with his sleeve and shakes like he’s having a fit.

“Thank you, Lloyd,” I say ‘cos I’ve remembered his name. And then, ‘cos he’s annoying me, “see me at break.”

“What??” You’d think I’d told him to run under a bus. “You can’t do that, Miss!” He marches off and I have no idea what teachers do now — do they storm after you? I don’t feel much like storming in these shoes and anyway, it must be time for ...”

“Miss, it’s registration.”

It’s Jenny Sargent year 10, Miss Mint’s form; such a goody goody ... thank goodness.

“Thanks,” I say and I see her do a double take and I think it must be the lipstick and I’ll have to take it off. But there’s actually no time ‘cos it’s already 8.25 and Miss Mint’s form are lining up outside the door like they’re ready to die or something; all pathetic, Tuesday-pale. I can’t find my keys.

“Miss, come on, Miss, please,” moans Megan who looks like a sweet girl but whom I happen to know sends anonymous texts to boys in year 7 of herself in a bra. There’s general muttering and I remember the bag and dive in. After a lot of fumbling, I resolve never to slag off Debono again and I’m in and I realise I don’t know my login.

Then I remember my phone, which I haven’t even looked at this morning ‘cos it’s Miss Mint’s and I’ve been so obsessed with clothes and thinking about kissing Taff, but when I look there’s a text from my number with all sorts of information: computer password, classroom numbers, lots of instructions basically. It was sent last night, while I was asleep, and how stupid am I to have not read it before now, when I’m surrounded by a sea of stroppy teenagers like me. I’m amazing. I say:

“Jenny, would you come and take the register, please?”

And of course she goes pink and pretends she doesn’t want to but it means she gets to stand up and walk past the table at the front with Jimmy Riley on it, whom she has
definitely
fancied since year 8. So while she’s being me, if you see what I mean, I read.

Lisi, I won’t be able to meet you before registration. There’s briefing at 8. Go to the staffroom: you’ll be told about duty and cover, etc., then find your register and go to my room. Jenny’s a great help
(you’re telling me)
so if you need support, say you have a headache and ask her.

So that’s where all the teachers were. Briefing.

Then there’s a paragraph. Who does
paragraphs
in texts?!

I/you have year 7, double period before break. They’re doing media. 7A. Stick Wallace and Grommit on — it’s in my drawer - and get them to talk about the different ways of creating atmosphere. I’ll meet you at break near the staffroom door. Don’t forget to lock the classroom when you leave.

And then another paragraph.

And don’t tell anyone what’s going on. You haven’t, have you?

“Miss, do we get to go on another trip to London this year?”

“Miss, I’ve gottogoandseeMissAnderson,canIgoplease?”

“Alalala Lalalalala Lalala.” That’s Ricky, a gifted and talented boy who’s basically so clever sometimes he loses it.

“OWow!” Stupid Holly and Siobhan, always being idiots.

“Miss?”

“WHAT?”

The class falls silent. Then there’s sniggering from the corner. It’s Jenny who spoke.

“Nothing Miss, only I did the register.”

I thank her and amazingly when the bell goes they all get up and stand behind their chairs and wait ‘til I say to go. Miss Mint’s got them well trained even if I haven’t. Mind you, they do have maths next.

So now I head to English 3, which is where I’m teaching. Mondays is year 7 assembly so I have a few minutes before the class arrives and as I’m walking to the room, there’s Mr Morlis coming out of the hall. I grab him and pull him into the English office.

He looks amused, like I’m a puppy gnawing his shoe or something and not cross but he does say, in a low voice, “I’m not wholly convinced about the lipstick, Miss Mint.”

I wipe it off. Fine.

“Aren’t you teaching?”

“Year 7,” I roll my eyes like I’m saying, ‘
god,
not year
7
’, like a proper teacher. But a brainwave has come to me ‘cos I’m thinking about what he said on the coach back from London, and I’m meeting Miss Mint at break so what if Mr Morlis comes too?

“Sure,” he nods and he’s off, bounding up the stairs to science, sort of like a cool monkey.

Year 7’s a breeze.

Wallace and Gromit’s
not my favourite film in the world but they all sit boy girl without being told and after I’ve taken the register, filling in smiley faces for anyone getting their reading book out without me asking them (something that never works after year 7), and I’ve stuck it on, they just sit there.

Halfway through the lesson, the bell goes but I remember it’s a double and just say, “sit still.” The LSA looks a bit concerned, like she’s expecting more or something and some of the try-harders pipe up but I just say, “you need to see the whole film through for it to make sense.” While they’re sitting there I go round to check they’ve got their books open and are making notes but to be honest I can’t really be bothered so if a kid hasn’t got a pen I just smile and say, “bring one next time” and they smile back at me a bit confused but some of them are sweet, like so sweet, it makes me want a younger brother
badly.

But the good thing is an hour and a half goes past and it’s quarter past ten and break time before I know it. I leg it to the staffroom and Miss Mint’s already there.

With Kai.

My dress, boobs and heels distract him for a minute but then his eyes are locked to her again.

“Hi Miss Mint,” he says to me, casually. The toothpick’s out again.

“Kai. Lisi.” I am so confused. What’s she been saying? What’s he?

“I need to speak to Miss,” she says and Kai squeezes his eyes and her hand and gives nothing away but goes, sloping off towards the tech block.

Before I can think about this, Mr Morlis pops up. “Miss Mint, shall we?”

“Sir, I need to speak to Miss!” I feel sorry for her, I really do, because the look she gives me is sheer terror.

“It’s ok,” I say, feeling again the one in control. “Lisi, Mr Morlis and I would like to talk to you together actually.” I am almost,
almost
enjoying this ‘cos now they both look baffled.

We go through the door and I’ve only been in this room once before. We walk straight through so I don’t have time to wonder why Mr Cantor’s raging at Mr Underwood or Miss Anderson’s doing stretches in games kit by the big table. Or why Erin’s mum’s crying in the corner. We’ve got twelve minutes of break left so we have to be quick. There’s a spare learning support room out the back. At break, all the isolated kids get to go to the kitchen to get a drink, escorted by a member of staff, so it’s usually empty round here. We traipse in and I shut the door.

Mr Morlis looks, for once, a bit uncertain.

“Tell Miss ... tell Lisi what you told me,” I say, and as my guard is nearly down I want to bite my nails, badly.

“I’m sorry?”

“Miss, I don’t think we need to ...”

“
Tell her about the mammatus clouds,
” I say, and there’s no pretending any more; I just want him to make it better somehow; I don’t care if it’s a story, if it’s not even true; it’s the only thing that makes even a miniscule bit of sense around here.

Plus he’s a teacher so he has to make it alright.

Mr Morlis looks blank, so I lead him into it.

“... and then when we were on the coach, you told me about the mammatus cloud phenomenon. About what happened in America with people and body swaps and that. Like we’ve done. ‘Cos it must be the same.”

When I think about it, ‘cos I’ve told him everything that happened at the Globe, including the bit where I thought his thigh was nice and warm and solid when I climbed it, he should be a bit shaken to say the least but I’m not prepared for what he does next.