NINETEEN
On Monday morning I gave my sick note straight to Ms Fortune. It was easy to fake. Mum always made me write the notes, anyway, and she just signed them, so all I had to fake was her signature. Her writing wasn’t that different from mine, just a bit more squirly. The note said I had an upset stomach — not a complete lie. Ms Fortune smiled.
‘Glad you’re feeling better, Natasha. I’ve got to give you the new rehearsal timetable, haven’t I? I’m so busy with this play I never know where I am!’ She laughed and tucked her hair behind her ear with a small finger. She was wearing long silver earrings with green and turquoise stones in ‘If you come to the Drama studio at the end of school, I’ll have it then. There’s something else I need to talk to you about too.’
‘What?’ I asked quickly.
‘No need to look so worried!’ she laughed. ‘It’s a good thing. Some of the teachers have been talking about making you a gifted and talented student.’
‘What does that mean?’ I asked, stepping closer to her so I could talk quietly. She was keeping her voice low too. I was glad.
‘It just means you’ve been identified as a very able student and you could get extra support to really excel to the best of your ability. You might get to do other things too, like visits to universities, for example.’
‘Oh,’ I giggled, feeling myself go red. ‘Thanks.’
‘But we can talk about that more later, OK?’
I nodded and went to sit in my usual spot next to Fatma. She was turned round in her chair, talking to Jade about another girl whose face she wanted to slap. Jade had had her hair done in lots of tiny plaits. It didn’t suit her.
I wasn’t normally keen on Maths, but I was glad it was first lesson today. I didn’t have to talk to anyone in Maths because we sat alphabetically. A girl called Abeba sat next to me and she was really quiet. None of my mates were in top set, anyway. Sometimes I wished everything was like Maths — only one right and one wrong.
We had a supply teacher in Food Tech. She was a dumpy Asian woman with her hair in a bun. Her name was Mrs Hashmi. Tiddly looked like he was pretending he was in an action film. He was shuffling under tables or doing rolls over them, his hair and trouser legs flapping everywhere. All the time he was pointing an imaginary gun at Mrs Hashmi, when she was writing on the board. Fatma was giggling. ‘You’re a bloody nutter, Tiddly,’ she hissed.
‘Do you mind being called that?’ I asked him.
He looked at me.
‘Do you mind being called Tiddly?’
He shrugged.
‘Well is it OK if I call you your proper name? It’s Hyun, isn’t it?’
He shrugged again.
At break, I met Emma outside the drama studio so we could practice our lines. Instead of her face lighting up like usual, she smiled weakly when she saw me.
‘What’s up?’ I asked.
She rummaged in her rucksack. It was pink, but almost totally covered in black and blue Biro, which was like a history of every boy she’d ever fancied. There was a safety pin holding one of the straps on and the ends of both straps were fraying. She pulled out her mobile, pressed a few buttons and passed it to me. It was a text from Marlon. It read:
Dats Y i call u sexy sara. Lookin forward 2 2morro x
I looked at her questioningly.
‘Well obviously my name ain’t Sara, is it? And he told me he was going for dinner at his nan’s tomorrow.’
‘So he sent it to you by mistake?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘Well ...’ I didn’t really know what to say. ‘Well, you should dump him. He’s a dick. You can do better.’
‘But I really like him,’ She looked close to tears.
‘Come in here and sit down.’ I pulled her into the drama room.
We didn’t get any rehearsing done that break.
Next lesson was PSHE. It said ‘Self Esteem’ on the blackboard in coloured letters. There were hearts and smiley faces around the words. That was Ms Fortune’s style. You always knew which classrooms she’d been teaching in.
I heard someone mention Kevin’s name. It was Paul Reynolds and all that lot who sat at the back of the class. I tried to listen, but Ms Fortune shouted at everyone to be quiet.
We had to fill out a worksheet. For part of it we had to write down what other people said about us: our parents, our friends and our boy or girlfriend or someone we fancied. Fatma was asking everyone else what she should put. Jade was doodling on her PSHE folder and playing with her bubble gum. I chewed my pen.
‘What have you put for what your parents say?’ asked Fatma.
I shrugged. ‘I hardly know my dad. He ran off abroad with another woman when I was little.’
‘So did mine,’ said Jade, looking at me. She lowered her eyes and then looked back and smiled. Her face sort of looked stretched because it wasn’t used to smiling. She had small neat teeth. She looked pretty. I smiled back. Then she went back to looking sulky.
Ms Fortune put us into groups and got us to talk about how the media made us feel about ourselves. Most of us said it made us feel like we weren’t good looking enough. Fatma said she liked those new adverts on the tube with women of all different shapes and sizes. Paul Reynolds said all those women were munters and looking at them made him feel sick. Fatma stood up and shouted that he was a munter and Ms Fortune threatened to throw them both out of the class.
We had to sit back in our normal places. Ms Fortune made us all write down ten good things about ourselves. I put:
1. I am good at drama
2. I get quite good grades
3. I have a nice boyfriend
4. I like my hair
5. I have settled into my new school and area OK
6. I am good at understanding people
7. I am ambitious
After that I couldn’t think of anything else. I considered putting that I was good at writing poetry, but I didn’t want the others to see it. Fatma only put four things and Jade was doodling and twisting her gum round her fingers again.
Ms Fortune sat on the front of her desk. She arranged her gypsy skirt neatly across her knees.
‘You should keep the lists you’ve just made,’ she called over the noise. Fatma and Jade were listening to Fatma’s MP3 player, with one headphone each. Some of the boys at the back were flicking bits of paper. Ms Fortune continued.
‘If you make an effort to think positive things about yourself, then maybe you’ll start to believe it. Fatma, can you put the headphones away, please. Changing the way you think is the only way to feel better about yourself, because nothing else can do it for you – it doesn’t matter how much money you have, what clothes you wear, how popular you are, or any of those things.’
Ms Fortune opened her mouth as if she was going to say more, then she shut it again and rolled her eyes. The bell went. Everyone scrambled out of the class before she had dismissed us.
I walked to the Art block alone. I wished that lesson hadn’t got me thinking about my dad.
I sat in my usual spot next to where Kevin would be. The boys on the table where he used to sit were all whispering about something.
Ms Gillan took the register.
‘Kevin?’ She looked up. ‘Where’s Kevin?’
No one answered. Then one of the boys on that table spoke. His name was Dimitri. He always had his collars turned up.
‘He’s in a bit of trouble, Miss. He might be with Mr Currie.’
‘Or he might have been sent home,’ added another boy. ‘That’s what happened to that geezer in year eleven who got done for the same thing.’
I waited until everyone was shuffling round getting their artwork out and someone switched on the stereo. Then I went over to Dimitri. He was colouring in the hair on his self portrait. It was similar to Kevin’s: spliff in mouth and graffiti in the background. I reckoned Kevin had started his first, though. Dimitri didn’t look up at me standing there. I leant over towards him.
‘What happened to Kevin?’ I asked.
‘Uh?’ he looked up.
‘Kevin. What happened to him?’
‘Don’t you know?’
Yeah, I do. That’s why I’m asking, dickhead.
I didn’t say that, of course. I shook my head.
‘He got caught blazing, innit? Then they found a big bag of weed in his pocket. He’s in deep shit.’
I groaned.
‘I reckon Mr Currie might even call the police,’ Dimitri said.
I sat back down, got my phone out under my desk and sent Kevin a text.
Are u ok?
People were gossiping about what had happened to Kevin all lunchtime, but no one seemed to know where he was now.
There was no reply to my text by the end of school. I started to walk through Stanfields Estate with Fatma and Jade, then I remembered I was meant to see Ms Fortune to get my rehearsal schedule and find out more about this ‘gifted and talented’ thing.
I went back. Fatma and Jade didn’t offer to wait. I didn’t really want them to.
All the lights were off in the Drama studio. I could hear voices from the English office next door. I was going to knock and ask if anyone had seen Ms Fortune. Then I heard Mr Currie’s voice.
‘That’s another O’Reilly out then.’
‘It’s only a fixed term exclusion at the moment, Geoffrey.’
That sounded like Mrs McMahon’s voice. She had a soft Irish accent. She didn’t teach me for any lessons, but I’d heard her in a few assemblies. She had icy blue eyes and pure white hair. She dealt with the kids with special needs.
‘Said he was going to bust my face in,’ said Mr Currie. ‘Nice, eh? He’ll be in prison by the end of his teens, I’ll put money on it. He and that psychopathic brother of his.’
‘Well maybe if we all expected more of him we could prevent that,’ said Mrs McMahon, her voice getting harder.
‘Oh, come off it, Sheila. He’s a brute. All brawn and no brains. Always having a go at someone or being the class clown, disrupting things for everyone else. I’ve taught hundreds of Kevin O’Reillys over the years. They’re all the same. I don’t know why we go spending extra money on them, rewarding their bad behaviour. They get special college courses, learning mentors, personal advisers. Look at all the worst ones from last year’s year eleven. They all failed their GCSEs and what do they get? That summer scheme where they get a tenner a week just for showing up and doing nothing for a few hours, free driving lessons and trips to the seaside. What do the hardworking kids get, eh?’
‘Oh, Geoffrey, that’s not true. The bright kids always get recognised. Kevin’s a nice kid. He often surprises me with how mature he can be. He’s not stupid. He struggles with his dyslexia and he’s a very talented artist. If you had all the crap he’s had; if your dad was an alcoholic and your mum killed herself maybe you’d be angry and want extra attention too.’
Kevin’s mum had killed herself. I felt a twinge in my chest. I thought of that photo in his house of the pretty woman with the shy smile and strawberry blonde hair. I looked at my phone again. No text. What if he was in a police cell somewhere? I wanted to see him, kiss him, make things better.
I heard shuffling — the teachers coming to the door. I took a few steps to the side so I was outside the Drama studio again.
The door opened.
‘Oh. Hello, Natasha.’ Mr Currie did his twinkly smile at me. ‘Are you OK?’ He was holding two briefcases in one hand and had a grey cord jacket over him arm.
‘I was trying to find Ms Fortune.’
‘Haven’t seen her I’m afraid.’
‘OK. Thanks.’ I hurried off.