Forbidden

There is a new English teacher – Miss Azley. Some bright young thing from Down Under: huge frizzy hair held back by a rainbow-coloured headscarf, ta

‘That’s better. Now I can see you all properly and you can all see me. I’ll expect you to have the classroom set up before I arrive in future, and don’t forget that all the desks need to be returned to their places at the end of the lesson. Anyone caught leaving before having done their bit will take sole responsibility for the furniture arrangements for a week. Do I make myself clear?’ Her voice is firm but there appears to be no malice. Her grin suggests she might even have a sense of humour. The grumbles and complaints from the usual troublemakers are surprisingly muted.

She then a

‘Pass.’ I examine my thumbnail and automatically mumble my usual response without looking up.

But, to my horror, she doesn’t take the hint. Has she not read my file? She is still looking at me. ‘Few activities in my lessons are optional, I’m afraid,’ she informs me.

There are sniggers from Jed’s group. ‘We’ll be here all day then.’

‘Didn’t anyone tell you? He don’t speak English—’

‘Or any other language.’ Laughter.

‘Martian maybe!’

The teacher silences them with a look. ‘I’m afraid that’s not how things work in my lessons.’

Another long silence follows. I fiddle with the corner of my notepad, the eyes of the class scorching my face. The steady tick of the wall clock is drowned out by the pounding of my heart.

‘Why don’t you start off by telling me your name?’ Her voice has softened slightly. It takes me a moment to figure out why. Then I realize that my left hand has stopped fiddling with the notepad and is now vibrating against the empty page. I hurriedly slide my hand beneath the desk, mumble my name and glance meaningfully at my neighbour. He launches eagerly into his monologue without giving the teacher time to protest, but I can see she has backed down. She knows now. The pain in my chest fades to a dull ache and my burning cheeks cool. The rest of the hour is taken up with a lively debate about the merits of studying Shakespeare. Miss Azley does not invite me to participate again.

When the last bell finally shrieks its way through the building, the class dissolves into chaos. I slam my textbook shut, stuff it in my bag, get up and exit the room rapidly, diving into the home-time fray. All along the main corridor over-excited pupils are streaming out of doors to join the thick current of people: I am bumped and buffeted by shoulders, elbows, bags, feet . . . I make it down one staircase, then the next, and am almost across the main hall before I feel a hand on my arm.

‘Whitely. A word.’

Freeland, my form tutor. I feel my lungs deflate.

The silver-haired teacher with the hollow, lined face leads me into an empty classroom, indicates a seat, then perches awkwardly on the corner of a wooden desk.

‘Lochan, as I’m sure you are aware, this is a particularly important year for you.’

The A-level lecture again. I give a slight nod, forcing myself to meet my tutor’s gaze.

‘It’s also the start of a new academic year!’ Freeland a

Another nod. An involuntary glance towards the door. I’m not sure I like the way this conversation is heading. Mr Freeland gives a heavy sigh. ‘Lochan, if you want to get into UCL, you know it’s vital you start taking a more active role in class . . .’

I nod again.

‘Do you understand what I’m saying here?’

I clear my throat. ‘Yes.’

‘Class participation. Joining in group discussions. Contributing to the lessons. Actually replying when asked a question. Putting your hand up once in a while. That’s all we ask. Your grades have always been impeccable. No complaints there.’

Silence.

My head is hurting again. How much longer is this going on for?

‘You seem distracted. Are you taking in what I’m saying?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Look, you have great potential and we would hate to see that go to waste. If you need help again, you know we can arrange that . . .’

I feel the heat rise to my cheeks. ‘N-no. It’s OK. Really. Thanks anyway.’ I pick up my bag, sling the strap over my head and across my chest, and head for the door.

‘Lochan,’ Mr Freeland calls after me as I walk out. ‘Just think about it.’

At last. I am heading towards Bexham, school rapidly fading behind me. It is barely four o’clock and the sun is still beating down, the bright white light bouncing off the sides of cars which reflect it in disjointed rays, the heat shimmering off the tarmac. The high street is all traffic, exhaust fumes, braying horns, school kids and noise. I have been waiting for this moment since being jolted awake by the alarm this morning, but now it is finally here I feel strangely empty. Like being a child again, clattering down the stairs to find that Santa has forgotten to fill up our stockings; that Santa, in fact, is just the drunk on the couch in the front room, lying comatose with three of her friends. I have been focusing so hard on actually getting out of school that I seem to have forgotten what to do now I’ve escaped. The elation I was expecting does not materialize and I feel lost, naked, as if I’d been anticipating something wonderful but had suddenly forgotten what it was. Walking down the street, weaving in and out of the crowds, I try to think of something – anything – to look forward to.