The Winner, page 36
Heather and Steve stationed themselves beside the school’s main door. The head was at the other end of the courtyard, just inside the school gates, welcoming nervous Year 7s and their parents. A group of Year 9 girls – no, Heather corrected herself, Year 10s now – strode past her, uniforms freshly pressed for the first day of school. Marianne Coleman had clearly raised the hem on hers to display a non-regulation amount of thigh. They were moving across the courtyard, gossiping with noisy bravado when one of them, Alesia Baig, caught sight of Heather.
‘Look, it’s Miss Davies!’
‘Miss Davies! You’re back!’ And then they were running towards her and Heather had to struggle to keep her features arranged in a professional smile as she was ambushed by the gang of girls, all loud voices, shrill laughter and restless energy, breath minty with illicit chewing gum.
‘Are you very sad about CelebRate? I can’t believe Noah Fauster turned out to be such a dickhead. He looks so hot!’
‘What’s it like being back, are you very disappointed? You must miss all the parties and people taking your picture and that.’
‘Can I be in your class, Miss? You’re the only teacher who makes physics sound like it actually means something.’
‘Welcome home,’ Steve whispered in her ear – he was pushing her buttons, the bastard, he could see she was already emotional – before turning to address the teenagers in a tone of mock outrage. ‘What about me? Isn’t anyone excited about sharing tech adventures with a brand-new, fresh-off-the-presses computer science teacher?’
He received a blank stare. Then Sarah – the softie of the group – said, ‘Well, I like the way you make learning Python funny.’
‘Funny!’ Steve put on a stern tone. ‘I will have you know I am a serious educator. Now stop badgering Miss Davies, lose the gum and get to class. Go on.’ He waved them towards the doors. ‘Scat!’
The girls scowled, moving away reluctantly.
‘Bye, Miss!’
‘See you later, Miss!’
Then they were gone. Steve sighed dramatically. ‘Computer science teachers are so unsung. Everyone loves the Coding Corner equipment but not the person who brings it all to … Oh. Damn.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘The Coding Corner. I forgot to pick up the key. Can you hold the fort while I dash to the office?’
‘Consider it held.’
A bus must have arrived right after he left because a wave of students suddenly poured through the gates, their overlapping shouts and laughter echoing around the courtyard, the sound reminding Heather of seabirds. Within minutes, her nerves were gone and it was as though she’d never left. There was a fight to be broken up, a thrown hat retrieved and returned to its owner. Kevin Pritchard from Year 8 tried to smuggle in his pet ferret, claiming it ‘got too lonely’ when he wasn’t there.
She waved them inside one by one, until she was alone on the school steps, listening to the cloud of chatter drifting out through the open door behind her. Then the first bell rang and the sound was replaced by hurrying feet, the bang of lockers and the geography teacher’s voice shouting ‘No running!’
Heather was about to turn and head inside herself when she saw a lone figure slouching past the head and through the gates, clearly unconcerned about being late for the first day of school.
Eric.
His dark eyes watched her as he approached. She was expecting him to breeze past without breaking his stride, perhaps casting a sly remark her way as he did so. But instead, he stopped beside her on the step, turning his head towards her.
‘My mother said you were back.’
‘She’s right.’
‘Because you’re not rich any more.’
She flirted briefly with the idea of telling him that her weekly payments were still coming in, as the liquidators attempted to continue honouring the company’s commitments. But she’d been warned that it wouldn’t last much longer. The Triple F’s money was almost gone.
‘No,’ she conceded. ‘I’m not rich any more.’
‘You must hate being stuck back here, after all those months of doing whatever you want.’
‘Maybe being back here is what I want.’
His mouth twitched sideways. ‘Well, that can’t be true, can it? Or you wouldn’t have left in the first place.’ His tone was accusing.
‘Sometimes you have to leave a place to find out that it’s actually where you’re supposed to be.’
He snorted. ‘Yeah, right. Next you’ll be saying you missed me.’ He poured sarcasm over the words. But she thought she sensed something else, hidden underneath.
He talks about your lessons. You inspire him to think.
Eric Shulman. She’d discarded him, written him off as a soulless monster. When really he was just a lonely child with a bullying father and an unhappy mother, filling his lunch hours with solitary walks around the school grounds. A boy who liked science but struggled with exams, reshaping his sadness into anger.
‘You know what, Eric? I am going to tell you that. Because it’s true. I did miss you and I’m really pleased you’re in my class this year.’
And she caught the briefest flash of a surprised smile before he pulled up a scowl to cover it.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I must start with Cat Camacho at HQ, my wonderful editor. Thanks for all the insightful feedback, invaluable guidance and intelligent editing. Her talent made this book so much stronger. And thank you to my agent, Teresa Chris, for her support and advice, and for always fighting my corner.
A special shout out to Eddie Batha, provider of feedback, contributor of ideas, creator of my writer website. I can’t think what I’ve done to deserve such a generous donation of time and energy, but I am incredibly grateful for it. Also to Lotte Pang, who helped hammer out the kinks in my plot during brainstorming sessions over wine and feedback sessions over Zoom.
Thank you to author and playwright Ness Lyons, who made writing a less lonely business, working alongside me in London cafés and Brighton hotel lobbies.
And, most of all, to my mother Jean and sister Claire, whose love and pride mean more than I can say.
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C.J. Parsons, The Winner
