I lean into Celeste. “Does this happen every Monday?”
She nods. “But there were discussions on moving it to either midweek or Friday afternoon.”
I balk, and my neck cranes. “Friday afternoon?”
“It was quickly shot down.”
I can’t tell from Celeste’s pursed lips whether she thought a Friday afternoon / after-school meeting was a good idea or not, but I know that if teachers in England are anything like the teachers in Australia, Mrs. Benson would have a riot on her hands if anything got between the last class at the end of the week and a trip to the pub. Or in the case of my Sydneysider teachers, a surf.
By the time you hit 4 p.m. on a Friday, you’d be lucky if you found one single human—teacher or pupil—left in school. Five minutes later and the faculty would be lining up at the nearest bar for something to take the edge off their week. Looking after a class of high-spirited children for eight hours a day tends to require a stiff drink or a good wave.
Sadly, it would make no difference to me whether the meeting was on a Friday afternoon, Monday morning, or anywhere in between. My edge will be present regardless. It isn’t restricted to a particular day and hasn’t come from my class. It’s already set in. And Ithinkit’s here to stay.
Personally, I’d pick the Monday morning time slot and get into work early because it beats staying in bed, staring at the ceiling, for another hour. And why are you staring at the ceiling, Story, you ask? Well, because annoyingly, my brain won’t shut off. Because I don’t know what to do about this situation I’m in.
Because Ican’t stop thinkingabout Hendricks.
Like right now when all I can picture is the look on his face right before he told me the blonde was his nanny. Thick dark brows drawn down with an expression that combined weariness with a little of the arrogance I always associated with Miles. Because Hendricks knew that I was jealous but couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed or flattered.
He’s not the only one confused, though my feelings are being tossed between sadness and humiliation. On the plus side, it’s helped me move into the acceptance stage of grief. My name is Story MacIntosh, and I accept that I fucked things up.
The slightly—okay,a lot—less mature side of me is saying that I can stop there. I don’t need to address things any further with Hendricks.
We (kind of) made our peace the other day—we agreed not to talk—but honestly, even if we can be cordial in our acknowledgments of one another when and if our paths cross, then that’s all we need. In fact, we don’t have to spend time together. Maybe I can insist that the blonde—his nanny—drop Max off in the mornings.
As a result, my day won’t spiral because I won’t be thinking about him and the blonde making blonde babies, and I can finally move on with my life.
As soon as this meeting finishes, anyway.
Mrs. Benson has given up shushing people and is loudly clapping her hands together.
“Now, first order of business, the beginning of term. We’ll remind parents that they can’t leave their car engines running or block the road if they’re bringing their child to the classroom. If you’re a teacher on duty in the drop-off zone, please keep an eye out for this behavior. We already had warnings from the village council. We don’t need any more.”
Next to me, Celeste mumbles something under her breath.
Will the blonde or Hendricks drop Max off this morning? Perhaps I can share my suggestion with them. The more I think about it, the more sensible I feel it’ll be for all parties.
“Second, after much back and forth, the trees on the far edge of the sports fields will be out of bounds from next month onward. The roots are causing damage, and we’ve decided to have them chopped down?—”
“The big horse chestnut tree?” I blurt before I can stop myself.
“Yes, Sophie, that’s correct,” she says, beaming at me, once she’s recovered from being annoyed at the interruption. “We were going to do new joiners at the end of the meeting, but as it’s only you, let me introduce you all to Sophie MacIntosh, the new reception form interim teacher taking over for David Burton. Or rather, welcome back.”
Next to me, Celeste tuts. Dave’s still on her shit list. Or S. H. I. T. list. Thankfully she doesn’t pick up on Mrs. Benson’s comment about welcoming me back.
A round of grunted hellos echo around the room, and I offer a small wave, while simultaneously tryingto sink into my chair to disappear as my mind wanders back to the tree I used to love sitting under. I wonder what happened to that map . . .
“As I was saying, the tree will be repurposed into benches for the sports fields, to sit and watch the games. And that area will become an adventure playground course. So all in all, a positive turn of events, wouldn’t you say?” Mrs. Benson shuffles the pile of papers in her hand. I don’t know if she’s waiting for everyone to agree with her, or if she’s stopped for a dramatic pause. But no one says anything, so she continues, “And then we have our general admin of term dates, lost property, and if any of your students need to visit the school nurse, please ensure a classroom assistant accompanies them.” She peers around the room and removes her spectacles. “Now . . .”
Next to me, Celeste sits ramrod straight. In hindsight, I should have paid attention, but I’m still thinking about the tree being cut down andrepurposed. All those times I spent sitting under its shade and it will just be gone . . .
“Sophie and I will volunteer.”
My head spins so fast in Celeste’s direction that my neck snaps, and pain spears across my shoulder. “Ouch, fuck.”
I glare at Celeste, whose hand is raised in the air.
Mrs. Benson claps again. “Wonderful. I’ll let the committee know. The first meeting is tonight. Thank you, ladies. And that, everyone, concludes business. Have a wonderful week, and my door is always open if you need me.”
