Tuesday Afternoon Disturbed

Tuesday afternoon is a free afternoon. Like last week you decide to work in your office. You have homework to mark, and lessons to plan. It’s surprising how much time these things take. Reading poorly structured, poorly worded homework is painful. The essays you’d read at university were better, the students more knowledgeable of the basics than these girls. And these essays are from the ‘A’ and ‘B’ Streams. Later this week you’re getting the ‘C’ Stream versions.

After an hour you need a break. You head into your washroom, for a comfort break and to splash water on your face.

Was that knocking? You have a sodden flannel on your face and were letting out a sigh of relief. If it was a knock, they’ll knock again. You dry your face, and it’s while you’re doing that, that you hear the door between office and classroom open.

“Oh, this will be easier than I thought. He’s not even bothered to lock the door.” You don’t recognise the voice. Female, obviously.

You wait for them to speak again, but it doesn’t come. Nothing. Just silence, and the faint creaking of floorboards as someone moves across the room. You should call out. No. A suspicion in the back of your mind holds you back. Instead, you ease to the door and peer through, trying to be as silent as possible.

You recognise the intruder. Layla. You’d recognise her anywhere. The shoulder length light brown hair, the glasses, the tight clothing struggling to confine her busty figure. She’s creeping towards your desk, clearly keeping silent. She sees your rucksack propped by the desk and chuckles.

She squats down and you lose sight of her behind the desk, but you can see your rucksack moving. Is she opening it? Yes, she must be. Is she going through your stuff? You can’t have that. You pause for a few more seconds to confirm her crime. Then you noisily step out of the small room.

“Is anyone there?” you ask. You stride forward so you can look over the desk, fast enough that you catch Layla with her hands still in your rucksack. She’s frozen. Her brown eyes look up and catch yours. Immediately they flare into anger. “Layla, what are you doing?

Knowing she’s caught, she shoots up. “Call me Miss Coventry,” she spits back.

“Miss Coventry, what are you doing in my rucksack?”

“I was…” You can see she’s struggling to come up with an explanation. Her oblong face has paled. Her mouth is set in anger and determination. “I was looking to see whether you had a copy of your contract.” The last few words spill rapidly out of her.

“My contract? Haven’t you got a copy.”

“Yes, Mrs Oversight asked for a photocopy of the signed version, and we appear to have mislaid it. So, I was just seeing whether you had a copy I could photocopy.”

“Shouldn’t you have asked me first?”

“I didn’t think you were in. You don’t have lessons Tuesday afternoon. I thought you’d gone home.”

“No, as you see, I’m here, working. I was just in the washroom. And I don’t believe you.”

“What, are you calling me a liar?”

“I was only out of the room for a few seconds and you’re going through my bag. You never called out to see whether I was here. What were you really looking for?”

“I told you. A signed copy of your contract.”

“I don’t believe you. No. You were looking to steal from me.”

“Steal, how dare you.”

She makes a big deal of spinning round and striding back the way she came. She’s leaving. And once she’s out of your office, she can claim anything. You can’t let her go.

She’s not running, but she is striding quickly. You only catch up with her as she’s leaving your classroom.