A Normal Monday

Any thoughts you have are put aside to deal with lessons.

First a Lower Sixth class, then the Upper Sixth ‘A’ Stream. That class go smoothly, the only problem Ellie Jones. Ellie’s homework got the highest score, and she found several really interesting articles that you want the other girls to know about. The best solution would be for Ellie to introduce them to the class. The problem is getting Ellie to talk. You keep passing the ball to her, she constantly lets it fall to the floor. You ask her to describe her point, she mumbles, she cringes deeper into her chair, shakes her head and the rest of the class titter their amusement. You take over and describe her points, firmly mentioning they’re her points, and she cringes further and blushes with embarrassment. Any attention, even positive attention is too much for her.

By the end of the lesson, she still hasn’t spoken. And all your positive words about her have just driven her to the edge of tears. The other girls traipse out. Ellie sits there shivering on the edge of a breakdown.

You squat in front of her and peer into her face. You try to look into her eyes, but she turns away, embarrassed by her fear and your attention.

“Are you OK, Ellie?” you ask. She nods. “You don’t look it. You don’t like me telling the class how clever you are? But you are clever. The others should know what you wrote. It was very insightful. They’ll learn a lot from you.”

She peers through her eyelashes. She looks so ****, so defenceless. All you want to do is wrap your arms around her and hug her, protect her. No, she’s a student. That’s unprofessional. You rock back on your haunches.

“They’ll punish me.” It’s a whisper, a breathy response with barely any sound. You’re so close to her, and yet you struggle to hear the words.

“Who? Your classmates? Why would they do that?”

“Because, they do.”

“I’m guessing it’s because they don’t know you. You don’t let them know you. If they knew how clever you were, they’d all want to hear what you have to say. You shouldn’t feel ashamed that you did good work. You should be proud. You’re a beautiful, intelligent woman. Don’t let your classmates frighten you.”

She’s startled by your last two statements. You can hear her quick breaths. They’re emphasising her small breasts beneath her white blouse. You’re very much aware of her femininity, her vulnerability. You have to stand up, step back, before it overwhelms you.

“Now, get a move on. You’ve got lunch.”

She’s slow to go but go she does.

And you need most of lunch to shake the wrong thoughts from your mind.

Which you need to do, because Monday afternoon it’s the turn of the reprobates, the Upper Sixth ‘C’ Stream, and Kelly Golden.

She’s late again, although you’ve learnt after two weeks not to wait for her. She enters, a blond tornado of indifference and defiance, her blouse strategically unbuttoned, her tie lopsided, her green eyes defiant. Once again, she tries to claim a desk at the back already occupied. Once again you spend five minutes getting her to the spare desk that is her desk.

She starts to open her laptop. You’re quick to press it closed.

“You can’t be trusted to write your notes on your laptop,” you tell her. “You can use a notepad.”

“Sir, the others” she starts to complain. Your withering gaze shuts her up.

“The others can be trusted to use the laptops as we expect them to. You can’t,” you tell her.

“That was…” she starts again. You eye her down. She choses a different tack. “I don’t have a pen.”

You’re prepared for that. A pencil. She looks at it with disgust but takes it. Back to teaching, except a few minutes later and she raises her hand with a broken pencil. You were expecting that tactic. You have a whole drawer of pencils ready for her. You swap her broken pencil with a new one and carry on. A few broken pencils later, she realises you can outlast her. Her attempts to break pencils ends.

She’s always the first to raise her hand to any question you ask the class. You always gloss over her. You know her answers will be disruptive and un-educational.

Somehow you get through the lesson. And you feel you’ve got somewhere.