Love Lessons Read online

  'Get off! Leave me alone!' I cried.

  I hadn't thought to change my dress but I'd had the wit to leave my beautiful doomed lace u n d e r w e a r at home. However, I knew my substitute grey-white baggy knickers would be equally ridiculed. I was determined to keep them hidden, though four or five of the girls were now scrabbling at my hem, exposing my thighs.

  'There are boys in the room, for God's sake!'

  I shrieked.

  They all fell about laughing, making silly

  'Ooooh!' cooing noises, like demented doves. One of the bigger boys was lounging on the teacher's desk, legs dangling. He looked over at us.

  'Leave her alone, girlies,' he said.

  They backed off immediately, giggling and grinning. I stared, surprised. He was the only boy in the class who was remotely good looking.

  He was tall and slim, with longish fair hair.

  He'd customized his school uniform, his shirt hanging loose, his sleeves rolled up, and he was 97

  wearing cool pointy boots instead of scuffed trainers like the other lads. It was obvious all the girls tormenting me fancied him like mad.

  'So why have we got to back off?' said one of the girls. She was the fiercest, and probably the prettiest, with carefully curled dark hair and heavy black eye make-up like Cleopatra. She narrowed her outlined eyes at the boy. 'Are you waiting to have a shufty at the slag's underwear yourself, Toby?'

  'Give it a rest, Rita,' he said, laughing at her.

  He was called Toby! He did look just a little like my Tobias, though this was a real rough lad, not an ethereal boy with an angel for his best buddy.

  I gave him a shy little nod. He winked at me and then carried on chatting to his mates. I knew he'd just taken pity on me. I was new and weird and hideous in my home clothes. He'd put me in the same category as smiley Sarah. He'd protected me automatically without even thinking about it.

  It didn't look as if Rita saw it t h a t way. She glared at me.

  'Stupid little tart,' she hissed in my face. 'Don't you dare go making eyes at my Toby.'

  'Don't worry about it,' I said, picking up Jane Eyre again.

  My h a n d s were shaking. I hoped they wouldn't notice. I dropped my book and hunted for my new timetable instead. I looked to see when I had an art lesson. It wasn't until the 98

  afternoon. It seemed as far away as Christmas.

  I had God knows how many terrible lessons to get through first, plus a session in the Success Maker.

  It was the Portakabin we'd taken our tests in. It was clearly for pupils who were currently utterly unsuccessful. Most of t h e m were refugees, with an obvious excuse for their lack of ability in a completely foreign language. Even so, they m a s t e r e d basic m a t h s and science quicker t h a n I did.

  I was the worst student in the entire unit at IT. I couldn't even initially tell the difference between a television and a computer. Mr Widnes the tutor t h o u g h t I was being deliberately insolent when I sat down in front of the unit television and struggled to switch it on.

  'All right, Miss Clever Clogs, stop taking the mickey,' he said, sighing. Then he saw my expression. 'OK, you're obviously not into computers. But surely you've got a television at home.'

  'We haven't, actually,' I said miserably.

  It wasn't for want of trying. Grace and I h a d begged Dad year after year to let us have a set.

  Mum h a d stressed t h a t it would be highly educational, and we'd just watch the arts and nature programmes.

  'Educational, my bottom,' said Dad, though he'd put it more crudely. 'They'd just gawp at cartoons and sleazy rubbish – and you'd all get hooked on those wretched soaps.'

  So we'd gone without, and consequently felt 99

  more out of touch t h a n ever with the modern world. Mr Widnes clearly thought I came from a bizarrely impoverished background a n d treated me very gently from then on. I was so stupid trying to do the most basic things and I couldn't even move the mouse around properly.

  His patience must have been severely tested.

  It was a relief to escape the Success Maker at lunch time, but then I had to steel myself for English with Mrs Godfrey.

  'Where's your English comprehension homework, Prudence King?'

  'I haven't done it yet, Mrs Godfrey. I forgot to take my books home last night.'

  I remembered to say her stupid name. I spoke politely. I still infuriated her.

  'You don't "forget" to take your books home, Prudence King. Homework isn't a choice, it's compulsory at t h i s school. You will do two comprehensions tonight, the one on page thirty-one and the one on page thirty-three, do you u n d e r s t a n d ? Come and find me first t h i n g tomorrow morning and h a n d in both completed exercises or you will find yourself in very serious trouble.'

  I wondered what her very serious trouble could be. I thought of J a n e Eyre, forced to stand on a table with a placard round her neck in front of all the other pupils at Lowood. I'd rather enjoy standing there like a martyr, gazing over their heads. I tried out an eyeballs-rolled martyr's gaze.

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  'Are you being deliberately insolent again, Prudence?' Mrs Godfrey said, flushing.

  'No, Mrs Godfrey,' I said, lowering my eyes, though of course I was. She knew it, I knew it, the whole class knew it. Some of the tougher kids looked at me with a little more respect.

  Mrs Godfrey noticed this, and went into serious rant mode. She asked me who on earth I thought I was, said she was sick of my attitude, stated t h a t this was certainly not the way to start at a new school, etc. etc. It wasn't a full Dad-style r a n t , j u s t an i r r i t a t i n g bleat. I wondered why I annoyed her so much. I decided I was glad. How awful to be liked by someone so petty and arrogant and unfair.

  I tried the trick I used whenever Dad flew into a terrible temper. I pretended I was in a suit of armour, with a helmet locked protectively over my face. I felt invincible inside my rigid silver suit. No one could get at me or h u r t me or h a r m me.

  I kept my armour on all through English and clanked along behind the other pupils when the bell went. It was time for the art lesson at last.

  The a r t block was detached from the main building, in a special shack at the very end of the playing field. It took me a long while to get there. I trudged more and more slowly, as if I was truly clad in armour.

  I looked longingly at the school gate. No one would notice if I slipped out now. It was so strange. The only reason I'd suffered this second 101

  day of schooling was to attend Mr Raxberry's art class, and yet now I didn't want to go. I felt shy and stupid.

  I didn't understand. I was good at art. Mr Raxberry wouldn't ridicule me like the repellent Mrs Godfrey. Mr Raxberry was kind. He was so different from all the other teachers. He didn't act like a teacher. He wasn't sarcastic or pompous or patronizing. He was gentle and funny and truthful and self-deprecating and sensitive. I could add any number of adjectives, even though I'd spoken to him so briefly. I could write an entire essay on him. I could write pages on a physical description of Mr Raxberry. I could paint his portrait, showing the way he tilted his head slightly, the wrinkles at the edge of his eyes, the softness of his white cheeks contrasted with the dark springiness of his small beard, the diamond earring in the centre of his neat earlobe . . .

  I could conjure his exact image in front of my eyes, but I was scared of confronting the real Mr Raxberry. I r a n my fingers through my long tangled hair, trying to comb it into submission.

  I plucked at my hideous dress. I put my h a n d against my cheeks and felt them burning. I hoped my nose wasn't shiny. I wished I could wear make-up like the other girls.

  I wondered whether to trek back into school to find the girls' cloakrooms and check on myself in the mirror there. I was five minutes late for the lesson already.

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  I stood dithering, wondering why I was in such a ridiculous state. I took several deep breaths, trying to calm down. 'Go on!' I urged myself.

  I imagine