that when the door eventually did open – and it would open any second now – Ms Vanderwerp would walk in, oblivious, carrying her green A4 spiral bound-teacher’s planner and cylinder of wipes. She would walk in, and she would not know what had whacked her in the middle of the forehead until she turned back to take a second look.
And that is exactly what happened.
The door swung open, because Ms Vanderwerp was always a minute or so late.
She stumbled in, and was hit in the forehead.
Immediately, her hand shot up to wipe away the unexpected moisture.
Looking at her hand, she saw that it was now covered in a streak of watery red.
She looked back behind her to see what had struck her, and when she turned back to face the class she looked at the room like a person who had unexpectedly found herself blinded. Her eyes had never swum so much behind her glasses, like blue fish whose water was rapidly draining out of their bowls.
All this seemed to happen much slower than I imagined it would, which made the incident even more awfully slapstick.
Now, any reasonable person would quickly spot that watery red was not the colour of blood, and that the fluid didn’t even smell like blood. But Ms Vanderwerp had no time to reason this through in her head.
Why would such a thing still be warm? And yet it was the icky warmth of the water, the diluted hue of red and the steaming wad of expanded cotton swaying from side to side, that escalated her disgust and confusion. Her mouth turned into an infinity sign of horror.
No one laughed, or said, “Miss, Miss, it’s a joke!”
“Argh!” she screamed, and it was a rough scream. I had always imagined that if Ms Vanderwerp were to raise her voice, it would be high. But this was the scream of a cement truck on its first rotation. It was a scream of breaking rock. It was the first time that tremulous, gentle voice had made a noise that was clear and full of conviction.
For a moment, the blue fish behind her glasses looked as if they could be saved: I could see the tears filling up their bowls, overflowing down the sides of her face. Then she was out of the room.
*
“Quick, someone shut the door!” shouted Brodie, and Amber dashed from her seat and grabbed the handle. She had the presence of mind not to slam it and so draw attention to Room 105.
“She was crying. Did you see? Tears were coming out of her eyes!” That was Katie, whose mouth was an O.
“Shit. Shit. Shit!” Amber panicked. Her panic was like an actress’s, her hands wrung at the wrists as if doing an imitation of alarm.
We all looked up at the doorframe, and it was still there, a macabre microphone amplifying what they had done to poor Ms Vanderwerp.
Still standing by the door, Amber jumped up and pulled the tampon string from the doorframe. She held it out in front of her as if it had somehow transformed into an actual used sanitary item, and it suddenly seemed as nauseating as the real thing. She headed towards the only bin in the room.
“No, no!” hissed Brodie. “What if they search the bin?”
“Well, I’m not putting that back in my bag!”
“Put it in your thermos, Chelsea,” ordered Brodie.
“Eww,” Chelsea complained.
Amber ran to Chelsea’s desk, opened her thermos and dropped the tampon in. She screwed the lid back on as if she were screwing down the cover of a black manhole that could unleash gollums. Some water spilled onto Chelsea’s desk and she wiped it off with her sleeve, scowling.
Then Amber paced back to her own seat next to me. I could hear her breath, like a series of sighs, both exhausted and excited. A creepy thought snuck up on me, Linh, that this reaction sounded almost post-coital. Gross.
There was movement from the other side of the room. Katie stood up.
“Katie, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” demanded Brodie in a whisper.
“I can’t take this,” Katie said.
“Stop being a drama queen. Sit down.”
“You’re all so dead,” warned
And that is exactly what happened.
The door swung open, because Ms Vanderwerp was always a minute or so late.
She stumbled in, and was hit in the forehead.
Immediately, her hand shot up to wipe away the unexpected moisture.
Looking at her hand, she saw that it was now covered in a streak of watery red.
She looked back behind her to see what had struck her, and when she turned back to face the class she looked at the room like a person who had unexpectedly found herself blinded. Her eyes had never swum so much behind her glasses, like blue fish whose water was rapidly draining out of their bowls.
All this seemed to happen much slower than I imagined it would, which made the incident even more awfully slapstick.
Now, any reasonable person would quickly spot that watery red was not the colour of blood, and that the fluid didn’t even smell like blood. But Ms Vanderwerp had no time to reason this through in her head.
Why would such a thing still be warm? And yet it was the icky warmth of the water, the diluted hue of red and the steaming wad of expanded cotton swaying from side to side, that escalated her disgust and confusion. Her mouth turned into an infinity sign of horror.
No one laughed, or said, “Miss, Miss, it’s a joke!”
“Argh!” she screamed, and it was a rough scream. I had always imagined that if Ms Vanderwerp were to raise her voice, it would be high. But this was the scream of a cement truck on its first rotation. It was a scream of breaking rock. It was the first time that tremulous, gentle voice had made a noise that was clear and full of conviction.
For a moment, the blue fish behind her glasses looked as if they could be saved: I could see the tears filling up their bowls, overflowing down the sides of her face. Then she was out of the room.
*
“Quick, someone shut the door!” shouted Brodie, and Amber dashed from her seat and grabbed the handle. She had the presence of mind not to slam it and so draw attention to Room 105.
“She was crying. Did you see? Tears were coming out of her eyes!” That was Katie, whose mouth was an O.
“Shit. Shit. Shit!” Amber panicked. Her panic was like an actress’s, her hands wrung at the wrists as if doing an imitation of alarm.
We all looked up at the doorframe, and it was still there, a macabre microphone amplifying what they had done to poor Ms Vanderwerp.
Still standing by the door, Amber jumped up and pulled the tampon string from the doorframe. She held it out in front of her as if it had somehow transformed into an actual used sanitary item, and it suddenly seemed as nauseating as the real thing. She headed towards the only bin in the room.
“No, no!” hissed Brodie. “What if they search the bin?”
“Well, I’m not putting that back in my bag!”
“Put it in your thermos, Chelsea,” ordered Brodie.
“Eww,” Chelsea complained.
Amber ran to Chelsea’s desk, opened her thermos and dropped the tampon in. She screwed the lid back on as if she were screwing down the cover of a black manhole that could unleash gollums. Some water spilled onto Chelsea’s desk and she wiped it off with her sleeve, scowling.
Then Amber paced back to her own seat next to me. I could hear her breath, like a series of sighs, both exhausted and excited. A creepy thought snuck up on me, Linh, that this reaction sounded almost post-coital. Gross.
There was movement from the other side of the room. Katie stood up.
“Katie, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” demanded Brodie in a whisper.
“I can’t take this,” Katie said.
“Stop being a drama queen. Sit down.”
“You’re all so dead,” warned
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