the corner. ‘It’s jizz!’ Another burst of giggling. Lauren? He can’t be sure. Eight or nine girls clustered together, all looking at the boys for approval. He hesitates; fatal indecision. They’re revving up now, gathering power.
‘Mr Robson, did Chloé’s tits make you dribble?’
Don’t react, he tells himself; just don’t react. They’re all paying attention now, watching to see what he’ll do. He used to be able to distinguish the good kids from the troublemakers, but they seem have merged now into a single unit, a pack. He hears his father’s voice: ‘ Savages, most of them ’. No. They’re just kids; difficult kids.
‘Perhaps him like boys, innit? I bet him want to get in Kieran’s arse.’
‘No, he ain’t no batty boy,’ Craig calls across the room. ‘Me seen his wife.’
‘Bet she’s a dog,’ Lauren chimes in. Chantelle jumps to her feet and starts barking. The class erupts in more laughter; they’re all at it now.
‘Quiet!’ he yells, banging his hand down on the desk. ‘Or each and every one of you will stay behind at the end of the day.’
A brief hush falls over the room, and for a blissful moment he thinks he’s got away with it. Then Ryan turns to the others. ‘Yeah, shut it, you lot. Mrs Robbo’s well fit.’
Craig grins. ‘Innit? I’d give her one.’
‘That is it ! Craig, ou t! Lauren, Chantelle, this is your last verbal warning. And unless the rest of you want a detention at three forty, I suggest you put a sock in it – now ! Ryan, bring me your report card.’ His throat aches from shouting; he’s cocked it up – badly.
Lauren starts to cry. Chantelle puts her arm around Lauren and looks at Jonathan as though he’s just strangled a kitten and stamped on its head. Ryan sits down and leans back, looking at the ceiling with exaggerated boredom.
‘Ryan. Report card. Now!’
Ryan makes a big deal of searching through his rucksack, taking out every item and examining it closely before showing it to the class.
‘Get on with it!’
‘I am ,’ Ryan says, facing Jonathan and rolling his eyes theatrically before turning back to his mates. The noise is dulling now as the rest of the group, sensing fresh sport, watch to see who’ll back down first.
‘Found it, Sir.’ Ryan holds the card up and waggles it back and forth. He turns to grin at the class, and then he begins to walk towards Jonathan, slowly, ostentatiously – and backwards. As he gets to the front, he spins on his heels and follows it up by moonwalking towards the door.
‘Ryan Jenkins,’ Jonathan says steadily. ‘Do not even think about leaving my classroom without permission.’
‘I weren’t, Sir,’ he says, in mock outrage.
Jonathan takes a breath. Maybe he can still save this. He tries a conciliatory tone. ‘Come on, then. Let’s have that report card please.’
Ryan offers the card. But just as Jonathan is about to take it, the little shit jerks it up out of his reach. Briefly, Jonathan considers sending him over to Malcolm or to one of the assistant heads. But what sort of teacher is he if he can’t deal with this himself? He makes a grab for the card, but the boy whisks it behind his back, swapping hands before holding it up again. Jonathan moves fast but his fingers fail to grasp it before Ryan yanks it away again. He can hear the other kids laughing; he knows he’s not thinking straight now, he’s just reacting. The card flashes up in front of him, then vanishes; it appears to his right, then is gone, to his left, then disappears; now you see it, now you don’t; his face is too close, the smell of bubble gum is too near . . .
He is aware of the silence before he registers the gasp that precedes it. Ryan is standing still now, an unmistakable air of smugness beginning to settle around his features. The kids are whispering. There’s a dent in the plasterboard wall, and tiny drops of blood are blooming from the grazes that are beginning to smart on Jonathan’s knuckles.
‘Mr Robson, did Chloé’s tits make you dribble?’
Don’t react, he tells himself; just don’t react. They’re all paying attention now, watching to see what he’ll do. He used to be able to distinguish the good kids from the troublemakers, but they seem have merged now into a single unit, a pack. He hears his father’s voice: ‘ Savages, most of them ’. No. They’re just kids; difficult kids.
‘Perhaps him like boys, innit? I bet him want to get in Kieran’s arse.’
‘No, he ain’t no batty boy,’ Craig calls across the room. ‘Me seen his wife.’
‘Bet she’s a dog,’ Lauren chimes in. Chantelle jumps to her feet and starts barking. The class erupts in more laughter; they’re all at it now.
‘Quiet!’ he yells, banging his hand down on the desk. ‘Or each and every one of you will stay behind at the end of the day.’
A brief hush falls over the room, and for a blissful moment he thinks he’s got away with it. Then Ryan turns to the others. ‘Yeah, shut it, you lot. Mrs Robbo’s well fit.’
Craig grins. ‘Innit? I’d give her one.’
‘That is it ! Craig, ou t! Lauren, Chantelle, this is your last verbal warning. And unless the rest of you want a detention at three forty, I suggest you put a sock in it – now ! Ryan, bring me your report card.’ His throat aches from shouting; he’s cocked it up – badly.
Lauren starts to cry. Chantelle puts her arm around Lauren and looks at Jonathan as though he’s just strangled a kitten and stamped on its head. Ryan sits down and leans back, looking at the ceiling with exaggerated boredom.
‘Ryan. Report card. Now!’
Ryan makes a big deal of searching through his rucksack, taking out every item and examining it closely before showing it to the class.
‘Get on with it!’
‘I am ,’ Ryan says, facing Jonathan and rolling his eyes theatrically before turning back to his mates. The noise is dulling now as the rest of the group, sensing fresh sport, watch to see who’ll back down first.
‘Found it, Sir.’ Ryan holds the card up and waggles it back and forth. He turns to grin at the class, and then he begins to walk towards Jonathan, slowly, ostentatiously – and backwards. As he gets to the front, he spins on his heels and follows it up by moonwalking towards the door.
‘Ryan Jenkins,’ Jonathan says steadily. ‘Do not even think about leaving my classroom without permission.’
‘I weren’t, Sir,’ he says, in mock outrage.
Jonathan takes a breath. Maybe he can still save this. He tries a conciliatory tone. ‘Come on, then. Let’s have that report card please.’
Ryan offers the card. But just as Jonathan is about to take it, the little shit jerks it up out of his reach. Briefly, Jonathan considers sending him over to Malcolm or to one of the assistant heads. But what sort of teacher is he if he can’t deal with this himself? He makes a grab for the card, but the boy whisks it behind his back, swapping hands before holding it up again. Jonathan moves fast but his fingers fail to grasp it before Ryan yanks it away again. He can hear the other kids laughing; he knows he’s not thinking straight now, he’s just reacting. The card flashes up in front of him, then vanishes; it appears to his right, then is gone, to his left, then disappears; now you see it, now you don’t; his face is too close, the smell of bubble gum is too near . . .
He is aware of the silence before he registers the gasp that precedes it. Ryan is standing still now, an unmistakable air of smugness beginning to settle around his features. The kids are whispering. There’s a dent in the plasterboard wall, and tiny drops of blood are blooming from the grazes that are beginning to smart on Jonathan’s knuckles.
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