I mean each one of Miss Mint’s most amazing clothes. The maroon skinny jeans and a burnt yellow vest, with the bronze top and a royal blue silk shirt and an emerald shrug. My boots are the beautiful pale cream calfskin and hanging from my neck’s a pendant, horn-shaped. And I’ve got one of Taff’s medals on a multicoloured ribbon round my neck. And I talk about hope and acceptance. And I write the word rainbow up and we go round the class and you know what? Each kid has something to say.
At the end, when they’re starting to sniff freedom and break, there’s a lot of writing on Alicia’s page. She hangs back and asks me to mark what she’s done. And as I read through, her cape brushes the page.
And I notice its pattern’s blue roses.
* * *
Sixteen seconds after Alicia is gone, Miss Mint’s in my face and my classroom, panting like Tao would after a run.
“It’s Josh ...” she sweats, ‘cos she’s run down from art, and I lock up while trying to unsqueeze my heart that’s gone tight.
“... and your mum.”
The trouble with school is there’s nowhere to hide. Not if you’re year 7, not in year 8; not if you’re sneaking in ‘cos you’ve run late. And not if you want to tell someone something so big it might squash them. Which, by the looks of things, Miss Mint needs to do.
“Let’s just sit down here.”
She slips onto a Mint plastic chair and I drop in across, right in the middle of canteen rush hour.
It’s like there’s a famine, the way kids swarm in and buy chunky chip cookies, and meet at the bin. And gossip and squabble and eat crispy chips, all swigging from smoothies and licking their lips. And I watch Jenny flirting with Jimmy, all coy. I see Erin making a face at a boy in year 8 as he swings his bag into her leg. I want to be part of it. So much I’d beg to swap back and I think now I’d go to the ends of the earth to be Lisi Reynolds. This better be worth it.
There’s a hole in me, just a small one, ‘cos breakfast consisted of one piece of toast, but Miss Mint’s words leap out of my mouth and she starts filling me in.
She’d been rushing to school ‘cos Mum needed to talk. Miss Mint hadn’t seen her last night — late night Thursday, you see, she says like I don’t know — so they’d woken up early and made omelettes together. My hole gets a little bit bigger.
“Together?”
She nods.
“And you ate it?”
She snaps off the head of a plastic drinks stirrer and says nothing. ‘Cos she knows that I know she can’t lie. But that’s not the point. She says,
“Your mum’s in debt.”
And it’s not like it’s news, ‘cos I knew this before. But I still flinch and swallow and look at the floor.
“But that’s not the point,” she says sharply. “We’ll come to that later.”
So then she’s all, “tights snagged,” and “bus late,” and “Rach texted” and although she’s obviously building suspense or whatever, I say,
“Just get on with it, please.” ‘Cos I know what I’m like when I waffle.
She looks a bit boot-faced but laces her hands and says, “’kay.” Which the real Miss Mint never would.
“So on my way in, I saw Josh’s parka lying on the ground near the gate.”
“Which gate?” I say, ‘cos there’s two. It’s the one to the field, where year 11s have
Kickabouts.
“Right,” I say. “Go on.”
“So I pick it up but can’t see him. He doesn’t play football, I mean I don’t think he does, and I put the note in the front pocket. And I’m looking around but all I can see is ...” she pauses.
“Go on.”
“Kai ..”
I blink twice. She means all she can look at is Kai ...
“... and the others.”
What with wanting to know about Mum and now Kai, with nine minutes left ‘til year 9’s sugar high, it’s all quite intense.
“And was Felix there?”
“No.”
And she scans the canteen like we’re being overheard and Alicia Payne smiles at me. This is absurd.
“He was with Josh.”
She leans
At the end, when they’re starting to sniff freedom and break, there’s a lot of writing on Alicia’s page. She hangs back and asks me to mark what she’s done. And as I read through, her cape brushes the page.
And I notice its pattern’s blue roses.
* * *
Sixteen seconds after Alicia is gone, Miss Mint’s in my face and my classroom, panting like Tao would after a run.
“It’s Josh ...” she sweats, ‘cos she’s run down from art, and I lock up while trying to unsqueeze my heart that’s gone tight.
“... and your mum.”
The trouble with school is there’s nowhere to hide. Not if you’re year 7, not in year 8; not if you’re sneaking in ‘cos you’ve run late. And not if you want to tell someone something so big it might squash them. Which, by the looks of things, Miss Mint needs to do.
“Let’s just sit down here.”
She slips onto a Mint plastic chair and I drop in across, right in the middle of canteen rush hour.
It’s like there’s a famine, the way kids swarm in and buy chunky chip cookies, and meet at the bin. And gossip and squabble and eat crispy chips, all swigging from smoothies and licking their lips. And I watch Jenny flirting with Jimmy, all coy. I see Erin making a face at a boy in year 8 as he swings his bag into her leg. I want to be part of it. So much I’d beg to swap back and I think now I’d go to the ends of the earth to be Lisi Reynolds. This better be worth it.
There’s a hole in me, just a small one, ‘cos breakfast consisted of one piece of toast, but Miss Mint’s words leap out of my mouth and she starts filling me in.
She’d been rushing to school ‘cos Mum needed to talk. Miss Mint hadn’t seen her last night — late night Thursday, you see, she says like I don’t know — so they’d woken up early and made omelettes together. My hole gets a little bit bigger.
“Together?”
She nods.
“And you ate it?”
She snaps off the head of a plastic drinks stirrer and says nothing. ‘Cos she knows that I know she can’t lie. But that’s not the point. She says,
“Your mum’s in debt.”
And it’s not like it’s news, ‘cos I knew this before. But I still flinch and swallow and look at the floor.
“But that’s not the point,” she says sharply. “We’ll come to that later.”
So then she’s all, “tights snagged,” and “bus late,” and “Rach texted” and although she’s obviously building suspense or whatever, I say,
“Just get on with it, please.” ‘Cos I know what I’m like when I waffle.
She looks a bit boot-faced but laces her hands and says, “’kay.” Which the real Miss Mint never would.
“So on my way in, I saw Josh’s parka lying on the ground near the gate.”
“Which gate?” I say, ‘cos there’s two. It’s the one to the field, where year 11s have
Kickabouts.
“Right,” I say. “Go on.”
“So I pick it up but can’t see him. He doesn’t play football, I mean I don’t think he does, and I put the note in the front pocket. And I’m looking around but all I can see is ...” she pauses.
“Go on.”
“Kai ..”
I blink twice. She means all she can look at is Kai ...
“... and the others.”
What with wanting to know about Mum and now Kai, with nine minutes left ‘til year 9’s sugar high, it’s all quite intense.
“And was Felix there?”
“No.”
And she scans the canteen like we’re being overheard and Alicia Payne smiles at me. This is absurd.
“He was with Josh.”
She leans
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