Good Me Bad Me(15)

‘I have a feeling I won’t fit in very well here.’

‘It can be tough, that’s for sure. The girls here are smart and streetwise, most of them have grown up in London their whole lives. I’ve seen it before, everybody new gets a bit of a rough ride which is what guidance teachers are for, and lucky for me, I got you! Now, are you ready to show me your drawing?’

‘I think so, yes.’

She wipes her hands on the damp cloth by her side, stands up and walks over to my easel, makes an appreciative whistling noise, says, boy oh boy, your old headmistress was right.

‘Such incredible use of shading, the statue looks like it’s moving, walking off the page. Would you mind very much if I kept it? I’d like to show the Year Eights, they’re working on figure sketches at the moment.’

‘Sure, of course, if you think it’s good enough.’

I’m about to unclip the paper but she tells me to stop, that I’ve forgotten something.

‘Oh, sorry.’

‘An artist must always sign their work.’

I look up at her, she winks, nudges my shoulder, and I don’t feel weird or uncomfortable in the same way I did when June touched me. I sign it, but need to be more careful in future – I almost signed it Annie.

I’m about to leave when she says, ‘Don’t worry about the girls, I’m keeping a close eye on them. I’ve had them in here tidying up and scrubbing palette pots. They seem to feel sorry for what they did so I’m sure it’s the last we’ll hear of it. Why don’t you grab a roll of paper on the way out and a box of charcoal, keep up the sketching at home?’

A warm feeling as I leave, the good wolf. Feasted.

A stillness fills the corridors, I don’t have to rush or worry about avoiding the rest of the girls. I head to my locker to pick up a folder I forgot and get halfway across the school courtyard when my phone rings. A number I don’t recognize.

A flash of Izzy’s face sneering at me when she said, ‘Had any strange phone calls yet?’

I shouldn’t answer, but curiosity gets the better of me. Curiosity killed the.

‘Hello.’

‘Is that Milly?’

A deep voice. Muffled.

‘Who is this?’ I reply.

‘I’m ringing about the advert.’

‘What advert?’

‘The postcard.’

‘What postcard?’

‘Oh, come on, love, no need to be shy.’

‘How did you get this number?’

‘From the advert, I told you. Look, I’m not being funny but are you for real or not?’

‘I might be.’

‘You like playing games, do you?’ he asks.

His voice. Different, more urgent. I recognize what it means.

‘Depends,’ I reply.

‘On what?’

‘If I get to win or not.’

I hang up, stare at the phone for a few seconds, leave the courtyard. Although it was warm on the Tube this morning, the evening wind has changed in the past couple of weeks, brushes over my hands with a cool edge. I put my phone in my blazer pocket, too much to hold with the folder and the roll of paper MK gave me. I feel a vibration against my thigh, a message. I don’t stop to read it, in a few minutes I’ll be home. When I reach the turning into my road, I pull my phone out from my pocket, an unknown number again.

My cocks hard and ready arrange to meet



I read it again, unsure if the content or the fact it’s written without punctuation offends me more. Uncouth. The message disappears off the screen as a call comes in. I recognize the number this time, the same one as before. I can’t help but answer. Fun, almost.

‘Yes?’

‘Did you hang up on me?’

I pause at the corner, lean into the wall, rest my heavy school rucksack up and off my shoulders.

‘Maybe.’

‘Are you in your school uniform now?’

‘How do you know I go to school?’

‘I could tell from the picture – do you wear a skirt or one of those little dresses?’

I can hear the arousal in his voice, obvious to me. I’ve always wondered if it sounds different in a man than a woman. It doesn’t.

‘When can we meet? I pay well.’

I hang up. Two nil, loser. I enjoy the power, being desired. I turn into my road, hear someone whistle. Morgan. She uses her fingers like a builder might, or a dog-walker calling her dog. I smile and she nods at me, calls me over then buries her mouth into the zip of her tracksuit so only the top part of her face is visible. She holds something in one of her hands. I walk over. Her eye is less bruised than before but I notice as she brings her mouth out of her top that her lips are chapped and bloody. She chews on them as if they are food. An appetizer.

‘Hi.’

She doesn’t reply, turns her head to the side, picks at her lips, peels a bit of skin off them. Fresh blood when she turns back as if she’s eaten a berry, a more appetizing appetizer. She licks the blood away, wipes the back of her sleeve across her mouth. I can see the thing in her hand is a postcard, but I can’t see what of.

‘I’m just back from school.’

She shrugs.

‘Your eye looks better.’

‘Till the next time, yeah.’