Teach Me Dirty(8)

The door thumped shut behind the rest of my group, and I was alone, alone with him.

He sat down at his desk and stacked up some of the art pieces he was marking, then gestured to a seat the other side of him.

I sat. Slowly and reluctantly, with my knees clenched together and my foot tapping against the tiled floor.

“You’ve been ill?”

“Stomach bug,” I said.

“That’s unlike you, Helen.”

“I think it may have been food poisoning.” I stared at his hands on the desk, avoiding his eyes. “Katie, my little sister, she had it, too. Worse than me.”

“I see.” I could feel his eyes on mine. “I’m pleased to hear your absence had nothing to do with our little incident last week. I’m sure something like that wouldn’t keep you away from class, would it, Helen?”

“No, Mr Roberts, definitely not.” My cheeks sprang into a blush.

“I’m glad to hear it. I hope you’d feel able to talk to me, if you felt uncomfortable over a little incident like that.”

“Yes, of course.”

“But you don’t want to?” His voice was so strong. My fingers danced in my lap. “Helen, look at me.”

In horror, I forced my gaze to his. I shook my head. “No. I’m good. I mean, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but I’m good. I’m fine.”

He smiled. “If you’re sure.”

“Very sure.” My smile was strained, but it was the best I could do. Relief flooded me, sweeping through my limbs in euphoric giddiness, but when he stood to signal I was free to go, the whole sensation came crashing down.

It was over. Never to be spoken of again. Dismissed.

I should have been happy, but I wasn’t. It confirmed everything I already feared. He was my teacher, and this was nothing. This would always be nothing.

I turned away, staring out through the window as the weather changed as quickly as my mood. A downpour, a heavy one at that. Rain bounced off the windows, and horror and nerves and crazy emotion bounced right the way through my body.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, yes? Now that you’re feeling better?” He was gathering up his things. Piling year seven sketchbooks into a box to take home with him.

I nodded. “Yes, Mr Roberts.”

“Good.” He lifted the box in one hand, gripped a box of pastels under his elbow and his case in his other hand. “Grab the door for me, please, would you? And get the lights?”

I switched the room into a dull gloom, and opened the door for us. He smiled as he left, backing himself through the main entrance and disappearing out into the rain towards the car park.

I should have felt good. I should have felt relieved. I told myself so.

So, why did it feel so bad?

Emotions bubbled up. Days of tension and thoughts of the big embarrassing showdown had all been for nothing, and maybe I hadn’t wanted them to be. Maybe I wanted the questions. Maybe I wanted the showdown. Maybe I just wanted him to know.

Yes, I wanted him to know.

I needed him to know.

Even if it ruined everything, and made things awkward for the rest of my life, at least he would know, at least it would be something. Something more than this, this nothing.

I was following him into the rain before I knew it. Crazy, impulsive, ridiculous.

I reached him by his car, and he didn’t see me at first, bent into the backseat as he loaded it up. His hair was already soaked, messy curls dripping with rain as he noticed my presence, and my hair was drenched too, it clung to my face, my blazer doing little to protect me from the torrent, my bare legs feeling the chill.

“Helen?” he asked. “Don’t you have a coat?”

I shook my head, holding out my hands to shush him before I lost my nerve. “I lied,” I said. “I lied about food poisoning, I lied about not talking, I lied about everything.”

“Ok,” he said.

“I want to talk.”

He nodded. “Tomorrow?”

“Now.” My words sounded crazy. “Please. If you can. I mean, if you have some time. I know school is out, I just…”

He opened the passenger door, and my stomach turned over. “I have time,” he said.

***





Helen



Mr Roberts’ old Jag smelled of pine air freshener and oil paint, its interior artistically chaotic. Old rock blared from the stereo before he silenced it, ejecting a rattling old cassette tape. He cleared a box of paintbrushes, some notebooks and a stained wooden palette to make room for my legs in the footwell, turning in his seat to dump the collection in the back.

“Sorry, Helen. I usually travel solo.”

The thought warmed my heart. Maybe there was no Mrs Roberts. No string of artistic supermodels clambering into his car every evening. I clipped myself into the seatbelt as the engine rumbled into life, and he steered us out of the school grounds and onto the road.

I was aware of him. So aware of his body at my side, his hand gripping the stick as he worked up through the gears. I didn’t ask where we were going, and I didn’t care. Somewhere. Anywhere. I’d have ridden alongside him forever and not complained a peep. He turned onto the bypass, and put his foot down on the open straight, sending us parallel to the river Arlbrook for a while before nipping into a turning. The ground was gravelly, and the car bumbled along before he idled it, its nose to the fence with the drop of the bank and the swollen river beyond. A good spot.