(Jenny's POV)
I sigh in annoyance.
"Of all the places you got me to work, Aunt 'Mione, you had to choose the place you work – a school!" I say to my Aunt Hermione as she drives us to St Hope's High School, where she works as deputy head teacher.
"At least it's a job where you'll get paid. Unlike those voluntary jobs you did where they only paid for your lunch and transport," she tells me.
"But a school? Really?!"
"You should be grateful that I got you this job. In a recession like this, you can't afford to be picky. Besides, I can keep an eye on you at school, rather than me coming home and seeing you do nothing but watch TV, play video games or surfing the web while stuffing your face like a slob."
"I'll rather be doing that than teaching and I quote from you, Aunt H, 'snotty, brain-dead, badly dressed kids who can't spell their own name'."
"Enough! Now you'll be working as a teacher at St Hope's and that is that!"
As we sit silently for the rest of the journey, I cross my arms in a huff and slump lower in my seat, closing my eyes. Even though my Aunt Hermione can be an uptight cow, she's also right. I can't be picky for the jobs I want. The only reason I was lumbered with this job is because when I graduated from university, I only had £100 in my account. So after spending my whole summer looking for a job to help my mum at home, Aunt Hermione suggested it'll be a good idea for me to work at the school she works – St Hope's. Meaning I had to move out of my mum's flat in Hackney, East London to live with my Aunt Hermione and Uncle Richie in Shepherd's Bush, West London. But what my mum and aunt don't know is that I've already got a job. One that I've had since before I started university. I'm a…
The car door slams shuts.
I open my eyes and see that my aunt has already parked the car in the school's car park. She's standing outside the car, pointing at her watch saying, "Let's go."
I unbuckle my seat and climb out of the car. I stare at the building at where I'll now be working. The school looked quaint and comfortable. Then I turn my attention to the pupils coming through the school gates. These pupils are not like any other, while some of the pupils were wearing the regulated school uniform; most of them had replaced their red sweaters with different coloured sweaters or hoodies, accessorising them with chunky wide belts and jewellery.
"What do you think?" Aunt Hermione asks me.
"Well, they certainly known how to dress for school," I say. "They look like their dressed up for a fun day out."
"You can talk! You're dressed up like you're about to go clubbing rather than a teacher."
"I have you know, Aunt 'Mione that what I'm wearing is called smart-casual."
The smart being a bright red tux jacket with black collar and lapel with a black buttoned up shirt underneath and the casual being light blue denim jorts with black opaque suspender tights and black suede lace up ankle boots.
Aunt Hermione sighs and shakes her head at me, then leads me to the school.
"And while you're here, you'll refer to me as Mrs. King, not Aunt 'Mione or Aunt H," she tells me. "Understand?"
"Yes, Mrs King," I reply in a schoolgirl mocking way.
Aunt Hermione glares at me. I quickly avert her gaze as we enter the school.
xxoOoxx
We walk along the corridor to the head teacher's office. Aunt Hermione enters the room and I follow behind. The head is sitting at his desk reading The Sun newspaper.
Aunt Hermione clears her throat. "Good morning, Mr. Flatley."
Mr. Flatley closes the newspaper in haste and quickly stands up from his chair. He's a middle age man in his mid-forties/early fifties. He's tall and had an average body, with light fair hair, blue eyes and glasses. He was wearing a dark grey suit with a navy blue tie. He seems like the opposite of Aunt Hermione – laid-back and easygoing. If you did anything bad at this school, I'm sure he won't even notice, unlike Aunt Hermione.
"Oh, good morning, Mrs King," he says. "How was your summer holiday?"
She spent five of the six weeks caravaning with Uncle Richie – and it rained… throughout the entire time.
"It was quite pleasant, thank you," she tells Mr. Flatley. "This is my niece, Jennifer Brownstone. She'll be joining St Hope's as a teacher."
"Welcome, Miss Brownstone," he says, extending his hand. "Mrs King has told me a lot about you."
"Really? Well, Mrs King has told me some things about you, too, Mr. Flatley," I tell him, shaking his hand. Sweary insulting things.
"How about I type you up a timetable for you, Jenny?" Mrs King heads towards her computer on her desk and starts to type.
"How you seen this, Miss Brownstone?" Mr. Flatley hands me the newspaper. I see the front page headline, 'CATCHA! – The Cat catches Mayfair Robber'. The headline came with a picture of the robber in his boxer shorts being led away by the police. "The Cat has done it again!"
I read the story out loud. "'Mysterious vigilante crime-fighter, the Cat, has not only stopped the robber escaping with jewellery worth thousands of pounds, but has also humiliated him by stripping him to his underwear and tying him to a tree, blindfolded and gagged, with a drawing of a cat's face on his torso by the Queen Caroline Memorial in Hyde Park'."
"She's also made a fool out of the Metropolitan Police," says Mr. Flatley. "And on top of that, she's MI9's second most wanted person."
"The first being the Grandmaster," I reply.
"Right, here we go," says Aunt Hermione, handing me my timetable. "This is your timetable for the Year Tens."
"Why the Year Tens?" I ask.
"Well, since you're not an actual qualified teacher, you'll be working part-time, so you'll be teaching one year group who, let's just say, would understand and can communicate with someone almost their age."
I look at my timetable. It looks pretty good, considering she's assigned me to classes to which I did well in secondary school – Art, Music, I.T., P.E. and English. I'll be teaching Art on Fridays, Music will be on Mondays and Wednesdays (Wednesday being today), PSHE are on Wednesdays, I.T. on Thursdays, P.E. on Mondays and Fridays and English on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
"Now that that's sorted, I'll take you to your classroom. It's almost nine o'clock," says Aunt Hermione.
"Good luck, Miss Brownstone," says Mr. Flatley.
I nod at him and follow Aunt Hermione out of the office.
We walk down the corridor as the bell rings, signalling the start of school. As we walk, Aunt Hermione sees a spilled Coca-Cola bottle of the floor and sighs heavily. I frown knowing it's a waste of good fizzy beverage.
"Honestly, these kids," she says. "I'll have to get Mr. London to clean this up."
"Mr. London?" I ask.
"Frank London is the school caretaker. I'll be sure that at break time he'll show you around the school."
That's all I need. A balding, tubby middle-aged caretaker who could be the sort who'll peek at girls changing while he's up a tree with binoculars showing me round the school.
"Here we are," says Aunt Hermione, stopping outside a classroom. The sound of chatter and laughing reminds me of my school days. Nostalgic much. "Now you wait here, while I'll go and introduce you."
She goes inside and the talks and giggles that I heard five seconds ago abruptly stop.
"Good morning, class," I hear her say.
"Good morning, Mrs King," the class chorus.
"Today, we have a new teacher joining our school and she'll be teaching this class. Please make her feel welcome – Miss Brownstone."
I take a deep breath and turn the handle. In I go. I come into the classroom. The class diverts their attention to me. They stare transfixed, like I've got another head. I guess they wasn't expecting a vibrant twenty-three year old teaching them, but a mousy thirty-something singleton that still lives with her parents and their four cats. I stand in front of the desk by the whiteboard and nod my head.
"Hi," I say.
"I'll leave you to it," says Aunt Hermione, as she leaves the room. I turn to the door where she gives me a little wave and clatter clatters down the corridor in her heels.
"Right!" I say, clapping my hands together, turning my attention to the class. "First things first…"
The class brace themselves.
"No one is allowed to call me Miss Brownstone. It's either Jenny or Jen, maybe Miss B, but not Miss Brownstone. I'm twenty-three, not thirty-three."
The class sigh in relief and nod in agreement.
"Now that that's out of the way, I suppose I should tell you about myself. Then I'm gonna pick random people and you're gonna tell me your name and a bit about yourself. Also, since I won't be able to remember everybody's names, I'll gonna give you nicknames. OK? So… I'm Jenny Brownstone. I enjoy reading comic books, playing video games and shopping and I know fuck all about teaching."
There's a gasp and the class giggle at my outburst, while some are shocked that a teacher swore.
"Cool!" says the boy with the furry hat, sitting at the back.
"Thanks," I say. "I hope no one minds if I swear."
"Not at all, Miss B," says the boy.
"Excellent! What's your name?"
"Timothy Hinklebottom. But I go by my DJ name, Scoop Doggy. I enjoying rapping and spinning records and I hopes to become a DJ like Tim Westwood."
"That's great! And you've already got yourself a nickname so I don't have to think of one. Right, who's next?" I scan around the room until I stop a girl with a hime cut hairstyle with a fuchsia flower clip in her hair, filing her nails. "You, there. What's your name?"
The girl stops filing her nails and flicks her hair. "Davina Berry. I like shopping, fashion and watching reality TV shows, and I hope to become either a reality TV star or a WAG."
"Then I shall name you TOWIE after the ITV2 reality show. Next?" A smiley black girl in a grey St. Hope's hoodie at the front shoots her hand up. "And you are…?"
"Carrie Stewart," she says. "I'm a fitness freak and I hope to compete in the Olympic Games and win gold in gymnastics."
"Very inspiring, Sunny. I decided to call you Sunny because I know that smile you're sporting could brighten up anyone's day." I notice the girl next to Sunny/Carrie. She's an Indian girl with glasses reading a book about Quantum Physics. "What about you?"
"I'm Rose Gupta," she says politely. "I like science and I dream of winning the Noble Prize in Physics."
"Brains will be your name." I point to the boy sitting next to TOWIE. "What your name at the back?"
"Donovan Butler," he says. "I like football and would like to become the next David Beckham."
"Then it's obvious that you'll have the same nickname as him, Golden Balls." An emo girl near the door put her hand up. "Yes?"
"I'm Avril Franklin," she says, putting her hand down. "I care about the environment, animal and human rights and I plan to become an environmentalist so I could stop all wars, poverty and sickness."
"Very good. I'm gonna call you Hippie Girl." I spot the boy next to Hippie Girl. He has shaggy blond hair and blue eyes. "How about you? What your name?"
"Oscar Cole," he says. There's a small pause.
"Don't you have any ambitions or activities you like?" I ask.
Oscar says nothing. He shrugs his shoulders. Hippie Girl nudges him.
"Come on, Oscar. There must be something," she tells him.
"No, no, that's fine, Hippie Girl," I say. "I'm sure John Wayne here is thinking about what his ambitions will be."
"John Wayne?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.
"After the late actor. He was the epitome of what I call 'the strong silent type' – a man who would convey his resolve and power through a sturdy, deliberate silence. If you don't like that, I can just call you Enigma. You're like a riddle that can't be solved."
"You can say that again," Hippie Girl mutter under her breath.
"I'll take Enigma, please," he says.
"Right, Enigma it is." I smile. "Now we're done with introductions, you guys can get back to whatever you were doing. If anyone wants me, I'll be reading my Cosmo mag."
I sit in the chair by the front desk and whip out my Cosmopolitan magazine from my brown satchel bag. I rest my feet of the desk and start flicking through the pages. As I read, I can vaguely hear the pupils whisper to each other that I'm cool, I'm the best looking teacher in school and I'm the sort of teacher who would give them a sex education any day of the week. I smile to myself and continue reading until the bell goes for the next lesson which was Music. I follow the pupils to the Music Room which is on the ground floor as I have no clue where it is. As the class get settled, I suddenly realise that I actually have to teach these pupils about music. This isn't like the last lesson where everyone gets to piss around and do whatever they want. Christ, everyone's looking at me, waiting for me to start. I swallow. Here goes…
"Right…" I begin. "Let's start with the obvious, shall we? Music… to us… is… an important part of our way of life. Common sayings such as 'the harmony of the spheres' and 'it is music to my ears' point to the notion that music is often ordered and pleasant to listen to."
Some of the class nod in agreement. Good. It's going well. So I continue.
"Performance is the physical expression of music. Often, a musical work is performed once its structure and instrumentation are satisfactory to its creators; however, as it gets performed, it can evolve and change. A performance can either be rehearsed or improvised. Improvisation is a musical idea created without premeditation, while rehearsal is vigorous repetition of an idea until it has achieved cohesion. So that'll be your exercise for this lesson – either perform a song that you know or you can write your own song and perform that. You can work by yourself or in a group. You can also use the instruments here by the whiteboard. You've got fifteen minutes."
Everyone gets stuck in straight away. I sigh in relief knowing that I could get away with teaching a lesson even though I know sod all. I decided that I'm gonna join in on this exercise too. I'll be performing a song I know, but the question is what song? There's so many to choose from. As I have a think, I peer out of the window. It's a dry day with sunny spells. The privet hedges of the suburban gardens over the road are cut into ugly arcs. The bedding plants are crude poster paint colours, set out in unattractive repeating patterns, like wallpaper. The trees have all been pollarded so their branches don't wave in the wind. Suburban nature is not a pretty sight.
"Time's up everyone," I say after fifteen minutes. "Right, you've all been very busy. I hope songs you've got show me who you really are. Who wants to go first?"
Scoop's hand goes up. "Me and my crew will go first."
Scoop and his friends, Homie and JJ, make their way to the front. They decide to do their own song. I say song, it's actually a rap about who they are and their lives at home and at school. Then TOWIE (Davina) goes up next and does her interpretation of Cheryl Cole's Fight for This Love, complete with choreography. Next was Hippie Girl (Avril), though the song that she chose to create sounded like poetry about the night. But it's good, very Gothic, a total stormy night with bats flying and cats stalking and trees tapping on windows and flashes of lightning like spears from hell and the crash of thunder as the devil rides out.
"You've really tried hard, Hippie Girl. Well done," I say. "Anyone else want to go up and perform?"
Everyone goes quiet. No one else wants to perform.
"Come on, guys," I say. "You've all known each other since Year Seven. You can't be that embarrassed to perform in front of each other?"
The class still feel nervous.
"How about if I perform a song I like to show you that there's nothing to be embarrassed about?" I suggest. I notice a piano in the corner by the window and I push it in the middle of the room. "I'll be performing a song I know called Lollipop. Written by a gay man called Mika."
Cracking my fingers, I launch myself into the introduction and when it finished, I open my mouth and start singing.
"I said, sucking too hard on your lollipop
Hey, love's gonna get you down
I said, sucking too hard on your lollipop
Hey, love's gonna get you down
"Sucking too hard on your lollipop
Or love's gonna get you down
Sucking too hard on your lollipop
Or love's gonna get you down
"Say love, say love
Or love's gonna get you down
Say love, say love
Or love's gonna get you down
"I went walking in with my mama one day
When she warned me what people say
Live your life until love is found
'Cause love's gonna get you down
"Take a look at the girl next door
She's a player and a down right bore
Jesus loves her, she wants more
Oh, bad girls get you down
"Singing, sucking too hard on your lollipop
Or love's gonna get you down
Sucking too hard on your lollipop
Or love's gonna get you down
"Say love, say love
Or love's gonna get you down
Say love, say love
Or love's gonna get you down
"Mama told me what I should know
Too much candy gonna rot your soul
If she loves you, let her go
'Cause love only gets you down
"Take a look at the boy like me
Never stood on my own two feet
Now I'm blue, as I can be
Oh, love couldn't get me down
"Singing, sucking too hard on your lollipop
Or love's gonna get you down
Sucking too hard on your lollipop
Or love's gonna get you down
"Say love, say love
Or love's gonna get you down
Say love, say love
Or love's gonna get you down
"I went walking with my mama one day
When she warned me what people say
Live your life until love is found
Or love's gonna get you down
"Singing, sucking too hard on your lollipop
Or love's gonna get you down
Sucking too hard on your lollipop
Or love's gonna get you down
"Say love
(Say love)
Say love
(Say love)
Or love's gonna get you down
"Say love
(Say love)
Say love
(Say love)
Or love's gonna get you down
"Mama told me what I should know
Too much candy gonna rot your soul
If she loves you, let her go
'Cause love only gets you down
"Whoa, oh, whoa, oh
Whoa, oh, lollipop
Whoa, oh, whoa, oh
Whoa, oh, lollipop
"Sucking too hard on your lollipop
Or love's gonna get you down
Say, sucking too hard on your lollipop
Hey, love's gonna get you down
(Lollipop)"
When I finish, I'm rewarded with a warm round of applause and cheering, with Scoop giving a piercing whistle.
"Quieten down, everyone!" I turn to the door and see Aunt Hermione with a moderately attractive man wearing dark blue overalls and glasses. "What is going on here?"
"Oh, hi, Aunt 'Mio… I mean Mrs King," I say, forgetting what Aunt Hermione told me this morning. There's a stilfed gasp as the class whisper among themselves. I should have told them that their deputy head is my aunt. "I was teaching these guys that there's nothing to be embarrassed about performing in front people you know."
"Mm," she says.
"So… what brings you here?"
"I just wanted to see how you are coping with your pupils. But it seems that you're all getting on like a house on fire. Also, I would like to introduce to Mr. Frank London – the caretaker."
Frank holds out his hand. "It's nice to meet you, Miss Brownstone."
I blink at him. He is so not the person I was expecting to look like.
"Jenny?" says Mrs King.
I clear my throat. "Sorry about that. It's nice to meet you, too... Frank," I say, shaking his hand.
School has officially just got interesting.