So then I change tack and ask what she’s into and amazingly she says fashion and after I’ve choked a bit on my water, then we’re away: what can she think of that’s a terrible mistake and means life, death ...
“Sugar Berry.”
“What?”
The name of the popular London clothing label’s infamous and everyone knows it was set up by an ex-Fairmere student in James Payne’s year. Fact, I think they were mates, but I’ve no idea why she’s said it.
“Got the idea from your shoes, yeah? Sugar Berry’s well nice but have you seen their spring summer collection?” She head-jolts on ‘seen’. “My bro James won’t be seen dead in it. Says it’s a big mistake.” And then I remember Alicia worships her brother. He’d tell me in mentoring, during our chats, “my sister loves me,” and I used to think, well, good ‘cos she hates everyone else.
She sits there like a floodlight turned on, all pleased and alert and pops gum in her mouth and I don’t say a word ‘cos I might now be sitting but she’s floored me.
“I’m sorry, Alicia; you’ll have to elaborate a little.” I am turning into Jane Eyre.
Her eyes swallow me; chew me up like the gum; I am putty; I’m thick. So what, I think. Really I’m younger than you; I’m allowed to not know. She measures her words like spooning out salt on a very slow slug.
“Maybe I can write from the povvuv some designer that orders models down the catwalk on shoes she knows they’ll fall off, then when they start walking, they know they’ll die but they do it anyway to show off the clothes ‘cos the clothes, well, they’re worth it.”
She hair-swishes ‘worth’.
“Povvuv?”
“Point of view of.” She sighs. I’m clearly so not worth it.
“No,” I say. I refuse to shrivel.
“Why?”
And we lock horns and I think, because it’s a ridiculous idea, but then I think fine, I have tried and I can’t actually think of a reason why not to write about models toppling off a runway and splatting so we start making notes and it turns out there’s quite a lot of clothes we both like from Sugar Berry and quite a lot to write about from the povvuv a clothes horse.
* * *
Another thing I learn is Kai’s being a dick. This is what Alicia says:
“Kai’s being a dick.”
Because I’m her teacher, it’s ok to say,
“That’s not nice, Alicia,”
but probably not,
“Don’t be a cow,”
which is what comes out.
She looks at me, then gets up and comes over and shouts some abuse in my ear on one side, then the speakers which I failed to turn off screech in the other and she’s in my face, snapping that gum and those lips and that stud meet neatly as she grins and it’s not the world’s best smile. But it’s not far off.
“Sorry, Miss,” she says. And I shrug graciously.
She only makes pen sounds, then stops; looks at me.
“You don’t like him, Miss. Do you? Not in that way?”
My pulse slows. Time stops. I don’t know what to say.
But then cannons pass. She puts biro to page.
“He’s well sexy, Miss, but he is half your age.”
After an hour; after I’ve busied myself shuffling papers to drawers, moving piles of books from one side of the room to the other and checking my phone for excuses to leave, she’s done. I’m surprised.
“So you’re ready?”
She nods, but our cosy time’s not over just yet. She helps me put chairs up, then toys with my word of the week sign and says, “I don’t really get boys, Miss.”
And ‘cos I have nothing to offer, I look as wise as I can but don’t talk; I let her.
“’Cos I like them, yeah, but Felix’s dumped Frankee and what’s Frankee not got and if she can’t get boys, then who can ...” The light strips her face of all colour, like a bleached whale.
“... and Kai’s gone all weird, like he’s lost something.” She hangs on the door, “and he only likes year 10s, well one really ...”
And she doesn’t say my name, my real name but I know it’s me she’s thinking of at that precise minute and it’s all just too strange, so I turn the light off, which means leave. I lock the door and that’s it, it’s over; she’s Alicia again. And she cracks gum and pulls her gloves on, with earmuffs too and my ears hurt and my teeth ache and she saunters away, leaving me shatter’d and sunder’d.
Chapter 12: Thursday, fourth night
Next day at break, I’m making a mess in the staff room when Mr Underwood snares me.
“Phoebe. Many congratulations.”