To Be Honest(51)

She looks at me, grabs for my hand. Says, sincerely, “I made all their costumes, you know? For their piece? Jeans hotpants. I never thought little Lisi would wear them but still, they all think it’s quite fun to have embroidered bears plastered; one bear on each bum. It would be a thrill if I saw their routine. I took the day off work especially.”

Assembly’s ending. Mr U’s monotone is solemn, descending. The creaking of chairs and young bones filters through from the hall and Mum’s staring at me. I think, of course Mum. Of course you can see me do dance. The only thing is, it’s Miss Mint. But skirting the subject’s not dishonesty, I don’t think. Then I do. Wait. ‘Cos talking of skirts, Mum’s standing there in an old tunic-style shirt and a strange woolly hat when she could wear my dress, all grown up.

“Here’s an idea. Parents aren’t meant to come to end of year Review. But knowing Lisi, she’d love you to watch. So would you be able to put on a frock and come back after lunch? Because that’s when they’re on.”

“You think if I dress up, and maybe wear mon chapeau too, that’s ok?”

She’s trying so hard that I can’t disappoint.

“Your hat looks amazing. But not vital, I’d say. Just come in a dress. Something festive. Like red, black or short ...”

Doubt’s stamped on her face as I struggle for answers. But something’s occurred and I need to digest it. And what’s the harm anyway, Mum? What’s the harm, I think. I don’t want her hanging around during lunch and I have learned that outfits can wow. And that dress still needs to prove itself on Mum, somehow.

* * *

We meet at the gate: I’m on duty. Miss Mint’s a bit late which makes me all stressed: it’s nearly eight minutes to one and Kai’s due here soon and there’s boards to be rung. Wish we’d done it at noon. Then we’d have twelve whole hours to go. We’ve eleven still, though. All’s not lost.

Swimming like salmon we battle upstream to the office and let ourselves in. There’s a ream of thank you cards, Christmas cards. Cake tins and boxes of chocolates. Miss Mint sweeps a space and then plonks the phone down on her desk. I mean, my desk. She looks all professional and serious. She’s already got phone numbers to hand. Says she knows someone there and she picks up and dials and gives me a death stare.

“Go outside,” she hisses, “just in case we get surprised.”

Good thinking, Miss Mint. Though I can’t pretend I wouldn’t like to be seen through the glass making phone calls on this, the last day of the year. ‘Cos my year 9s would make sure they behaved ‘til the end.

It takes seven minutes. She rings off, comes out. It’s noisy out here and she can’t help but shout,

“It’s all ok. We don’t have to worry. It’s fine. If Alicia had written her work line by line and then copied it down; got it teacher approved, then it’s not all that easy for the goal posts to move.

“What do you mean?” I say, ‘cos she’s talking in riddles and I can see Kai, dressed as Taff, who is striding towards me.

“Basically, the notes page for GCSE creative writing’s not been used enough for rules to be firmly in place yet. There’s room for improvement so they’re not cracking down on teachers or students who aren’t quite au fait with the rules.”

“Very good,” I say, ‘cos I’m glad she’s using French. “Phew.”

“Yes, indeed,” she says twinkling. “Now I’ve got to go and get changed.”

We hesitate, just for a second. Then part. Kai splashes up with a package. I start to unwrap it and he whispers, “no, not here, Lise.”

But a small flash of cardboard’s on show. Piece by piece

I start understanding.

* * *

Kai rumbles away ‘cos the bell goes and I’m left with nothing to say. The mistletoe’s all smashed up. It hangs from the archway like Tao’s tail did after my Dad picked him up

Off the road

And swung him over his shoulder

After the Tesco van hit him.

I lose it. I start to cry, openly, softly at first ‘cos I’m standing there, streaming, a pregnancy test in my purse and I’m not me; I’m Miss Mint, not Lisi and I don’t know what’s happening. I thought it was getting easier but it’s not. My mum’s coming back into school in a dress that’s too short and grown up and I feel like a fool ‘cos I have to be Marilyn Monroe and my boyfriend’s a fifty year old who did rowing for medals before I was born. And I might be pregnant.

But timetables wait for no man. It’s half past one. I must get on.