Satsuma #2
‘Here comes the bride. Here comes the bride,’ Nina sings from behind. She looks terribly cool as always, with her wide linen trousers and braids flowing down one shoulder to her waist. She’s got her coffee in one hand and a pile of American history textbooks under her arm.
‘Oh God, don’t.’
‘Woah. Come on, it’s the new year! You’re getting married, you have a science contest, a potential promotion . . . 2025 is full of possibilities. It’s going to be grand.’
‘Hopefully.’
‘Not hopefully. Say it, 2025 is going to be grand.’
‘2025 is going to be grand,’ I repeat in a monotone voice.
‘Smashing. We need all that positive energy if we’re going for the full 30 tonight.’ She paces off. Josh comes over with his mug of hot water and lemon.
‘If we both get promoted, that’s ￡20,000 at least,’ he says.
‘So, you’re going to apply?’ I ask, not meaning to sound so surprised. He laughs and frowns at the same time.
‘Why wouldn’t I apply?’
‘Oh, just Nina, you know. She’s very passionate, and you’re . . . you know,’ I say. He seems confused.
‘Are you going to apply?’ he asks.
‘Course. I’m up against Mr Rawlinson . . .’ I gesture towards Mr Rawlinson, who is currently sleeping in the corner of the staffroom. He is a gentle elderly man but comes across as if he has sniffed far too many lab chemicals in his career. I add, ‘It’s a done deal.’
‘We could squeeze an extra ski trip in if we both get it,’ Josh says.
‘Or move to the country sooner,’ I say.
‘Or that,’ Josh says, less enthused. He finds saving for adult stuff boring.
If it weren’t for me, he wouldn’t have a penny to his name, but if it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t do fun things like skiing.
Yin and Yang and all that. ‘I’ll see you at lunch, Lab Rat.
’ He wanders down the hallway, high-fiving the pupils as he goes.
*
I’ve hung Mars in the space display. I hoped it would make more sense with the solar system poster next to it, but the lab lighting makes it look even more like a satsuma.
I feed my neon tetras and wish them a Happy New Year.
They dart up the tank and suck each flake into their wiggly silvery bodies.
Then the bell goes, and I feel the weight of the next hour crashing on my shoulders.
‘Wish me luck,’ I say to the fish.
Year 10 comes straggling in, dumping their bags and screeching their stools.
They really do have a way of dampening the atmosphere of my lab.
As always, Beatrice sits at the front with her two plaits that dangle down like hound dog ears.
She smiles at me and wishes me a Happy New Year.
She’s all I have in the world during this hour.
I take a big breath and begin the class.
‘Right, Year 10s, I have an exciting announcement.’ I’m interrupted by Arabella Hartford’s late arrival.
She waltzes in with her tote bag and manicure.
Last summer, she went viral on TikTok, which means she’s basically a celebrity.
‘You’re late,’ I say, but she’s not paying attention to me.
Instead, she’s scowling at my space display.
‘Why is there a piece of fruit hanging from the ceiling?’ she asks.
‘It’s not a piece of fruit.’
‘Wait. Wait. Wait. Is that Mars?’ She begins to giggle, and like a contagious virus, the whole class begins giggling too.
‘Why are you late?’ I ask in my most stern voice.
‘Mr Butters wanted to catch up. I told him I would be late, but he kept talking and talking.’ This is the game she plays, the one where she likes to make me think that my fiancé is crushing on her.
I’m a grown woman, so her games do not get to me.
(Although, I have the occasional thought of dipping her head into my fish tank.)
I turn back to the class. ‘Now, who wants to win this department ￡?,000?’ I raise my hand and say in a high-pitched voice, ‘I do.’ Twelve zombie faces stare at me.
I clear my throat. ‘So, we’re entering a science contest. We will pick a scientific issue that needs more awareness and pitch it to a panel of judges from Imperial College.
If we win, they’ll fund the research and give this school ￡?,000.
Exciting, right?’ Ashwini shoots up her hand, and I know what she is going to ask.
‘Yes, it’s compulsory.’ She drops her hand, and the class lets out a gigantic moan.
‘As it’s so soon, we will have to work during our Wednesday lunch breaks.
’ Another moan erupts. ‘What’s really fun, though, is that you get to decide what topic you’re passionate about.
I’m assuming something about the environment, like plastic in the ocean, saving the turtles from straws.
That kind of thing?’ Beatrice is the only one nodding; the rest seem dead. Ophelia puts up her hand. ‘Yes?’
‘I am interested in how the Pill affects the brain,’ she says. The class suddenly comes alive, backing her up with a chorus of ‘Yeaaaaahs’.
‘No,’ I say as I massage my temples.
‘Why not?’ Someone yells. I’m already getting a headache, and it hasn’t even been 15 minutes of the first class of the first year.
‘We can’t do a presentation on contraception because we’re representing this school.’
Ophelia argues back. ‘It’s not contraception. It’s the woman’s body, it’s the menstrual cycle. It’s basically biology.’
‘It’s not basically biology . . . it is biology.
We’re not doing it. We’ll do plastic and how it kills turtles.
’ The class is silent and miserable again.
‘Right, space time.’ I hit the space bar to play my slideshow.
The letters ‘Expanding Universe’ bounce across the screen.
The only good thing about teaching Year 10 is that I get to talk about space.
I open my mouth to begin, but then I hear Arabella giggling in the back.
‘What is it?’ I say through a big exhale.
She can’t talk through her giggles. ‘Come on,’ I snap.
She doesn’t stop. I march over and see a white note under her hand. ‘Give it,’ I say.
‘It’s nothing,’ she mutters, stuffing it in her sleeve.
‘Give it,’ I yell.
She nervously hands it over, and I unravel it just enough to see what it says.
Bet she only does missionary
Poor Mr Butters
The words cut through me like a knife on a frog’s belly. I scrunch the note up, throw it into the bin and go back to the front of my lab.
‘The expanding universe . . .’