Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Bex
Thank fuck it’s Friday!
My first week is over as a real teacher in a real school. If I’m being honest, I nailed it. The kids are fantastic. We had a brilliant time getting to know each other. A few pupils are going to be a test. Especially with me being a newly qualified teacher, I’m considered fresh meat.
Some of my students are only five years younger than me.
But when I walked through cling film stretched over my door, I didn’t lose my temper, then returned the favor in their next lesson with whoopee cushions on their chairs, I did my credibility a lot of good.
Sometimes actions really do speak louder than words.
To me, being a teacher is about being approachable and having a good sense of humor. But not being a walkover. It’s a fine line. Over the past four years, I’ve completed placements and a probation year, but it’s not the same as being fully in control of your class.
Having to get all your plans signed off by your mentor is time-consuming.
It restricts your teaching. I’ve always taught in a way I believed the system wanted me to, not how I wanted to.
Of course, there is a curriculum to follow, but there’s plenty of flexibility within it to put your stamp on your lessons.
Sandbank High is an inner-city secondary school.
It’s low on funds, so budgets are tight.
This means we must get creative with our teaching materials.
The kids turn up, and most of them want to succeed.
The school has managed to instill in the pupils a desire to learn, something a lot of institutions fail at, no matter whether they have big budgets or small.
It’s four o’clock on Friday afternoon, and no one else is home.
I’m enjoying the peace. This week has been stressful.
I’ve been up an hour earlier than required each day, arriving in my classroom by 07:45 am.
My teaching schedule is packed. Having only four free periods in the whole week, I’m already bringing work home.
Ben and Kelsey’s sex life is having an impact on my sleep.
With my first paycheck, I’m buying those noise-canceling headphones.
I mean, what man can get it up at 03:00 am every day and still function normally?
Not that I’m bitter or anything; it’s just been a long time since I’ve had sex with anyone. Or anything not shaped like a rabbit.
Everyone starts arriving home around six. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed my alone time, but our big night out tonight is calling. Terry promised he’s going to show us the local hotspots.
I’m not sure my idea of a nice place and Terry’s idea of a nice place are the same. But, having gotten to know him this week, we’ll have a fantastic night wherever we end up. He’s become part of the furniture already. A weird, chaotic, wonderful extension of the gang.
Terry has camped out in our living room every night. He’s lonely and normally goes out on his own. I can just imagine him tagging onto whatever group is in the pub, then dragging the poor people along to a random club with him.
Most of Terry’s friends are married and have children now; nights out for them are few and far between. Plus, from what he’s said, most of his friends’ wives don’t like him. They see him as a bad influence on their perfect, domesticated husbands. Heaven forbid their husbands laugh too much.
Operation: Night Out gets underway as soon as Amy arrives home. She’s our glam master, ensuring we’re all suitably turned out to be in her presence during a night on the town. I don’t do glam. My body must remain fully covered.
I prefer to hide under long-sleeved tops with jeans.
My hair hangs limply down the sides of my face.
As for makeup, it frightens me. Amy did my face once, and I ended up with black eyes teamed with hooker-red lips.
Never again. To escape her meddling, I hide in my room until everyone else is ready to go, then tag on at the end so she can’t do me up against my will.
Nine o’clock rolls around, and it’s time to go.
I emerge from my hiding place, dull and drab as always.
Amy rolls her eyes but says nothing. I ignore her.
She’s not ruining my night by starting the same argument we’ve had a thousand times before.
Be more confident, Bex. Flaunt what the big man gave you, Bex.
I’ve never been one for flaunting my body. I have nothing to flaunt.
It’s easy for Amy. She’s perfect. I’m the other twin, and I know it.
All the crap-looking genes from our parents came to me, while she was blessed with all the good-looking ones.
When I cover myself in makeup and wear a short dress, I look pathetic.
It’s sad, it depresses me, but I accept it.
Most days. No one will ever want me the way men want my sister.
Kelsey appears pure; that’s the only way to describe her.
She has this serene look—both wholesome and honest. Always wearing flowery dresses that skim her body but don’t cling to her curves.
She can pull off classy-sexy with such style, it’s sickening.
Always so composed. Always so damn perfect.
On a night out, I stand as far away from her as possible, as the petite, feminine girl next to my more bulky appearance only accentuates my ugliness.
Next to Kelsey, Ben is as dashing as ever.
He rocks the definition of tall, dark, and handsome.
Those blue eyes of his see through you and make your heart flutter, but I’d never admit it to anyone.
He’s one of my best friends, but you would have to be blind or dead not to find him attractive―and even a blind person could still feel his magnetic presence.
He’s always dressed sharply in expensive jeans and fitted t-shirts with a sleek jacket to complete the look.
He turns women’s heads wherever he goes, but the most endearing thing about him is that he never notices. He only has eyes for Kelsey. It’s been that way since they were sixteen. They’ve nailed the first-love thing. It’s both wonderful and sickening to watch, knowing that it will never be me.
The five of us head out into the bright lights of London, completely reliant on Terry’s knowledge of the nightlife. Our first stop is the local pub, The Smoking Goat. It’s warm and cozy, packed to the brim with locals.
In one corner of the pub, there is a group of clearly underage schoolies, hiding and sending the oldest looking one up to get the next round for them all.
The girls hardly have any clothes on. The boys are drooling over them but trying to act cool.
I cringe to think that was us not long ago.
I was always the one who got the drinks.
I always passed for older with my sharp cheekbones, and no clue how to smile cutely. It worked.
Terry nabs a table in the far corner of the pub, a booth. It has a brilliant view for people-watching. We all settle in, and Terry heads to the bar to order the first round. Ten quid each in a kitty, and off we go.
The woman behind the bar is older, maybe in her fifties. She has blonde bobbed hair and is caked in more makeup than a drag queen. Her smile is broad. It’s clear she knows him well as he leans over the surface to kiss her cheek.
She’s wearing a low-cut top, showing her breasts off to full advantage.
I assume in a bid to sell more pints. I don’t need to see Terry’s eyes to know where he’s looking.
I can see him whispering sweet nothings in her ear as she hands over the drinks.
She waves away the money. He promptly puts one of our notes in his pocket. Sly bastard.
He struts back to the table like the cat that got the cream, and he bloody well did with our money.
He’s holding a tray of what looks like pond water, vodka shots, and a brown fizzy mystery.
We distribute the drinks liberally with a Russian roulette-style system.
What you get, you drink. No personal orders are being taken tonight.
The drinks continue to hit the table, and we become merrier by the minute.
Conversation flows easily between us. It’s as if Terry has been part of our group for years. It crosses my mind that he’s refreshing. He isn’t trying to get into anyone’s pants; he’s being completely platonic.
Safe. But still fun.
Previously, anyone who became part of our little gang was quickly ousted because they tried to sleep with one of us.
That shit isn’t allowed. Apart from Ben and Kelsey, who have been fucking since forever.
Their relationship became common knowledge when they were caught bumping uglies in the storage room at school.
It nearly got them expelled, but Ben’s parents smoothed it over. Like they always do.
The hours pass fast, and several rounds of tequila later, we head off to the club.
The Chequers Nightclub looks dismal from the outside.
It’s just a single open door with a simple sign lit up in pink neon.
There’s a security guard who fills the entrance, managing the long queue that stretches around the corner.
Terry walks confidently past all the waiting punters outside.
“Barry!” he yells to the burly bouncer.
The large bald head turns to face him and splits into a broad smile.
“Terry, good to see you, mate. Go straight in.” He lifts the red rope with one hand while gesturing with the other. I hear heckles and pissed-off comments behind me as I skip up the stairs.
The music is eardrum-bursting loud, the floor vibrating under my feet.
I love to dance. My body naturally moves to the music before we get to the top of the stairs.
The club is dark, and laser lights swing around the room.
It’s quiet now, with only a few groups of people hanging around or sitting in booths with a large group of maybe twenty professional looking guys in the corner.
They’re the kind of men I avoid, a perfect blend of entitlement and arrogance. They frighten me.
We grab a booth near the bar, and the drinks start to stack up. The music continues to blare through the club. My head bounces along to the beat. It’s starting to fill with people. The atmosphere building. People are pumped to be out.
The thing about alcohol is it lowers your inhibitions while increasing the joy you feel in that moment. I love the freedom it gives me. It reduces my nervousness about being in social situations out of my control. Amy and Kelsey stand up and shimmy out of the booth.
“Come on, Bex, we’re dancing,” they say together. I can barely hear them over the beat.
We head down to the sunken floor and dance in a small group, facing each other.
The girls sway from side to side, barely moving their feet, tottering on their killer heels.
They look sexy and in control. I stand opposite them, dancing wildly to the music.
I mash the potatoes and cut the cheese like a madman.
Alcohol and music turn me into a different person.
Wild, fun, and outgoing. I love me as a drunk disco dancing babe, though I very rarely remember the next morning.
I’m in my little bubble when I notice a cute guy at the bar waving.
I look over my shoulder to check that no one’s behind me.
There’s no way that he can be waving at me.
He’s one of the suits. Men like that do not engage with me.
I’m invisible to them. I know my place. He smiles, points, then gestures for me to come over.
Me? Really?
No freaking way!
Wobbling my way across the club, I do a happy dance in my head.
I’m not wearing heels. I’m just drunk. This guy is tall, hot, and blond.
His dark eyes undress me as I move. Every step feels like a mistake I don’t want to stop making.
I hold my head high and look him straight in the eye, liquid courage flowing in my veins.
Well, I try to, but right now, he’s kind of moving in clockwise circles, swirling around my head. Oh, he’s dreamy.
“Hello, gorgeous.” He smiles. “Fancy a drink?” I smile back idiotically.
Ignoring his question completely, I blurt out, “I’m Bex, and bloody hell, you’re gorgeous.”
He laughs, then strokes my cheek.
“You’re cute. Do you want that drink?” I nod enthusiastically, and he raises his hand for the bartender.
Half an hour passes, and I’m drooling over this man. He’s chatty, confident, and massaging my ego with every word. He leans in to kiss me, and I submit willingly, his tongue dancing with mine. Excitement surges through me, making my stomach churn.
Lifting my hands to his face, I run my fingers through his hair. My nipples harden, and a dampness appears between my legs. Oh, it’s been a long time since a man touched me there. I need it so bad.
Suddenly, he pulls back. My eyes spring open. One of his suit friends is standing next to him, waving a fifty-pound note. Confusion. I’m trying to connect the dots. They’re all laughing. Laughing at me.
I feel it before I understand it. My gut twists. My throat closing with panic. His friend has tears streaming from his eyes as his laughter becomes harder.
“Oh, my fucking god, Joel. You did it,” he shouts. “You earned this fifty! You took one for the team.” He passes the dirty note over, and Joel kisses it, then turns to me.
“Sorry, love. A bet’s a bet.” He shrugs. “You’re a bloody good kisser for an ugly bird, though.”
The world stops, and a feeling of complete disbelief overwhelms me.
I stand abruptly, then I’m running blindly around the club.
My friends are nowhere to be seen. They didn’t see it.
They weren’t watching. Embarrassed, ashamed, and made a fool of yet again, I charge down the stairs to the exit and into the fresh air.
My head spins. Everything spins. My pulse beats in my ears. Fire burns my cheeks, then my legs give way. I fall hard on my knees, then stagger to my feet and rub my hands on my legs. They come away bloody. The tears start to fall, and I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s the burly bouncer.
“Want me to call a cab for you, honey? Looks like you’ve had a shit night.”
I look into his kind eyes and nod. It’s the only thing I can manage. That one nod. Every other part of me is broken.