The Bird & The Bear (The Bennett Siblings Book 1)

CHAPTER 1

MYLES

I keep asking myself if I made the right decision doing this.

I mean, sure, my entire degree was built on it, so I never had another path set out for me but this one. I got to where I wanted to be. I worked hard, I all but busted my precious balls and nearly fucked up my wrist—two separate incidents, only one of them involved a risky wank—in the process, but I made it. I did my four years to achieve a degree in Art History, followed by two years completing a PGCE, and I am finally here.

A high school art teacher.

I know what you’re thinking. Really, Myles? Art Teacher? That was your dream job? And I can assure you that the answer is yes, it has always been my dream job, because I want to mould minds. Or something. I like kids enough, I guess, especially teenagers. I get to teach them at this wildly awkward age where they’re completely split down the middle when it comes to art: they either have it or they don’t. They think it sucks or they think it’s the best thing since sliced bread. And I get to tell them why, even if they don’t have a knack for art—the broad spectrum that it is—that it doesn’t matter, because at least they got to be creative for an hour or two. They didn’t have to worry about a maths test or reading a freaking Shakespeare play. They got to forget about it and got a bit dirty and a bit stupid. They got to have fun.

But all that aside, as I stare at the previous Year 9 group’s display in the school canteen, I really do have to wonder if this was the right choice.

“Have you figured out what it is yet?”

I startle at the voice next to me; I had no idea I’d been approached. I look down and find a woman with straight dark hair cut in a bob standing beside me, her arms folded across her chest, lips pursed, head tilted to the side. She’s about three inches shorter than me.

“Er, I think so. Unfortunately.”

She snorts and turns to face me. “Opinion?”

I take a deep breath as I gaze back at the strange menagerie of canvases pinned to the wall. “Inappropriate?”

“Thank God. I thought I was going mad when they put it up and no one bat an eyelid. Myles, right? The new art teacher?”

“That’s me,” I hold a hand out.

“Emily,” she gives it a loose shake. “French teacher.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“You too. Between you and me, I’m relieved I’m not the newbie anymore.”

“You were the newbie?”

“For a whole year. Was a bit shit being the only new faculty member at the start of term, and the kids know it, too.”

“Are they bastards?”

She shrugs. “They’re teenagers, of course they’re bastards. The boys are the worst, but fortunately I’ve grown up around a lot of men and know how to handle them. You, on the other hand…”

Emily gives me a slow once over, an interested perusal if I’ve ever seen one.

“What about me?” I ask when she doesn’t say anything.

“The girls might eat you alive.”

I clear my throat, “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

We turn back to the display on the wall, and I have to scratch my face, still bewildered.

‘A Study in Pink’ they’d called it. And, I wasn’t sure what the curriculum for Year 9s last year entailed, but I hope it isn’t the same this year. And if it is, I won’t be teaching whatever my predecessor was.

“There’s so many…”

Vaginas. I couldn’t put it any other way. We are essentially looking at a wall of fucking vaginas in oils and watercolours and chalks and pencils. A study in pink is accurate, but I wish she’d chosen something that wasn’t just various impressions of female genitalia.

“Who authorised this for the display?” I ask, rubbing at my chest and then crossing my arms.

“Paulson.” The headteacher.

“Christ.”

“Word on the street is that him and old Hilary were having an affair, so she could get away with shit like this.”

“It’s in the fucking canteen.”

Emily laughs, and I rather enjoy the sound. “Just promise me come April when you’re gearing up the poor sods for their final pieces you won’t make them draw multiple abstract dicks.”

I snort. “Yeah, no problem there.”

“Well,” she places a hand on my arm, and I swear I feel her squeeze it, as if testing the muscles there, “it was good meeting you, Myles.” Given the way she purrs the last words, I can only assume she approves.

“You, too.”

She walks away, a swish to her hips and an ethereal air about her.

I give the vagina wall one last look, grimacing at the thought of having to see it every day come the new term, and head back to my classroom.

Yes, I can say that now. My classroom. I’ve been spending the week getting myself up together—preparing for a form group; for my GCSE students; decorating—feathering the nest, as it were. It’s Friday today, the last day before my own summer holiday. I won’t come back after this until the last week of August—an entire month away—to settle in before the kids come back the first week of September.

While I’m packing my things up, my phone rings. BEAU lights up the screen with a photo of the two of us at his debut for the Coventry Rangers three years ago.

“Hey, man,” I answer the call, wedging the phone between my ear and shoulder.

“Hey, Mr Wilson.” He says in a teasing, sultry voice. I roll my eyes. “Still on for beers and pizza tonight?”

Beau Bennett has been my best friend since my first year of university. Granted, I didn’t actually go to uni with him since he’s been a professional football player since he was nineteen years old, but I was in halls with his twin brother, Nash, which is how we met, and immediately hit it off. While I found Nash to be a little arrogant and aloof, he and Beau spend a lot of their free time together, even now as adults, so Beau was around a lot when he was playing in the area.

Accidentally becoming friends with a professional football player also had many, many perks. He started his career playing for the local team in the National League the year we met and slowly worked his way into the Premier League with the Rangers main squad. Beau very quickly embraced the celebrity lifestyle and finds himself in gossip magazines more than he probably should, but I just joined him for the nights out and the occasional mischief. I don’t always condone his bachelorhood antics.

“Yeah, of course. Just getting ready to leave—I’ll head home and change and then pick it up on the way over.”

“Cool. Have you seen Brinsley yet?”

Beau, I soon learnt, is actually not just a twin, but a quadruplet—two boys and two girls. According to him, he’s the oldest because he came out first, but only by about a minute from the way his mum, Shirley, tells the story. Brinsley was next, followed by Sheridan another minute or so later, and finally Nash—who was apparently more comfortable in his mother’s womb than he ever cares to admit—didn’t come out until a full twenty minutes after the others. Brinsley, one of Beau’s sisters, is also starting at Webster’s School of Secondary Education as a faculty member this year. Shirley Bennett has been a teacher here for years and is now the Deputy Head. I’ve had lunch with her every day this week.

“Well, your mum said she’s coming to set herself up next week, so no.” I finally head out of the classroom, locking the door behind me.

“Oh, damn. Well, that’s okay. You’ll get to finally meet her and Shez at our birthday.”

Yes, somehow, having known Beau and Nash going on five years, I’ve never met either of the Bennett sisters. For some reason, whenever there’s been a get-together, either I’ve not been able to make it, or they haven’t. From the boys’ information, Brinsley has always been very studious and straightlaced, and Sheridan has social anxieties so barely leaves the house. It’s safe to say, I am curious to meet both of them, having heard so much about them from Beau.

At the reminder of their birthday next week, I stall. It was in the back of my mind, but I’d forgotten about the whole event. And I say event because Beau is making it an event. Apparently, he, Nash and the girls all split the cost of a luxury cabin in a fancy holiday park in Lerwick Forest and invited six of their friends. I’m one of said friends. Shirley, and their dad, Brian, will also be joining the first weekend.

“That’s true. I’m just heading out the door, so I’ll see you in about an hour.”

“Cool. Get me a meat feast!”

“Sure thing, Bionic Beau.”

He preens at the fan-bestowed nickname, “Stop flirting or I’ll be forced to snog you when you get here.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“You saucy minx. See you soon, Mr Wilson.”

“Bye, mate,” I chuckle and end the call.

I wander the halls towards the staff exit, peeking into each classroom and trying to familiarise myself with the layout so I’m not totally lost when I return next month. As far as I know, only me and Brinsley are new on the teaching staff this year, so most of the other classrooms are already broken in where decorating is involved. I can’t wait to have that feeling of home inside mine.

Growing up in care, I never really knew what having a home was like until my second year of university when I moved into a house with Nash and a few guys from my course. I’m not from the area, either, but I fully intend to make Coventry my permanent home. I’ve lived here five years, I know all the local haunts, I’ve made some friends. Not having a family of my own actually made that transition easier for me. I’m never going back to London.

I live in my own flat now—moved in just after my course ended in the spring. It’s nothing special, but fine for me—a one-bedroom place in a converted waterworks just a short ten minute drive from Webster’s. I haven’t done much decorating to the place, especially since it’s not mine, but I will eventually. I want it to feel like home.

I pop my head into Shirley Bennett’s office on my way past to see if she’s around. Her door is wide open, as it has been all week whenever I’ve passed, and she’s sitting behind her desk while she taps away on her keyboard.

The Bennett sibling’s mother is without a doubt the best woman I’ve ever met. Petite, blonde and beautiful, the first time she met me she took me in for a hug that had a lasting effect on me for hours, and proceeded to ply me with food and drinks while regaling me with stories about what it was like having a house filled with four children of the exact same age (give or take twenty minutes). Easily a woman teenage boys would hail as a MILF, Shirley is one of those people who just make life better.

“Knock, knock,” I announce myself.

“Oh, Myles!” She beams up at me, blonde hair bouncing with each slight shake of her head. “Heading out early?”

“Yeah, I er, think I’ve done what I can for now, so I’m going to meet your eldest for beer and pizza.”

“Doesn’t he have a game tomorrow?”

Whoops. Nothing like dropping him in it with his own mother. “It’s only a pre-season friendly. Plus, he never drinks the night before a game. Beer is for me. And you know he stopped eating gluten years ago.”

“Oh,” she tuts, smacking a palm to her forehead, “he has that cauliflower shit, doesn’t he? Dur.”

I can’t help but grin. Shirley Bennett is like a walking sitcom character. “Yep, that cauliflower shit.”

“That’s good. How do you feel after this week? Feeling ready?”

“I think so,” I say honestly. “I’m glad we’ve got a week beforehand to prep as well, otherwise I really might be worried.”

“You’ve got some good kids, Myles. Your Year 9 group is a little tyrannical, but the Key Stage Four kids are great. And your form group are practical babies, so they’ll be just as terrified as you.”

“That’s good. Can I just maybe get that in writing?” I joke. “Along with a promise that I won’t have to make a bunch of fourteen-year-olds artistically interpret the female reproductive system?”

“God,” Shirley whines and covers her face, “I’m going to kill Eric for that bloody display. How Hilary got away with it, I do not know.”

“I heard a rumour,” I shrug.

“Don’t listen to it. Teachers are the worst gossips, Myles. Don’t fall into the trap.”

“Noted.”

“Who were you talking to?”

“Er, Emily? I didn’t get her surname. The pretty French teacher.”

Shirley’s face screws up, “Bloody harlot.”

I practically choke on my own laugh.

“Sorry, that was unprofessional. I just don’t like that woman—she’s trouble.”

“I’ll try and keep my distance then?”

“Might be wise.” She winks at me. “Anyway, don’t let me keep you. Go have fun with my baby, and I’ll see you next weekend.”

“Yes, you will.” I smile, “Bye, Shirl.”

“Bye, sweetheart!”

I head out the door towards my car, checking my phone as I walk. No personal messages, which I’m not particularly surprised by, but I do have a Twitter alert announcing there’s a new episode of my favourite web show being released tonight. That puts another smile on my face.

If I had enough talent, rather than Art History, I probably would’ve done an Art Design degree instead. I can draw and paint well, don’t get me wrong, but I never quite had the skill to make something of my own—to be truly original. I started watching animated web shows—web-toons if we’re being specific—when I was fifteen and I never grew out of it. In uni I went through a phase where I’d watch multiple series at a time and avidly follow every creator, but now I tend to only look out for one or two. This one, Goth Frogs, is exactly as it sounds, and has become immensely popular in recent months. The storyline, script, and animation are all done by one person—well, woman—and posted to her YouTube channel.

There’s a post about it on Instagram too—a screenshot of the episode and a second image of her workstation with the initial sketches, pencils neatly arranged and a Pokémon mug in the corner.

I say it every time she posts something, but I think this woman might be my soulmate. Knowing my luck, she’s probably thirty years my senior with twenty cats and a foot fetish. I would be so lucky.