A Little Crushed (14 page)

“Done.” With the briefest of smiles, she went to change.

* * * *

By the time he pulled up on the corner where his cul-de-sac and her street met, the rain had turned to a freezing sleet. English winter at its best. No drama, just plain annoying.

“So.” Turning off the engine, he turned to her. “I’ll give you twenty seconds to reach your house.”

“No sweat. I’ve done it in ten.” She didn’t look at him. Instead, she huddled in her red fleece, zip pulled up to the chin. “Mr. Jackson, please don’t tell anyone.”

“You know I won’t.”

She looked up then and smiled. “I know. I don’t even know why I said that. I…I trust you.”

“I’m glad. Rebecca, I know you don’t want to, but maybe you should talk to your parents, or Emma, or even Mrs. Black. She’s a good person. She can help you.”

“No.” She shook her head. “It’s bad enough I had to go through it. They don’t need to. And Emma, well, she knows a little but— Besides, it’s weird.” She turned in her seat, drawing one leg up and resting her chin on it. For a moment, she studied him. Her expression bordered on wonder. “I sort of feel a relief, after talking to you. I mean… I think… You’re a nice man, Mr. Jackson. My father says there aren’t too many genuinely good people in the word. I believe you are one of them.”

A lump formed in the back of his throat. It was probably the nicest compliment anyone had ever paid him, and it touched him on some deep, inexplicable level.

“Thank you.” Inadequate words, but she had him stumped.

“Mr. Jackson.…” Embarrassed once again, she turned away. “About that offer to help me. Is it still open?”

“If you want it to be. You don’t need me to pander to your ego. You know you’re a very bright girl, but if you’re serious about Oxford, you need to work hard. You haven’t completed one essay topic I’ve assigned since the beginning of term.”

“Actually,” she mumbled from behind the curtain of hair, “I have. I just didn’t hand them in.”

“Okay. So we’ll start afresh. I’ll work out something.”

“Thank you, but well, I’d rather no one knew.”

“Deal. Now go. I am in dire need of a pint.”

Collecting her bag, she opened the door and stepped out into the unwelcoming night. Without another word, she sprinted to her house. He waited until he saw her open the garden gate. When she reached the porch, she turned. He saw her hand come up, as if she wanted to wave, but then it dropped to her side. Max smiled. He knew what she wanted to say.

A fragile winter sun filtered through a gap in the curtains and teased at her face. Rebecca looked around her bedroom, comforted by its familiarity. Yesterday had been too weird for words.

She looked at the bedside alarm clock, amazed to see it was nearly eleven a.m. No wonder the house was quiet. Her beloved brother and sister had long gone to school, and she rather regretted not being with them. Still, it would be nice to spend a day in bed, except she couldn’t relax. She could not get her bizarre encounter with Mr. J. out of her head. Turning on her side, she pulled the quilt up to her chin. She frowned, wondering why Emma hadn’t called, and then she remembered her mobile was now possibly on its way to the English Channel. She and Emma never spoke on the landline if they could help it. Too many flapping ears.

Not that she planned on telling her anything—which was a first. They never kept secrets from each other, but this was different. Rebecca had a hard time explaining her feelings to herself, never mind anyone else. But she knew Emma; she would interrogate her with all the finesse of the Gestapo. She would have to come up with a pretty damn good scenario to deflect her lethal mind-probe. Her parents had been difficult enough to fob off. She wasn’t certain if they’d bought her story about helping Emma with her homework, but as usual, they’d let it ride. As if buying in to her thoughts, her mother popped her head round the door.

“Are you awake? Emma is on the phone.” She held out the handset.

Rebecca shook her head. “Tell her I’m sleeping,” she mouthed.

Her mother attacked her with an inquiring frown and retreated onto the hall landing, only to reappear seconds later. “I told her you’re not feeling well.” She sat down on the bed and placed a hand on Rebecca’s forehead. “You’ve been asleep for hours. You never do that. Okay. No fever, although you did look awful last night. You must have caught a chill. You are all right, aren’t you?”

Deep worry lines creased her brow, elevating Rebecca’s guilt to I’m-a-horrible-daughter level.

“I’m fine, Mum, really. It’s probably a chill like you said. You know what a tight arse Mr. Brown is. Emma says he won’t put on the heating until he thinks the beginning of the ice-age is approaching. I just don’t feel like talking to Emma right now.”

“Well, she’s worried. She says she’s been calling your cell all morning, although I don’t know why they let you keep your phones in class.” She began to plump up the pillows, much to Rebecca’s amusement.

“I lost my phone,” she mumbled.

“Oh, Rebecca.”

Straightening up from her Florence Nightingale task, she looked vexed. Rebecca didn’t blame her. It was the third phone she’d lost in as many months. She waited for the diatribe. Her mother didn’t disappoint.

“Of course, what do you expect when you stuff it in your back pocket? I told you, it’s about time you carried a handbag.”

“Mother, dear, I don’t know how Pater allows you to be so sexist. I don’t see you asking Jack to carry a handbag.”

“Don’t be silly, dear. Your brother is not one
of
them
.”

“Careful, Mum, Dad will try you for your blatant political incorrectness.”

Lost in her safe world of domesticity, her mother tutted as she picked up Rebecca’s discarded clothes. She wrinkled her nose and buried her face in the folds of the red fleece. “Why do they do that? Just when I find a fabric softener I like, they go and change the aroma.”Arms laden down with washing that didn’t need washing, her mother reverted to manic parent. “Would you like something to eat? You missed breakfast. Some porridge, perhaps?”

“Mum, will you stop? I’ m not dying. In fact,” she threw back the covers, “I’m fine, and I’m bored, and I want to go to school.”

“Now?” Her mum looked aghast. “But the morning is almost over.”

“It doesn’t matter. I have only missed Spanish, which, is a complete waste of time, although Miss Morales has taught us how to say,
Hey Rafa, te queremos,
which basically means hey Rafa, we love you. Great if one has tickets for Wimbledon but not much use for anything else.”

“Rafa?” Her mother stood in the doorway, upper body almost obscured by the pile of laundry. “I’m confused.”

“Rafa as in Rafael Nadal? Tennis? Bananas? Oh, never mind. Excuse me, Mummy dearest. I have to run if I want to make the next lesson.”

The bathroom mirror did not reflect a pretty picture. Falling into bed with still damp hair had left her bearing more than a passing resemblance to a yeti
.
She picked up Vicky’s fifty quid Mason Pearson brush and attacked her tresses with unaccustomed vigour, adding a good squirt of her sister’s hair straightening serum for good measure. She stood back to study the results. Not perfect, but it would have to do. Vicky’s make-up bag stared her in the face, unfamiliarly seductive. She picked up the mascara only to throw it down again in disgust; Emma would pull her up on it immediately, and she was in no mood for any badgering from her all-too-perceptive chum.

It was whilst frantically rummaging through her meagre wardrobe she realized the futility of her behaviour. Mr. Jackson probably wouldn’t even notice even if she wore a sack on her head, and what’s more, why did she care?

* * * *

Comfortable in her habitual jeans and Greenpeace T-shirt, she slipped behind the desk, heart hammering against her chest wall. Her stomach felt as if a hundred butterflies fluttered their wings inside. What was the phrase she used as a child?
Daddy, my tummy is tickling me
.

“Hello, Rebecca.” Emma threw her bag down. “If you bunked off Spanish for a Shakes smoothie without me, then you’re dead.”

Her menacing whisper brought Rebecca’s outlandish train of thought crashing against a barrier of reality. “God, Brown, do you have to do that? It’s creepy?”

“Yes, I know, but creepy is the only impression I can do.” Emma sidled on the bench seat next to her. “So just why are you skulking here at the back? I thought you were sick. You don’t look very ill to me.”

“I’ve recovered, and keep your voice down.”

Mr. J. brought up the rear as the rest of the class filed in and took their seats.

Perching on the edge of his desk, he opened his briefcase and leaned over a table to grab a pen. In his charcoal grey suit, he looked good. Why was it she suddenly noticed so many things, his every move, each nuance dragging her stomach down into her groin. She watched him run his fingers through his caramel and gold hair and then frown as he gave a perfunctory glance to a pile of papers—no doubt her classmates’ horrendous essays. He stood up, digging his hands deep into his pockets, parting his jacket to reveal a black shirt unbuttoned just enough to be cool. He turned to face them. Blood rushed to Rebecca’s head. She felt light-headed. Her mother was right; she should have eaten something. “I need sugar, that’s all,” she muttered. Eyes closed, she leaned back against the wall and willed the dizziness to pass.

“So, exactly where were you yesterday?” Leaning in, Emma prodded her out of her trance. I called you so many times, and then your parents called me, and I had to lie to them.”

“So what’s new?” Only half-listening to the rant, Rebecca did her utmost to keep from staring at Mr. J.

“Emma, Rebecca, if you have quite finished. Okay, poetry books out, please.”

His sharp tone hit her like a douse of cold water. He leaned against his desk, arms folded and feet crossed at the ankles, expression in I’m-the-teacher-remember mode. He speared Emma with a displeased glint. Rebecca supposed she ought to be happy he directed his pique at her ditzy friend, but truth was…she was hurt. Cheeks flaming, she rummaged in her bag for her copy of
The War Poets
. Okay, so maybe he regretted the whole knight in shining armour escapade. Maybe she’d embarrassed him. Perhaps he’d decided yesterday’s debacle had been one huge mistake. No, she didn’t believe that. No one could fake that amount of concern.

Throughout the lesson, he remained distant—from her, that is. With the others, he smiled, cracked his usual silly jokes which they, naturally, lapped up.

“So…” he leaned back in his chair, a broad grin stretching his still-tanned face, “you really are all crap at this, aren’t you? Come on, guys. A levels are in a few months, and if any of you were to sit English Lit now, you’d fail.”

Rebecca scowled. Surely he couldn’t mean her, but then again, she’d hardly presented him with many examples of her literary genius.

He went on with his assault. “David, the ideas are there, but you need to express yourself more. Julie, try reading a book sometime. You’ll be amazed.”

Julie’s vampire red lips parted in shock. “But I read
Hello
religiously.”

A collective “Oh please,” reverberated around the room.

“Emma, your handwriting is worse than a five-year-old’s. There is no point in having brilliant ideas if the examiner can’t read them. Peter, I suggest you take up plumbing.”

“Suits me.” Peter sounded relieved.

Rebecca waited for Mr. J. to comment on her, but he said nothing. She began to wish she’d stayed at home.

“Why are you looking so glum? He didn’t say anything horrible about you.” Emma idly turned pages.

Shaking her head, Rebecca extracted the book from her fingers and turned it the right way up. “I can never understand why you picked English as an option. To you, a book is something used to prop up a wonky table. “

“Really, Becs, I’m surprised you have to ask why.” Emma examined her nails. “You’re really good at it, and I knew you’d share your genius with me, although you have been lax of late. You’re going to have to join in with this class, or he’s going to lose patience with you.”

“Which he’s doing right now.” Rebecca nudged her to silence. Mr. J. looked about as happy as a chicken caught between a fox’s teeth.

“Since when did you care?”

She had no answer to that. Well, okay, she did. Not so much of an answer; more of a theory, to be precise, and not one she was about to share with her chum. This theory was very much in its infancy, and so far, the results were shocking, completely turning her world on its head. She wondered if Darwin had felt the same heady mixture of excitement and horror at what
he’d
discovered.

The lesson dragged on. Julie’s painful reading of
Dulce et Decorum Est
didn’t help. Mr. J. looked ready to cry.

“Passion, Julie. Where is the angst?”

“Behind the bike sheds where it usually is.” David Keeley added his insight.

“Like you would know.” Julie remained unperturbed. Eye lashes batting, she skewered Mr. J. with a vampish smile. “I like men, not boys.”

Rebecca didn’t join in with the collective laughter. In fact, she experienced a burning desire to stick her pen in Julie’s Wonderbra enhanced breasts. The bell rang out, saving her from a possible prison sentence.

“Lunch. Great.” Emma stuffed her books into her so unsuitable Gucci knock-off bag. “Are you coming to Shakes? I really can’t handle another school cafeteria shrivelled sandwich. Peter and Simon are buying. It’s Simon’s birthday. He’s twelve, I think.”

“Ah, I wondered why the sudden interest in the twit twins.” Rebecca pulled out a term’s supply of essays. “You are such a mercenary bitch, Brown. You’ll do anything for a free lunch.”

“Naturally. So, are you in?” Emma shuffled out of the bench seat. “I wonder if we can sneak into the King’s Arms. I fancy a Martini.”

“I don’t know why.” Rebecca joined her in the aisle. “You’ve never tasted one. I’ll catch up. I have something to do.”

Emma’s x-ray vision zeroed in on the rolled up sheaf of A4. “Never let it be said Rebecca Harding is a coward. See you later.” Blowing a kiss, she sauntered out of the door.