School

“Here’s a blank sheet of paper. I’ll start with you.”

The teacher is bereft of ideas and gives the students an opportunity.

“You, what’s your name?”

“Lydia, Sir.”

“Good. Lydia, write down the first thing that comes into your head.”

Lydia scans the room, makes eye contact with Denise. We’ve been here for the last six months, haven’t we?

She stares at the teacher and wonders if he is settling on a breakdown.

“What should I write?”

“The first thing that comes to you.”

She glances aside again and gains snorts from the class. The tall boy at the back chews gum and fights with his desk.

“Should I write about this class? About you?”

“Hell no. Don’t do that. Just conjure an idea. Let it flow.”

She drums the pen on the wooden top and feels the strain of the situation.

A blank sheet. What could be worse?

Pages of Austen, Orwell, Solzhenitsyn and Marquez to devour where the little black dots make sense. Letters to fill the mind of hope and despair. Words of beauty and hatred.

“I’m going to write a novel and it may take some time.”

The teacher howls and even snots on his desk.

“Very good. Very good. What are you going to write about?”

“How forty-five minutes feels like five years.”

Such resignation. What else is there? The teacher scans the room. Three heads up and twenty-two scribbling and pretending not to read phone messages.

“I’ll tell you what, Linda…”

“Lydia.”

“Lydia. Give it your best shot. Write the next Don Quixote. The next Moby Dick. The next Ulysses. I dare you.”

He reaches for the drawer, surreptitiously. There’s a mini vodka under the folders. Won’t even wait until the break.

“OK, then.”

“You didn’t even understand Catch-22!” Your paper was a disgrace.”

“I did, Sir,”

“You most certainly did not.”

“I did, Sir.”

His dates and authors are mixing into one. He checks himself but will not concede. Self-defeat is a gun to the head.

A smooth, shiny six-barrel Colt.

“Alright then, Smart-arse, name one Paul Auster book.”

“I could name sixteen. I have read all of them.”

He sinks, no, slumps into his chair. There is nothing to teach. Being taught by the students is harrowing. That mini vodka is a blessing.

The car park is not far from the school building. Fitting that dark clouds descend on the landscape. Not in front of the kids. No. Drive the car around the gymnasium and find a quiet spot. Drink the mini and pull out the Colt. Nobody will notice anyway.