“In my life,” Becca said to the class, concluding her written homework, “I have worn the masks of a wife, a poet, a teacher and a lover, but none of these can disguise, the empty space inside, where once lived a mother.”
The class was silent until the new boy, Bill Transom, flicked a piece of spittle-soaked paper at Rebecca. “Well, that was shit.”
Laughter erupted, and Becca flushed. She turned to Miss Jackson, who stood with her back to the class, studying a jogger crossing the boundary between the school playing fields and the village green. She turned to face Becca.
“Quiet,” she said to the class. “That, Becca, shows a great deal of promise. William, please come to the front and read your piece.”
Becca sat down and watched Transom trudge to the front, his tall, gangly frame ill at ease with the attention focused on him.
“Do I have to read it out, Miss? Can’t I just hand it in with the rest?”
The bell rang and Transom wasted no time slapping his piece on Jackson’s table and dashing for the door, which was soon surrounded by a scrum of students.
“Becca,” Jackson said, “please stay behind.”
Becca nodded, and Jackson returned to looking out the window. The jogger was zigzagging along a line of fire blackened grass. He dodged this way and that, seeming to find unseen obstacles in his path. She shook her head and turned her attention to her star pupil.
“Becca,” she said, as she handed her an entry form and gathered up the pile of homework. “I’d like you to enter the county writing competition. You have a way with words other students of your age can’t match.”
“Thank you, Miss,” Becca beamed. She lived for Miss Jackson’s praise.
“And ignore Transom.”
“I will, Miss.” Becca stood and pulled open the door. “Can I call over this weekend and talk about my ideas?”
Jackson paused. She liked to keep her weekends free, and compromise nearly always turned out to be a slippery slope. “I’m sorry, Becca. I’m busy most weekends. Perhaps we can do this lunchtime next week?”
A slight pout. “That’ll be fine. Wednesdays are best for me.”
They agreed. Becca left, and Jackson sat down to her marking, determined to get as much done in her free period as she could. Reaching for Transom’s piece, she prepared herself for the worst.
She read his story, lifted her glasses, and let out a long breath. It was brilliant. Work way beyond his years.
A noise startled her, and she looked up to see Transom. “Mine?”
She nodded, and he reached out, plucking it from her, then ripped it into tiny pieces. “You can fail me if you like.”
“Why?” Jackson gasped. “It was brilliant.”
“Because I can,” he said and left her sitting there, her mouth hanging open. Across the playing fields, the distracting jogger disappeared into the trees.
And Bill Transom never returned to her class again.
