Page 11 of Life Lessons

Mike stays silent for a while, as he continues to work, but when I start to feel the darkness descend I try to push it back. It can take me tomorrow, but today I promised her a whole day.

“Ready to see it, kiddo?” Mike finally asks and I can’t help but smile. He always does the best work, and I know I am going to love it.

“It never rains but it pours.” I read the beautiful script that is now inked permanently onto the back of my neck. It may seem like a bit of a negative saying but there is a reason for it. I made a promise to Mike that when I find happiness he will tattoo anything I want to commemorate it. This means that when I finally realise that the rain isn’t all bad, and I learn to dance in the rain, then he wants to tattoo that on me to balance it out. His way of telling me that no matter what, no matter how much I may not feel like it, I will find happiness. One day.

Me and Matilda were two sides of the same coin. She was always happy and optimistic. I was cautious and closed off. I was the Queen Bitch, rising to the title through fear, whereas she was the Princess that everyone loved. Mike always said that she was the light to my dark, and vice versa. He said that you need rain so that you can appreciate its beauty. I think it’s his way of telling me that one day I will be healed enough to have incorporated a little of Tillie into me, and when that day comes and I learn to dance in the rain, he will be there to show me how far I have come.

Unexpectedly, for both of us, I throw my arms around Mike’s neck for a hug, one he is only too happy to return. The feeling of being in someone’s arms is overwhelming and I can’t help the stray tear that leaks out. I quickly pull back and gain my composure. I thank him so much for everything and tell him that even though he knows I will be back before, I will need another appointment for next year. I know he came in today just for me and he will do it every year if he needs to. He treats me like I’m family and that’s something I’m really not used to.

I make a quick exit, thanking Mike and telling him that no matter what, I will be paying for the next one. He assures me he will hold me to that, but this is a present on him.

The rest of the day goes as planned. I go to our favourite ice cream shop and order Tillie’s favourite instead of mine. I shudder as I eat the rum and raisin and laugh about how much hassle I gave her over choosing this flavour instead of all the frozen good stuff they have available.

After the ice cream shop and a nice, but chilly, walk along the beach, I go around all of our favourite clothes shops, buying only one dress that I know she would have gone on and on about buying. I have no idea when I will wear it, or who I want to impress, but it didn’t feel right not to get it. Then, as I arrive back on campus, I know where I need to go.

Normally we would celebrate our birthday with a party, but I’m in no mood to party or celebrate in that way without her, so I go to the one place that makes me feel the most connected to her.

Once I’m back in Willowmead, having utilised the gap in the fence once more, I head straight to the room I feel pulling me. Sitting in the music room, staring around at the wide open space, I know she would have loved it here. She loved singing and performing, the perfect leading lady. I, on the other hand, was happy being in the background giving her the music she needed to shine. This is the one time where we switched personalities. She became the confident, bossy twin, while I sat quietly and let her shine. She always said that we were the perfect double act and without my magic fingers, her voice wouldn’t sound anywhere near as good. She was always on at me to sing with her, but I never had any intention of doing that. In this, I was always happy to let her take the lead.

Opening the lid on the piano, I test the keys and listen to the strings that echo back. They are perfectly in tune, and I can’t help but smile. I close my eyes and let my memories take over. My fingers brush across the keys, resulting in a beautiful yet haunting melody. I keep playing song after song, remembering every note that we ever shared together.

Then I move onto the songs I wrote for us, and as the sweet harmony that is all Tillie fills the room, I can’t help but sing the words I wrote just for her. I feel my heart start to break and tears fill my eyes, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. This is for her. I need her to know that she is still in every breath I take, every note I play, and every lyric I sing out at the top of my lungs. It’s all for her. No matter how much it hurts me, or how much of my soul bleeds right here, all over this beautiful piano, I know I deserve to feel the torture. She should be here, not me. Matilda should have lived, I should have died, but I didn’t, and it’s all my fault.

Running a hand through my hair to push it back as best I can, I rasp on Headteacher Thornton’s office door. I wouldn’t usually come straight here after being summoned by email, but there had been an urgency to his latest one and I was bored with looking at the test papers from today. I almost considered marking them. Things were that dismal. Any spare time I’ve had this week has either been discreetly staring at Nightingale in her numerous detentions, or looking at the clock and counting down the hours until the next one.

“Come in,” Herbert calls through the wood. Stepping inside, I come to a halt in front of another person I wasn’t expecting to see. A Prada dress stands to greet me, a bony hand outstretched in a ‘kiss it now’ kind of way. I’m temporarily blinded by the dazzling rock on her ring finger and her apparent lack of sense when it comes to spending money on inanimate objects, like this dress which she’ll probably throw out when she gets home since she has worn it once.

“Jethro Caine, this is Agatha Nightingale. Agatha, Jethro is our Advanced Math teacher and one of the brightest minds in the country. He was awarded the Fields Medal when he was just fourteen and graduated from Yale by twenty. I assure you he’s the best there is, and we’re very lucky to have him.” I try to keep a serious face, but the amount of ass-licking in here is hilarious. Somehow though, possibly thanks to Agatha’s scowl, I manage to keep myself under control.

“I thought parent-teacher conferences weren’t for another few weeks,” I say, gesturing for Agatha to take a seat while I lower myself into the seat beside her, careful that our knees don’t touch. Herb also takes his cue to round the desk and sit opposite.

“They aren’t,” Herb answers. “I called Mrs Nightingale with my concerns about how Abigail is adjusting here at Willowmead. I knew starting a bit late would be difficult for anyone, but she seems to be getting an alarming amount of detentions in your class only. Can you shed any light on this, Jethro?” Agatha’s blue eyes swing to me and she leans over the arm of her chair, her full attention on my next words. Come on, Jett, pull up your big boy pants and tell this shrewd woman why you’ve been unnecessarily detaining her daughter.

“Err...yes, of course. Well, it’s nothing to worry about, Mrs Nightingale. You needn’t have come all the way here, although I appreciate your concern. I come across similar instances all the time, being the youngest member of the faculty. The students like to push their luck and test the boundaries with me, thinking I’ll let them get away with slacking off because we could be buddies. It’s nothing a few detentions can’t shock out of them.” Some more than others, I think to myself. “But don’t worry, Abigail is a very bright student. Just stubborn.”

“She certainly is.” Agatha reaches over to pat my knee. I recoil, pushing myself further into the chair but neither her or Herb seem to notice. “Abigail has already brought so much shame on our family, this is her redeeming chance. My husband and I agreed it’s of extreme importance that our daughter graduates this year with top marks, so if there’s anything we can do, investment or otherwise,” she gives me a long look with her withered hand lingering on my knee, “then please let us know.” Ahh, there it is. Agatha isn’t here out of concern, but fear of being embarrassed.

“Of course.” Herb stands. “I have already emailed you with Jethro’s personal contact details so you can discuss the matter with him whenever needed.” I narrow my eyes on the old bastard, cursing his name under my breath. Is it not enough that this woman burdened her only child with the name Abigail Nightingale, but now she is offering to bribe me for the sake of their reputation? At least I hope it was money she was silently offering me, because the thought of anything else makes my stomach roll over on itself.

”If that is all, I have a stack of marking awaiting me. No rest for the wicked,” I chuckle, like the fucking gentleman I am, all the while backing up towards the door. Agatha follows me, her cackle echoing around the office and causing my dick to shrivel up inside my body. As my hand lands on the handle, she crowds me and strokes a hand up my inner thigh.

“Wicked indeed,” she winks. Yep, my dick is officially never coming back down from this. I twist the handle and stumble into the hallway, striding away without looking back. Memo to self, change phone number and email pronto. I rub the back of my neck, the reality of what just happened settling in. That was harassment right? I’m sure I’ve been molested in front of my boss and he did nothing to stop it.

I’m not heading for my office like I said, instead I’ll take a shortcut through the art block to my apartment. A warm bath and some hardcore porn might do the trick to coax my penis back out. I replay the meeting in my head as I walk, firmly deciding I took the best option by removing myself from the situation before I said something I’ll regret. One wrong move with someone as self-entitled as Agatha Nightingale and I could find myself living in my car with all my possessions in the trunk by the end of the day.

I make out I don’t care about this job, but where else am I going to find a cushy set-up like the one I’ve got going on here? Good pay, full board, free meals, local slags. Everyone on the faculty knows Thornton’s threats to fire me all the time are empty because, regardless of my life choices, he knows I’m the best math teacher around. This past year has been a rough one, but if it came down to it and one of my students was failing, I’d make damn sure they caught up soon enough.

It’s an interesting dynamic in my current class, one I couldn’t have planned—it just sort of happened. For some unfathomable reason, I’m considered ‘cool’. Or maybe I present an alternative future to my students where you can be smart as fuck, and still live a pretty awesome life. It’s not all lab coats and deadlines. So, instead of slacking off and causing trouble, they stay in class and use all their energy to try and impress me. One good word from me seems to make their whole week. But in doing so, they’ve given me the freedom to be lazy. To drink more, to not give a shit. And this makes them try harder. And round and round it goes until what? I turn up on the first and last days only?

Turning out of the corridor, I spring down the grand staircase of the main building and duck outside the arched door. It’s been raining while I was inside, the mud-clogged grass squelching beneath my white Converse as I stay out of sight from Herb’s window view of the courtyard. Following the building to the right, I manage to slip into the art block without anyone seeing me, the rain having driven them all back to their dorms. Pussies.

Scrubbing my shoes on the inner doormat, the motion-sensored lights flicker on overhead to reveal the artwork covering the corridor walls. Art is a very broad term for what I see before me, from photographs of glass bottles to sketchy drawings of the same elderly man on repeat, his dick varying in size in each image. I stop to marvel at a large canvas, the use of oil paint bringing the seascape to life, until I see Trixie Musgrove’s signature in the corner and I knock it off the wall. Oops. The rooms either side of me are all dark and abandoned, the way I like it. My feet tear up the corridor in no time until I’m at the exit on the other side, quickly hopping into the adjoining building.

This one is the music block, which should be empty too at this time of evening but the sounds drifting to me from the staircase suggest otherwise. I attempt to pass by without caring, but the female voice gives me pause. I still, listening intently, but I can’t hear the words. So, despite telling myself to move along, I begin to creep up the stairs. From the second level, I can hear the melancholic tune of the piano in only the minor chords floating towards me from the left. This time when I hear the voice, there’s a tremor I didn’t notice before.

I edge closer still, needing to get a glimpse of who has been hiding such a talent around here, and who else should I see but my little Nightingale. Well, notmine, just my student. From my class. Whatever. Keeping out of sight by the glass window, I lean against the wall and soak up her words. She’s crying, if I’m not mistaken, a shudder rolling through her body with each inhale, but her fingers never leave the piano keys. She sings of loss and love, of never-ending pain and guilt. At first I thought she was reciting a generic song without focusing on the words, but I was wrong. She feels every single word and by the way she keeps looking up upwards, she’s singing for someone in particular.

Suddenly, the words fail her and her fingers on the keys become faster, frantic. The slow melody shifts into something ferocious, something angry. My feet are moving before I can stop myself and the next time I blink, I’m directly behind her. I freeze, not knowing what brought me in here but her music called to the darkest part of me. The broken part that knows just what it’s like to feel like you’re standing on a tiny patch of land while the world is crashing down around you. One wrong step in any direction will destroy you. So, despite my better judgement and all of the instincts screaming at me to get the fuck away from her, I lower myself onto the bench and take her hands in mine. Spoilt, sassy heiress or not, no one deserves to fall alone.

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