1. Contd.
The reason those children were giggling was due to the appearance of said impossible woman in the doorway, smothered in an art smock two sizes too big, rushed on to her skinny frame over her pristinely smart clothes. Most teachers wore their own smocks for art, yet an obnoxious red of the smock collided with the soft green of her jumper.
The kindly, rotund figure of Mrs Mason, head of Art, loomed behind this impossible woman, her silvery hair straggling to reach her shoulders as she hurriedly introduced the two of us;
'Mr Royce, this is Miss Parker. She's taking Mr Dark's place...' Seeing my blank face, Mrs Mason - also known as Liz - blundered on in an unnecessarily cheery voice, 'you know. Teaching the little ones?'
Another titter rolled around the class, passed form mouth to mouth, and I forced myself to focus, just for a few scant second. Once she was gone I could find solace in the toilets as if I were still a seventeen year old boy from then, but for now I would have to meet her eye, maybe shake hands with the ghost-girl.
She met my stricken gaze as if she had no idea who I was, something close to concern spreading like a stain along her pretty face.
Back then she had short hair that didn't really suit her, cut like a boy's, and wore ugly clothes that didn't really suit her - but that was alright because it was the nineties, and it was acceptable. Occasionally, she would wear a crop top, and I thought her skin was the most beautiful thing in the world. Back then. She wore a crop top on that night - bright red, with shabby green combat trousers, even though it was New Year's Eve and she was frozen right to the bone
On that Monday, back in now, I saw the red on green she was wearing and stumbled in my path to greet her. Yet another wave of laughter, but I was there.
The reason those children were giggling was due to the appearance of said impossible woman in the doorway, smothered in an art smock two sizes too big, rushed on to her skinny frame over her pristinely smart clothes. Most teachers wore their own smocks for art, yet an obnoxious red of the smock collided with the soft green of her jumper.
The kindly, rotund figure of Mrs Mason, head of Art, loomed behind this impossible woman, her silvery hair straggling to reach her shoulders as she hurriedly introduced the two of us;
'Mr Royce, this is Miss Parker. She's taking Mr Dark's place...' Seeing my blank face, Mrs Mason - also known as Liz - blundered on in an unnecessarily cheery voice, 'you know. Teaching the little ones?'
Another titter rolled around the class, passed form mouth to mouth, and I forced myself to focus, just for a few scant second. Once she was gone I could find solace in the toilets as if I were still a seventeen year old boy from then, but for now I would have to meet her eye, maybe shake hands with the ghost-girl.
She met my stricken gaze as if she had no idea who I was, something close to concern spreading like a stain along her pretty face.
Back then she had short hair that didn't really suit her, cut like a boy's, and wore ugly clothes that didn't really suit her - but that was alright because it was the nineties, and it was acceptable. Occasionally, she would wear a crop top, and I thought her skin was the most beautiful thing in the world. Back then. She wore a crop top on that night - bright red, with shabby green combat trousers, even though it was New Year's Eve and she was frozen right to the bone
On that Monday, back in now, I saw the red on green she was wearing and stumbled in my path to greet her. Yet another wave of laughter, but I was there.
