Helen
“It’s nothing! I just got paint in my eye, that’s all.” I stared out of the window, watching the High Street pass us by. I was all messed up inside, like my heart had been mashed into pulp. The lump was still in my throat but I breathed through it.
Dad was quiet, and that’s never a good sign. I can handle his mini rants, they explode like a firework and fizzle out in no time, but this… this brooding was worse.
“Did he do something?” I felt his eyes on me. “Helen! Did he do something? If he did something to you…”
I managed a fake laugh. “No. Of course he didn’t do something to me. He’s my teacher. We painted canvases all day and it was hard work, and I was late and got paint in my eye. I’m sorry you were worried.”
“I’m a lot more pissing worried now.”
“Why?” I forced myself to face him. “Dad, seriously. He’s my teacher. You know, the one you said would be glad when I went to university, the one I need to grow up and forget about, the one who’d never possibly be interested in me or my stupid teenage crush, remember?”
“I know what I said, Helen, and I said it for your own good.”
“I’m just a kid to him.” And I meant it. I did feel like a kid to him, just a stupid kid, a stupid virgin.
“You’d better be, for his sake.” He pulled onto our estate and parked up in the driveway. “He looked really fucking shifty to me.”
“Everyone looks shifty to you.” I sighed. “I’m sure he was embarrassed, you charging in there like some kind of police raid.”
“You were late. Your phone was off. It’s irresponsible, Helen, what did you think we were going to do? Just wait for you to roll in later? You could have been anywhere for all we knew.”
“I’m eighteen years old, Dad. I was painting. You knew where I was. It’s hardly partying all night and smoking crack.” “This isn’t a pissing joke.”
“I’m not laughing.” I got out of the car and took a breath, and there was that horrible lurch in my stomach, the one that makes me feel queasy.
Dad got out of the car, and his eyes met mine over the roof. “I don’t want you being on your own with him. No more cosy art nights, Helen, understood?”
“That’s ridiculous!” I folded my arms. “Dad! That’s just crazy.”
“Crazy or not, I know shifty when I see it, and that man was shifty.” He walked past me to the front door.
I followed him inside, and Mum was waiting. Her hair was in a messy bun and she had her fluffy slippers on, hardly at code-red alert level like Dad was. “You found her, then? Told you it would be nothing, George.”
Dad dropped his keys on the table. “Just as well I did.”
Mum pulled a face at the state of me. “What happened to you, love? Are you upset?”
There’s a universal law that when your mum asks you if you’re ok you start crying, even if you were ok before. The lump in my throat turned into a rock, and I couldn’t speak, just dithered my hands in the air like a stupid little girl.
“George! What did you say to her? What did you do?” She headed towards me and I turned from her, trying to blink the stupid tears away. “Take no notice of him, he’s like a bull in a china shop, getting all carried away.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Dad said. “There’s something not right about that bloody teacher, Angela. He was shifty.” I felt Mum’s hand on my shoulder and heard the tut of disdain. “Don’t start, George. You think everyone’s shifty.” That made me laugh, and it came out weird, like a choked little blub.
“Mock all you like, Angela, but I’m telling you now. That man was shifty.”
“Yes, George, I’m sure he was.” She turned me around by my shoulders. “Your dad’s just got himself all worked up, as usual. I told him you were just late.”
“We were painting,” I said in a stupid croaky voice. “I didn’t mean to be late.” “I know, love. Forget about it now. Your dinner’s in the oven.”
“She isn’t going to be cavorting around with him on her own again, Angela. I don’t trust him.” She shot him the evil eye. “I told you not to start, George. He’s her teacher, for God’s sake.” “I don’t give a shit who he is, I know a letch when I see one.”
Katie poked her head around the door. “Helen and Mr Roberts, sitting in a tree. K. I. S. S. I. N. G! Ewww!” She giggled and poked her tongue out. I could have slapped her.
“Out!” Dad yelled, and Katie vanished upstairs.
Mum rolled her eyes and took my dinner from the oven. Business as usual, even though my chest ached and my knees were shaking and I felt like the world was ending. I forced down some lamb stew, and it felt like I was chewing bricks and gristle. Mum was smiling, trying to lighten the mood.
“How was the painting?” She looked at Dad. “Did you see Helen’s paintings, George? Were they good?” “He didn’t notice,” I said. “He was too busy being angry.”
“I saw them!” he protested. “They were good, yeah.”
I landed him a look over my shoulder. “What were they, then? Tell me about one.”
He surprised me. “Stars and mountains and the desert and all that. It looked good.” He sighed. “You’ll understand one day, I’m just doing this for your own good. The world’s a seedy place, Helen, you just don’t see it. Even this town’s going to the dogs, it’s not like it used to be.”
“Mr Roberts isn’t seedy, Dad. He’s a really good person.”
Mum fetched me a juice, set it down on the table and ruffled my hair. “I’m sure he is, love, your dad’s just worried about you. That’s it, isn’t it, George?”
I heard him groan. “Nobody ever listens to me. Try to look out for people and nobody ever appreciates it.” He grabbed a beer from the fridge and left for the other room, and Mum smiled at me.
“It’s all alright, love. Just forget about it now. He’ll calm down.”
I managed a smile but my heart was racing. “Please don’t let him stop me seeing Mr Roberts… it’ll ruin everything, all my art… everything…” The thought made me well up again, and she took my hand across the table.
“You leave your dad to me,” she said.
***
Mark
I’d dug myself a crater so big I couldn’t climb back out of it, and it was horrible at the bottom. I felt like a terrible person and the most vile excuse for a professional. Helen’s father’s eyes had spoken volumes; I was a letch, a pervert, messing around with a vulnerable young girl I should be trying to nurture and take care of.
I’d broken a moral code that ran through my profession, and my very soul. And I’d hurt her. I’d hurt her in a way that made me feel sick to my stomach.
A virgin. I should have known. But I hadn’t known.
I wasn’t sure which was worse – taking aside the moral implication and the ethics I’d committed to as a teacher – getting involved with a girl half my age and taking her innocence, corrupting her before she’d even had chance to grow up for herself, or leading her on and then casting her aside in the name of decency?
I poured myself another glass of wine and stared at my phone. Her dad had seen straight through me, bristling in recognition of my intentions towards his daughter. His teenage virgin daughter.
Christ, I was in the shit up to my neck. But I was more worried about Helen. Poor sweet Helen and her horror when I’d pulled away.
Sending her a message would be risky, but I took a long slug of wine, then did it anyway.
Are you ok?
Officially the most lame excuse for a text message in the history of mankind.
Helen: Not really.
I’m so sorry.
Another lame excuse for a message.
Helen: I don’t want you to be sorry.
I was trying to formulate a response when the phone pinged again.
Helen: I thought you wanted me. Helen: I shouldn’t have said anything. You should have.
Helen: What happens now? Helen: Is this over?
Helen: Please don’t say this is over.
The conundrum was a tough one. To say it was over and devastate a sensitive young woman in the middle of her final year, or continue with something that should never have started in the first place.
I couldn’t take her virginity, I couldn’t be that man. She was worth so much more. But I wanted to, my God, I wanted to.
I wanted to make her mine, and show her how beautiful that could be. I wanted to love her, and teach her, and coax out her darkness and drink it from her lips. I wanted to hold her, and press my mouth to hers, and love her so gently.
Helen: ??
I typed out the only reply I could. The only reply I could commit to with any truth in it.
I’m sorry, Helen. I don’t know what else we can do.
I wasn’t expecting her response. Wasn’t expecting it at all.
Helen: Fuck your apology, Mark. And fuck you.
***
Helen
“For fucking real? Are you shitting me? You told him to fuck off?” Lizzie’s face was a picture, and it was almost worth the text to Mr Roberts just to see it. I rolled over in bed and she slipped under the covers with all her clothes on. “I’m impressed, Hels bells. That’s some sassy shit you’ve got going on.”
“It wasn’t sassy,” I said. “I was hurt. I didn’t mean it.” “You should mean it. What a douche.”
“He isn’t a douche. He’s just…” I struggled for words. “…A douche?”
“He’s not a douche, Lizzie.”
“Well, he’s sure acting like one.” She draped her arm across my waist. “What kind of guy freaks out over a brand-new pussy? Most guys would snap your hand off.”
My tummy fluttered and pained at the memory. That horrible moment he pulled away from me, just when I thought I had him. “He’s too… decent.”
“Maybe he is gay after all.”
I managed a smile. “I can safely say he’s not gay.”
She rested her head on my shoulder. “So, what happens now?”
I shrugged. “I cry forever. Accustom myself to the spinster lifestyle.”
I could feel her smile on my skin. “Or we could hole up with ice-cream and slushy movies for all time. I’d like that.”
I wondered where he was. How he was feeling. How much relief he was feeling now it was all over. I hadn’t heard a peep from him, not all night, and I’d stayed awake as long as I could. Until I’d realised he definitely wasn’t replying, and then I’d cried myself to sleep. “He thinks I’m a big baby. A stupid little girl.”
“So prove to him you’re not,” she said. I rolled over to face her and she raised her eyebrows. “He’s really got you good, hasn’t he? You look like you’ve been crying for twenty years.”
“I’m just sad. It was like a lifetime’s worth of Christmases, everything I ever wanted, everything I ever dreamed of. And then it was gone.”
“Temporarily gone, Hels. Don’t be naive.” “He was serious. He looked horrified.”
“So? He wants it, you’ve just got to make sure he can’t resist it.”
I shook my head. “I’m done with all the fancy knickers and pretending to be cool.”
“There’s a stronger weapon in your arsenal than those things, my sweet Hels.” Her smile was wicked. Devious. I was blank, and I must have looked it. “Which is?”
She grinned. “This is why I love you, Helen Palmer, you’re so innocent. Like genuinely. It’s really cute.” “That just about sums up my entire life, thanks very much, Lizzie.”
“I didn’t mean it in a bad way. He really has got you all grouchy, hasn’t he?” She tutted. “It’s jealousy. That’s the strongest weapon in your arsenal.”
“Jealousy? You think a man like Mr Roberts is going to be jealous?” I scoffed at the absurdity. “Jealous of what, exactly?” “All men get jealous, Hels. Women, too. Everyone gets jealous, even if they are super good at hiding it. It’s like a fixed law
of humanity.”
“Even at the outside chance that Mr Roberts could be made jealous, how would I do it?” The thought made me feel all lurchy and horrible.
“Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it?” She smirked at me. “We need to get you a boyfriend.”
I laughed aloud. “A boyfriend?! Like that’s going to happen anytime this century. I’m in love with Mr Roberts. He’s the only one I ever wanted, in case you haven’t noticed already.”
“Yeah, well, you want to catch the monkey you need to open your horizons up and get a bigger monkey trap.” I pulled a face at her analogy and she did, too. “What I mean is, you need to rethink your strategy…”
“And get a boyfriend?”
“Don’t sound so disgusted… there are other male specimens in the world besides Rampant Roberts, you know. Some of them are even alright…”
“None that I’ve noticed.” I stared at the ceiling, at the twinkle of fluorescent star stickers still up there from primary school. “Best case is that Mr Roberts can’t handle it, and boom, you’re in. Worst case, maybe you even like the new guy and ditch
the virgin shit. It’s a win-win.”
“And who’s going to go out with me?” I couldn’t even look at her. “I hardly get a queue of offers, Lizzie. I’m the outsider.
Nobody notices me.”
She took my hand and squeezed it tight, and pulled the covers higher around us both. “You leave that to me,” she said.
***
Mark
I can’t remember a time I was as nervous as I was waiting for Helen to turn up in my art room. Monday came and went and I didn’t hear a peep from her. It felt strange, and empty in my classroom, even though I’d rarely have seen her on a Monday anyway. And that’s when I realised it wasn’t the classroom that felt strange and empty. It was me.
Fuck you.
I’d deserved that. I still deserved that.
And she deserved better than me and my mixed messages. So I’d steered well clear through the weekend. Even though I was preoccupied to the point of insanity, my brain spinning through events on loop, through the day, through the night, through everything, I kept well away from her.
When she arrived for her lesson on Tuesday morning, she looked different. She looked drawn and sad and lacklustre.
She wouldn’t meet my eyes, just sat herself directly behind Harry Sawbridge while I took class, and that big oaf blocked my view obliviously, yawning his idiot face off. The guy should never have been in my A-level art class, he was both lazy and talentless.
She returned to her usual bench when I stopped speaking, and I ached to go over there. Her shoulders were tense as she painted, and her brush strokes were jerky little lines that lacked any real finesse. And it pained me, it really pained me to see her that way.
I took my time approaching her, and she didn’t acknowledge me until I spoke. “Is that a new technique?”
She shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care.” “You always care, Helen.”
“Not today.”
I sighed, and leaned in closer, hoping nobody else could hear me. They were gabbling on about the holidays anyway, and about the winter ball. Gabbling on about anything but the paintings in front of them. “I think we should talk.”
“To say what? I want you and you don’t want me? I already know that, thanks.” Her voice was hissy and her eyes were pained.
“That isn’t how it is.” My voice was nothing but a whisper. “How is it, then? Do you want me, or not?”
“It’s not that simple…”
“Then you don’t. I’ve got nothing to talk about.” She jabbed her brush against the canvas and it smudged.
I leaned in so close my mouth was at her ear, and I closed my eyes, just to savour the smell of her, hoping, praying that none of the useless idiots in the room would notice me. “I want the best for you, Helen. That’s all I want.”
She turned her face to mine and her eyes were angry and hurt. “Who are you to say what’s best for me?” Her voice was just a breath. “I’m not a child.”
“But you are in my care.”
“Not for much longer,” she said, and turned her attention back to the painting. “In a few months I’ll be gone, and you can forget I ever existed.”
And then I was angry, too. I gripped her wrist, squeezed it, and her eyes widened. “If you think I’m going to move on and forget you existed, you can’t know me at all.”
“You won’t let me know you.”
“I’m trying not to, for your own good.”
“Spare me the for your own good stuff. It hurts, Mr Roberts, it really hurts.”
The bell rang and she pulled away from me. She gathered up her things and brushed past me without even a passing glance.
***