Do You Remember the First Time?

they would probably never see.
    I turned my head to see who Longworth, Fallon was, and caught sight of a tall, skinny dark-haired girl at the back of the class. Her long nails were painted silver, and she sneered when her name was called.
    ‘Nice of you to make it today,’ said Miss Syzlack.
    Fallon merely sniffed her response. Then she caught sight of me, and gave me what I can only describe as a look.
    I’d forgotten about ‘looks’. In my life – my old life, my thirty-two-year-old life – if you have a problem withsomeone you sort it out, or, well, you don’t really see problems with people, because you can choose your friends and you don’t fall out with them, and if it’s someone at work it doesn’t matter and you can tell your boss and complain and … Oh no! She was talking to one of her friends and now they were both looking at me and giving me a look! Crap! Bollocks! Now she was mouthing something at me. I couldn’t tell what it was, but it looked a lot like ‘dyke-oh’.
    ‘Scurrison, Flora?’
    I whipped round when I heard my name being called, but was confused and not sure what to do.
    Miss Syzlack looked at me too. Why did I used to remember her as nice? The years must have shrivelled her up, like fruit.
    ‘Have you forgotten your name, Miss Scurrison?’
    ‘No, Miss Syzlack.’
    She rubbed one of her eyes. ‘Stay behind and see me,’ she said.
    I wanted to crawl out of the door behind Constanzia, who shot me such a soulful and sympathetic look I wondered if there was maybe some truth in the lesbian stuff after all. For some reason, Fallon tutted loudly as she passed me. No no no no! I wanted to stop everything and say, ‘Guys, that was yesterday. I may, perhaps, have been a lesbonerd. But now, today, I’m supercool! I can help you out! I bet I have the necessary nonchalance to buy stuff in an off-licence, and boy stuff. Come to me, I’ve done it all.’
    ‘Flora,’ said Miss Syzlack. She was sitting perched on her desk, in that nonchalant, ‘mmkay?’ way teachers do when they’re trying to pretend they’re down with the kids.
    ‘Is everything all right? You had a lot of people very worried yesterday, you know.’
    ‘Yeah, sorry about that,’ I said. I’d have loved a confidante right now, but I hadn’t quite come up with a way of telling my story that wouldn’t end up with me in the secure unit, tied down on the bed next to the girl who makes the poltergeist appear, so I decided to keep my counsel.
    ‘Well?’
    I felt like saying, ‘Miss, I don’t want to come over all Trinny and Susannah here, but have you heard of highlights? Why don’t I show you this really friendly women’s gym? In fact, while I’ve got you here, why don’t you give up this teaching thing you so clearly hate altogether and go off round the world?’
    I shrugged. ‘I suppose I just panicked,’ I said. ‘A levels and all that. Just had to blow off some steam. That’s pretty typical for my age, isn’t it? My hormone levels are all over the place. I’m surprised I don’t have a crush on you.’
    Oh, for fuck’s sake.
    ‘I mean, things change every second. I can’t even keep up with my own bra size at the moment, never mind the social, academic, biological and cultural pressures teenagers are under.
    ‘And it is absolutely not true that these are great years – anyone will agree with that. It’s unfair also to show us advertisements showing teenagers having the times of their lives, as if it’s good for anyone to end up like Britney Spears. They should really just say, “Keep your head down, your twenties will be fantastic.” Look at these people. They haven’t even got their personal hygiene sorted out and they’re the number one demographic zone-in for advertisers, convincing everyoneelse in the world that being sixteen is fantastic. Well, it’s not, I tell you. OK?’
    The teacher looked at me, stunned.
    ‘Um … yes. Perhaps, maybe you’d like to visit our educational psychologist.’
    ‘For what? Plunking it for one day in my entire school career?’
    ‘Don’t talk to me like that, please, young lady.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘It’s rude.’
    ‘It’s not rude! And you’re the one who just suggested I go see a bloody psychologist!’
    Miss Syzlack looked down at her desk. ‘Well, I had hoped this session might help you. But instead I see no choice but to give you detention.’
    ‘No choice? None at all?’
    ‘For insolence and truancy.’
    ‘Fine,’ I said,