neck a grappa or two just before
closing, and grabbing Tink for a night on the tiles.
I swung open the back
door and saw all the staff huddled together. Now, I was a lil’
tipsy from my getting-ready wine and so didn’t register that this
was a bit odd. I heard Carly Rae Jepsen’s ‘Call Me Maybe’
coming through the speaker and let the music take hold of me. I began
bopping in time to the beat and made my way towards the mob of
servers.
As the chorus kicked in
I threw in some comedy phone shapes and headed in Tink’s direction,
who was looking at me in a mixture of both amusement and horror. In
hindsight, I should have realised something was up as he would
usually have imitated my actions as I made my way towards him.
However, tonight Tink was making cutting gestures with his hand over
his throat. Mmm, strange. But in my alcohol-addled brain, I
thought it was a new move, and I successfully, with superb fluidity
and grace, incorporated the action into my already-outstanding
routine.
When I made it to the
group, I screamed, “slut drop!” at the top of my voice and began
dropping to the floor in a squat position, over and over, in-sync
with Carly letting her boy know that before he came into her life she
missed him ‘so, so bad’ .
When I looked up, I saw
several sets of wide eyes focused on me, and Tink’s head facing
down on the tile counter, mumbling something about “Why tonight,
Lord?” and groaning like he was in pain.
I put my hands on my
hips and a massively confused frown on my face. “What? Why is
everyone acting so weir-,”
“ Ms. Munro? Ms.
Munro! Mom, it’s Ms. Munro!”
It was that moment that
every teacher dreads while a little bit intoxicated, dancing like a
stripper working for tips and frankly making an absolute tit out of
themselves, the call that has you running for the hills.
Shit, a student.
I plastered a fake
smile on my face and turned around, flashing the pearly whites at a
table of about six people all staring at me. They were in a very dark
corner with only a red table-candle illuminating the area, meaning I
couldn’t initially make out individual faces. I cast a quick glance
at Tink who was looking a bit pale and clammy.
What the heck is
going on? Why are people eating in the back room? And what is up with
Tink, he couldn’t have known one of my students is here?
At the table, someone
second-to-right was waving their arms around like a jacked-up air
traffic controller, and was frantically gesturing for me to come
over. Ah, recognition hit like a smack to the face. It was Boleyn
Jones.
Fuck.
Sucking in a breath, I
began to make my way over to the table. Bloody hell, it was like
walking the Green Mile. I searched for any holes along the way to
throw myself into, but tonight, it seemed, was not my night. Only
smooth and polished floors led me to my doom.
“Ms. Munro! Oh my
God, I can’t believe it’s you, you look so different,” squealed
Boleyn excitedly.
Looking down at myself
I nodded, taking in my micro-mini LBD that tied in a
cleavage-enhancing structured-cup halter and flared out with a net
tutu skirt that just about covered my more-than-ample arse. I
realised I looked absolutely nothing like a teacher, but like a bad
extra on the set of Moulin Rouge .
This is just
awesome.
“Hey,” I said
weakly, feeling like an utter knob. “Hope you’re all having a
nice meal.”
I briefly surveyed the
dimly-lit table, noting that there seemed to be near-equal numbers of
men and women, all around my age or older.
In the corner farthest
away from me sat an enormous hulk of a man sporting a grey woolly
beanie hat, with his head resting on the heavily-tattooed arm
covering his face from view. It all seemed very mafia-like.
“Yeah, we are. We are
out celebrating my part in Les Mis . It was the first night all
the family could get together in weeks,” Boleyn bubbled.
Getting up from the
table, Mrs. Jones held out her hands and greeted me. “Hello, Ms.
Munro, nice to
closing, and grabbing Tink for a night on the tiles.
I swung open the back
door and saw all the staff huddled together. Now, I was a lil’
tipsy from my getting-ready wine and so didn’t register that this
was a bit odd. I heard Carly Rae Jepsen’s ‘Call Me Maybe’
coming through the speaker and let the music take hold of me. I began
bopping in time to the beat and made my way towards the mob of
servers.
As the chorus kicked in
I threw in some comedy phone shapes and headed in Tink’s direction,
who was looking at me in a mixture of both amusement and horror. In
hindsight, I should have realised something was up as he would
usually have imitated my actions as I made my way towards him.
However, tonight Tink was making cutting gestures with his hand over
his throat. Mmm, strange. But in my alcohol-addled brain, I
thought it was a new move, and I successfully, with superb fluidity
and grace, incorporated the action into my already-outstanding
routine.
When I made it to the
group, I screamed, “slut drop!” at the top of my voice and began
dropping to the floor in a squat position, over and over, in-sync
with Carly letting her boy know that before he came into her life she
missed him ‘so, so bad’ .
When I looked up, I saw
several sets of wide eyes focused on me, and Tink’s head facing
down on the tile counter, mumbling something about “Why tonight,
Lord?” and groaning like he was in pain.
I put my hands on my
hips and a massively confused frown on my face. “What? Why is
everyone acting so weir-,”
“ Ms. Munro? Ms.
Munro! Mom, it’s Ms. Munro!”
It was that moment that
every teacher dreads while a little bit intoxicated, dancing like a
stripper working for tips and frankly making an absolute tit out of
themselves, the call that has you running for the hills.
Shit, a student.
I plastered a fake
smile on my face and turned around, flashing the pearly whites at a
table of about six people all staring at me. They were in a very dark
corner with only a red table-candle illuminating the area, meaning I
couldn’t initially make out individual faces. I cast a quick glance
at Tink who was looking a bit pale and clammy.
What the heck is
going on? Why are people eating in the back room? And what is up with
Tink, he couldn’t have known one of my students is here?
At the table, someone
second-to-right was waving their arms around like a jacked-up air
traffic controller, and was frantically gesturing for me to come
over. Ah, recognition hit like a smack to the face. It was Boleyn
Jones.
Fuck.
Sucking in a breath, I
began to make my way over to the table. Bloody hell, it was like
walking the Green Mile. I searched for any holes along the way to
throw myself into, but tonight, it seemed, was not my night. Only
smooth and polished floors led me to my doom.
“Ms. Munro! Oh my
God, I can’t believe it’s you, you look so different,” squealed
Boleyn excitedly.
Looking down at myself
I nodded, taking in my micro-mini LBD that tied in a
cleavage-enhancing structured-cup halter and flared out with a net
tutu skirt that just about covered my more-than-ample arse. I
realised I looked absolutely nothing like a teacher, but like a bad
extra on the set of Moulin Rouge .
This is just
awesome.
“Hey,” I said
weakly, feeling like an utter knob. “Hope you’re all having a
nice meal.”
I briefly surveyed the
dimly-lit table, noting that there seemed to be near-equal numbers of
men and women, all around my age or older.
In the corner farthest
away from me sat an enormous hulk of a man sporting a grey woolly
beanie hat, with his head resting on the heavily-tattooed arm
covering his face from view. It all seemed very mafia-like.
“Yeah, we are. We are
out celebrating my part in Les Mis . It was the first night all
the family could get together in weeks,” Boleyn bubbled.
Getting up from the
table, Mrs. Jones held out her hands and greeted me. “Hello, Ms.
Munro, nice to
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