School Run by Sophie King Page B

Ohio, who has taken his classmates hostage, is thought to possess a gun.’
     
    As the sound faded in and out, Kitty adjusted her headphones at the bus stop. There was something wrong with them, which was irritating as she enjoyed listening to the radio – even when there were scary incidents like the one concerning the gun-happy American kid. It passed the time when she was waiting for the bus and provided diplomatic immunity from the kids, who were fascinated by teachers outside school. It was as though her appearance beyond the classroom gave them carte blanche to tease her, like an animal in the zoo.
    ‘Can I borrow your headphones, Miss?’
    ‘I’ve got a pair just like those at home. My mum got them from LowPrice.’
    ‘Stop sucking up to the teacher, Kieran.’
    Kitty pretended she couldn’t hear them and tried to look as though she was concentrating on the road, which was packed with cars, vans and lorries but no buses.
    Blast. It was late, which meant that unless the bus developed turbo wings, Kitty was going to be late for school. She’d been waiting for ages and although she normally liked to think of herself as a reasonably patient person, the kids were getting on her nerves.
    ‘That’s my teacher.’
    ‘Fit, isn’t she?’
    ‘Got any biology for us, Miss?’
    Kitty got out her mobile and pretended to study it for messages. The kids who were trying to get her attention were from St Theresa’s, her school. St Theresa’s was good teaching experience, but it came at a price. When Kitty had dreamed of being a teacher while at her own quiet, home counties school, she hadn’t realised she’d need to develop such a thick skin. Some of these London kids were impossible and the teachers weren’t much better. One was having an affair with the married mother of a child in year nine and another had been married to the head of science until he went off with a teacher from the primary school. The staffroom was a hotbed of sex, weak coffee and educational magazines they were all meant to be reading in preparation for the Ofsted visit later this week.
    In fact, everyone had someone, except her.
    ‘Here’s the bus!’
    ‘’Bout time.’
    ‘Got your biology book ready, Miss? We’re doing reproduction today, remember? Mrs Griffiths is still ill, you know. So you’ll be taking us, won’t you?’
    Looking straight ahead, she attempted to climb on board in a dignified manner, even though sharp elbows on either side were digging into her in the rush to get on.
    ‘One at a time,’ said the driver, loudly, raising his eyebrows at Kitty. She acknowledged him with a smile. It was always the same man. He had a rather nice smile and open face (a bit like Jonny Wilkinson’s). And she couldn’t help noticing that he always wore a crisp polo shirt, open at the neck, instead of a uniform. Maybe that was the uniform nowadays, or perhaps in this heat they were allowed to leave off their jackets. He spoke differently from the other bus drivers too.
    Kitty knew it was snobbish of her (and she wasn’t usually a snob) to notice this, but still . . .
    ‘Morning!’ He barely glanced at her pass.
    ‘Hi.’ She gave him a quizzical look. ‘You’re late today.’
    He ran his hands through his hair – short, but not too short. ‘Tell me about it. This traffic drives you mad.’ He glanced at the kids behind her. ‘It’s your lot that cause the trouble. All these cars taking everyone to school.’
    How did he know they were ‘her’ lot? Did he think she was a mum or was it obvious that she was staff? Kitty didn’t like to think she was such clear teacher material: it made her feel dull. ‘I know. When I was at school we walked or got the bus.’
    ‘Or you were packed off to board like me.’
    ‘Really? How awful.’
    ‘I had a great time, actually.’ He raised his voice: ‘Stop pushing, you lot out there, or I might not let you on.’
    Embarrassed to be holding up the queue, Kitty moved down without saying any