Rebecca

If you read the last installment (and particularly if you reviewed) Thank you so much, I hope you enjoy this one.
Half an hour later I arrived for breakfast in the dining hall, a large, high ceilinged Tudor room. About a dozen large tables were set out around the hall and groups of girls sat clustered around each one, sleepily nibbling on toast and discussing last night's dreams, or the dread of the lessons the day had in store. I spotted Alice and a few others sitting at the best table in the hall, right at the back by the huge window that looked out over the rolling hills of the countryside. I loved that view, sometimes at eight o'clock in the morning with an A level history class in half an hour, that view was all that kept me from jumping out of said window. I sat down, somewhat gingerly, and then of course immediately regretted it. I jumped up, spilling my orange juice down my top and all over my tray. My low cut white T-shirt was stained bright orange and there was juice in my cleavage. I could tell that today was just not going to work for me. I resisted the temptation to burst into tears as the entire hall broke into applause. A truly cruel St. Georges tradition, if anyone drops their tray or does anything equally clumsy, everyone applauds. I left my tray on the table and ran towards the door. I was planning to have a long hot bath and then blame menstrual cramps for my absence in history. My history teacher, Mr Krackle (estimated to be between 80 and one million years old) would be suitably embarrassed not to ask questioned. I was just planning what I'd do after my bath when I collided slap bang with Mr Holden. I dropped my bag and the contents split all over the floor. Fan-Fucking-Tastic. I wasn't sure why, but the idea of his seeing me orange juice stained as well as make-upless and messy made me cringe. Littered over the floor was a packet of cigarettes, a lighter, chewing gum, perfume, Bobbi Brown lip gloss, a hair brush and a well thumbed copy of Chekhov, The Seagull, and Closer by Patrick Marber. Two absolute favorites, I almost never go anywhere without a play on me. He disdainfully ignored all of the other paraphernalia, though he looks disapprovingly at the ciggs, which I quickly grab. Picking up my books. I scooped up the rest of the contents and chucked it into my bad, the stood up. His eyes flicked over my top, (Cleavage? Did he notice? Oh god, why do I care??)
'You appear somewhat.. Disheveled, Miss Jones.'
'Orange Juice Sir. I sat down without thinking.' I replied, perhaps a little facetiously. Was that a hint of a smile I saw across his lips? He handed me the play.
'Chekov? You surprise me, I wouldn't have had you down for a fan of Russian Literature.'
'Well thats me Sir, full of surprises.' I winked at him and sauntred off. A wink? A wink? What the hell was I thinking? How cheesy seventies porn movie is that?
I sighed as I watched the icy cold porcelain bath being filled with hot water. Clouds of steam filled the room, filling it with the sweet floral smell of my bubble bath. St. Georges is notoriously cold. Originally built entirely of stone, little has changed, bath time is one of the few times where it's comfortuble to take off your clothes. The communal showers are enough to make you hyperthermic. I slid into the hot bubbly water and immediately felt all of my muscles relax, I floated in the water so as not to put any pressure on my poor sore backside. After having washed my hair and soaped every inch of my both I took a few deep breaths and lay back,immediately feeling sleepy. Oh this was the life.
Shit. I jumped up out of the now luke warm bath water. How long had I been asleep. I had only really meant to miss fifteen minutes of history. Twenty tops- Oh god, there was only twenty minuits left of the lesson! My second quick change of the day, running along the corridor clad in only a tightly wound hot pink Barbie towel, into my room to put on my last clean (even less uniform) t-shirt and school skirt. Tights would take too long, it would have to be knee socks- how very Lolita I thought. Mm, Holden... Humbert. Oh God whats wrong with me? Why the hell do I keep fantasizing about him? Wet haired and messy I performed to sprint of shame all the way down the flights of stairs, down a corridor, another flight of stairs and into the History block, up the final flight of stairs and burst through the door panting. Only standing where Mr Krackle always stood was Mr Holden.
'Jones. Kind of you to join us. Late twice in one day? I think you'd better stay behind after class. Do sit down' Oh well at least he isn't going to-
'Oh, and Jones, come here.'
Fuck.
'You know the drill.' He sits down and looks at me expectantly. I'd like to be able to do this respectfully, really I would- but not in frount of my class. I've got a reputation to uphold. I dramatically place myself over his lap, making a great show of pouting and sighing. He lifts my skirt and slides down my knickers. There is an audible gasp when the class catches sight of my artfully striped backside. Mr Holden begins to rain down strokes upon my poor backside, already injured everything hurts a hell of a lot more, and I'm crying by time he finishes. I stand up and hastily wipe my tears away. My class seems astounded, I don't think any of them have ever seen me cry.
Fucking Sadist. He has a lovely time watching me try and arrange myself on the hard plastic chair, only the jokes on him because when he runs down to do the photocopying I borrow my friend Athena's jumper to sit on. My God thats better.
I spend the whole lesson chewing unattractively on my pen and doodling flowers and hearts in the margin of my paper. I make a few meaningless notes on the propaganda minister Josef Goebles (Had a clubbed foot, doncha know?) and then gave up and stared out the window. Twenty minuets seemed like an eternity, and then the bell rang, with startling clarity it sang out my doom. I sat there, like a women doomed to the Guillotine as the class filed out.
He looks at me. He doesn't seem cross, but it could be some kind of ploy.
'It seems I was wrong, Jones.' Wrong? The almighty Mr Holden? Never. I notice were back to last name basis.
'I see... Well thats great Sir but I've got a drama lesson now.' I start to get up.
'Sit down.' He says icily. How does he do that? He can make two words so god damed scary. I start to bite my nails, a sure sign that I'm scared.
'I thought that our little.. Talk this morning had actually had an effect on you. It seems I was wrong. Insufferably, not even ''fashionably'' late to my lesson. No genuine reason provided.'
'Sir I'm sorry- I was expecting Mr K.. and I do have a reason, I have...'
'Menstral Cramps?' Fuck.. that was scary. How did he do that?
'I've been working in girls boarding schools for fifteen years Miss Jones. I have heard the Menstrual Cramps excuse more times than the word 'the' I know my stuff. and I will not be messed around with. Werther your teacher is myself or Mr Krackle, you are expected to be here, on time, and pay attention.' I blush deeply. I know whats coming.
'May I see your notes?' I pass him my exercise book. There is a collage stuck on the fount. Jason Issac's, Johnny Depp, Orlando Bloom and Alan Rickman. I blush even more. He flicks to today's lesson and sees the doodles and the pathetic notes. He shakes his head.
'What are we going to do with you Miss Jones?'
'I've heard that forgiveness is a great way of dealing with things sir. This is a catholic school and all Sir.'
'Ah yes Jones, though it seems that you're not familiar with the concept of Catholic guilt. Mind you I like the idea of your punishment being religion appropriate.' Shit. I've dug my own grave.
'What do you have to do to archive forgiveness Jones?'
'Penance, Sir.'
'Indeed my dear girl. I believe you have a drama lesson now?'
'Yes Sir.'
'You will spend the next seventy minuets standing in the corner of the class room with your skirt raised and your knickers at your ankles. After seventy minuets, if I feel that you have been suitably well behaved I will not punish you further.' Arguments start to well up in my throat. This is so unfair. Its like ritualistic humiliation. Only- what choice do I have?
The year nine history lesson begin to file in. It takes a second for them to register what is happening. I stand, with my bright red face hidden in the corner, facing away from them being the only saving grace of this situation.
'You may have noticed, Ladies, that there is a half dressed Sixth former standing in the corner of our class room, and that I am here, instead of your last teacher. Mr Krackle has unfortunately had to leave school for personal reasons. Miss Jones however took it upon herself to miss the majority of her lesson, and is now paying the price. I want to more discussion on the matter.' They all began to whisper and hot tears or shame and humiliation began to roll down my cheeks. It reminded me of Jane Eyre, only Jane didn't do anything wrong. Seventy minuets passed like an eternity, but eventually the bell rang, and they all skipped off to break. Only I was left in the corner, sobbing still.
'Jones?' I didn't reply. For once I couldn't think of anything witty or bold to say. My back side hurt, I was throughly humiliated and the entire school would soon be talking about my cane striped ass. I heard steps behind me and felt a hand on my shoulder. Unwillingly I turned around. Then he lifted my chin and made me meet his eyes. What a contrast- only last night I was boldly out-staring him, and how I could barely look at him. I stopped crying and looked at him, only this time it wasn't a challenge.
'I'm sorry.' He said simply. What? Holden was sorry?? What was going on? I dropped slowly to the floor and slid my knickers back on, I pulled my skirt back down, thinking that I had been dismissed when he gently ran his hand over my cheek bone and touched my lips. This felt like some kind of amazing fantasy. Then he stopped himself.
'I shouldn't have done that. It wasn't fair. You needed to be punished for being late, but not like that.' I gulped, the looked at him and smiled weakly. Then he stroked my hair and lent towards me and kissed me very softy on the lips. I began to melt into his arms, wanting to drink him in, absorb all of him when- a loud knock at the door. We sprang apart.
'Jack? Are you about? I wanted to talk to you about some lesson plans.' I quickly grabbed my files and books.
'K, thank you for that Sir.' I turned to leave.
'Oh- and Rebecca, If your still having trouble, do come and find me in my study this evening.'
Something told me that I was going to be needing a lot of extra History tutoring.


You know the drill- Leave a reveiw= Very happy Evie.