The Last Charm. Ella Allbright

Besides, I found sketching pictures of the witches more interesting than the tragedy, greed, and madness of the story.

      ‘Miss Jones, am I boring you?’ Mr Strickland’s sarcasm booms and bounces off the walls.

      His tone annoys me. Lifting my chin, I raise one eyebrow, careful to tuck the earphone wire out of sight. ‘I’m not sure. Are you boring yourself yet?’ There are titters around the room, along with the sound of pupils shifting in their seats to watch the drama unfold.

      The teacher’s nostrils flare as he straightens his back, his salt-and-pepper hair sitting on his forehead in an old-fashioned 50s-style wave. ‘Don’t be so rude. Pay attention and contribute, or else you can stay back for detention today and explain to the head teacher why you feel you’re above getting a good education, and why,’ his eyebrows draw together, ‘you feel you’re entitled to disrupt the lesson for all your classmates.’

      ‘I’m happy to explain to the head that you can’t keep me in for a DT today because you need to properly notify a parent in advance to keep a child back after school,’ I respond flatly, intimately familiar with school rules and regs after the last fourteen months, feeling the burn on my lower back itch at the thought. ‘Plus, I hardly think the head would be interested in my first offence on my first day, do you?’

      He sucks in a breath, a puce flush washing up his neck into his face. ‘It’s because it’s your first day here you should be trying your best to—’

      The smallish, dark-haired boy behind me, whom I only gave a cursory glance to when I rushed in late at the start of lesson, clears his throat.

      The teacher’s face tightens. ‘Is there something you want to add, Mr Harding?’

      ‘Nah, I just wondered whether we could get on with it now? Lady M is kind of hot for a homicidal chick and I wondered whether there are any sex scenes.’

      ‘For God’s sake—’ Mr Strickland shakes his head as the class explodes with laughter. ‘You know, for someone who’s been held back for failure to academically achieve, despite being one of the oldest in your year group, you always have a lot to say for yourself, don’t you?’ The teacher marches down the aisle between the rows of laminated tables.

      ‘Yeah, thickie,’ a chunky yellow-haired boy sat leaning against the opposite wall yells, ‘why don’t you spend time with people your own age?’

      ‘Good one, Davey,’ his friend sniggers beside him.

      I feel bad for the flack he’s getting on my behalf, given that he interjected to save me, so I turn around to peer over my shoulder.

      I gulp with shock. It’s Jake! He looks older but it’s definitely him. I take in the details of his face with my artist’s eye. The scar running down into his lip. His different coloured eyes – left one brown, right one green – and the thick dark eyebrows framing them. His cheekbones and jaw seem too angular, telling me he’s not eating any better than he used to. His black hair is shaggy and a touch too long.

      He flicks me a quick acknowledging glance before craning his head to look up at Mr Strickland, who’s now hovering above him. ‘Sir, the truth is,’ he says with a straight face, ‘I find your lessons so inspiring that I fuck up just so I can repeat year ten and spend more quality time with you.’

      I hide a snigger behind my hand. Jake’s former quiet confidence has become a more daring manner, and I marvel at the chances of us being in the same class.

      Switching my attention to the teacher, I watch a mixture of emotions flutter over his face. Anger, resentment, and then resignation. It’s a war he either can’t win or just can’t be bothered fighting. ‘Right, that’s enough messing about,’ he barks, ‘let’s just get back to it, shall we? You, behave.’ He glares, nodding at Jake. ‘You’re on your last warning from me. Any more trouble and you’ll be suspended again, or worse.’ He nods down at me, ‘And you, behave yourself too.’

      He’s so patronising it makes me seethe.

      Mr Strickland claps his hands and strides back to the front of the room, pointing at the board. ‘Now, who wants to comment on Lady Macbeth’s behaviour? About the way she goads her husband into killing the Scottish King, Duncan?’

      ‘Goads?’ I mutter under my breath, yanking the earphone out and jamming it into my blazer pocket. ‘Whatever happened to free will?’

      ‘Someone tell me how she manipulates him. How she forces him into becoming a murderer. He wouldn’t have done it otherwise. He was innocent in all this, wasn’t he? Come on! Someone must have an opinion. Act 1, Scene 7, what does she say?’

      My fingers flex and curl into fists. I need to control myself.

      ‘You’ve all gone quiet. Look –’ he turns his back to the room, stabbing his finger at the quotes he’s copied out ‘– what do these tell us about Lady Macbeth? About the female of the species and their ability to lie and deceive?’

      Manipulate? Lie and deceive? The female of the species? Like only women are capable of that kind of behaviour. My teeth grind. He’s a total misogynist. Although, his description does bear some resemblance to my feckless mum. After all, didn’t she lie and deceive us into thinking she loved us before running out? I swallow down the rage unfurling in my chest. I swear, if Mr Strickland says one more sexist thing—

      ‘She’s greedy and forceful,’ he continues, using a red marker to underline a quote, his back to the class, ‘and she’s willing to seduce and coax until she gets exactly what she wants. Come on, women like her have been doing this since the world began, haven’t they? What about Eve in the Garden of Eden? She completely led Adam down the garden path, and some would argue that mankind has been paying for that sin ever since—’

      At that, I grab the heavy hardback off my desk and hurl it across the room at his head. It misses, hits the board beside his left shoulder and drops to the floor with a thud.

      ‘What the—’ Spinning around, he sees the book on the floor and glares at the class. He picks it up and holds it aloft. There’s a deathly silence. Everyone looks at each other with unease. ‘Who threw this? Who? It could have seriously injured me.’

      I swallow, immediately regretting my loss of temper. You’d have thought I’d have learnt by now, after what happened at my last school. Dad is going to be horrified. I couldn’t even make it through three lessons. Shit. Taking a deep breath, I open my mouth and start rising to my feet, planting my hands on the table in front of me. But before I can stand, a voice behind me speaks out.

      ‘I did it.’

      ‘What?’ Mr Strickland’s eyes narrow, his gaze landing over my right shoulder.

      I click my teeth shut. What the hell’s Jake doing?

      The teacher gestures to the book he’s holding. ‘Pandora, by Jilly Cooper? A bit girly for you, isn’t it?’ His mouth curls into a smirk. ‘Not the type of reading material I’d imagine you with.’

      ‘Unfortunately, I can’t reach the top shelf in the newsagent’s yet. Unlike you, Sir,’ Jake replies cheekily.

      ‘I do not—’ Mr Strickland splutters, eyebrows shooting up. Everyone loses it, and I can’t help sniggering, even while knowing I can’t let this continue.

      I turn around to look at Jake again and my lips form the words to end this whole thing and take the blame, but he shakes his head slightly and talks over me, staring our teacher in the eye. ‘It pissed me off, all that guff you were spouting. I thought you should shut up. If I had to ruin a book to do it, I can live with that.’

      ‘Jake Harding, that is the final straw!’ Mr Strickland bellows. ‘Get out of my classroom, now. Go and find the head and explain what you’ve just done. You think you’re so clever? Well, let’s see where it gets you.’

      ‘That’s cool,’ Jake shrugs, grabbing his tatty bag from the carpeted floor and sauntering to the front of