The clock moves disproportionately slowly. I enjoy this class, despite her best efforts. But there’s always a possibility that she’ll find a way to suck the joy out of it. The end of the period comes, then goes. No bell. People start getting restless, their jackets on, their bags closed, books already packed away. Her words become terse, staccato, like poison darts. We become louder, this disruption of normality allowing mild chaos the possibility of spilling over. She disappears from the room, with vague threats that nobody pays any attention to. A few minutes later she returns, her face pinched. There’s been a power cut, and it’s been decided that it isn’t safe to have us all moving between classes, filling the corridors with our bags, our bodies, all hormones and bravado, insecurity and unpredictability. No one can say how long we’re to stay here, so she makes us take out our books and jotters, sees an opportunity to squeeze in an extra lesson. Howls of protest are ignored. Do I imagine the look of perverse pleasure on her face? Probably.

This narrator, like all narrators, is unreliable. But I’m clear on what happens next.

Time passes interminably. We’re deep in the middle of something we’ll need for our exam. I can’t remember what it is, but whatever it is, I just can’t get my head around it. She’s standing at our table, one of those high benches you get in labs, with a thick, wooden top, metal frame and legs painted black, while we perch on high stools. I’m not tall, but, at 14, I’m on the small size of average. Even so, she only comes up to eye level. Everyone else in the group seems to have grasped the concept (or is saying they do). I’m just not getting it. I don’t know why, but it just isn’t going in. For some reason, this infuriates her. Actually, it’s not “for some reason”. There’s a specific reason. And that reason is that she fucken hates me. I’m genuinely not sure why. I’m a bit of an arsehole in the way that all 14 year olds are, but not unusually so. So, at some point, she decided she didn’t like me, and I reciprocated. I never really acted out (I was too much of a coward), but I probably pushed back a bit more than usual.

So she’s explaining this concept, and, hand to God, I just don’t get it. And the angrier she gets, the further away my grasp of it slips. My textbook is at the correct page, my jotter is open where it should be be, but neither of them are giving me the information I need. The corner of my vision blurs, like I’ve physically retreated inside my head. The words on the page are gone, like they’ve fallen out of the bottom.

She jabs at this blank page, demanding that I understand something I can’t even see, her finger like a dagger. She asks me over and over, but she may as well be asking me to explain Einstein’s theory of Special Relativity or play Hendrix’s version on the Star Spangled Banner by ear. I feel like I’m underwater, her voice distant and muffled. I don’t know how long this lasts, but suddenly something cuts through.

“We’ll start with an easy one. What’s your name?”

Nowadays, had she asked me that, I’d have told her to go and fuck herself. Hell, even a year later, I’d have given a smart-arsed reply. But my shame and embarrassment won’t let anything out other than the genuine answer, a meek, slightly squeaky response that I hate myself for giving. And I hate her more than that for asking. And then, she doubles down.

“Do you know what day it is?” she sneers, the contempt dripping from her mouth and I feel like it’s landing on my skin like spittle.

I seethe, anger building, but I say nothing. I don’t trust myself to say anything. She asks again, louder, more bitterly, and from the corner of my eye, I see her ridiculous, wooden, parrot earrings swinging violently back and forth and, in that moment, I see her for who she is: a vindictive bully.

Through gritted teeth, I spit “YES” at her, and, as she counters with “so why don’t you know this”, I realise that she knows that it’s over. She’s lost and she knows it. And I know it and she knows that I know it. This is all I need. I find my resolve, I find my voice and I stand suddenly, the noise of the stool scraping the floor cutting through like a knife going into a balloon. She steps back, unsure what’s about to happen. With as much courage as I can muster, I face her down.

“I’m sick of you picking on me. I’m going to see my guidance teacher”. And then, despite my best efforts, the tears come, hot tears of anger that prick my skin, furious that this is the only option left.

She splutters at me to come back, but she knows it’s over. I turn and leave, sobbing, my tears blinding me, the door slamming behind me.