Peer Pressure Read Free Page B

out scouting for women or propping themselves up with a free hand as they urinated against a wall, Rob would sit at home, head in the books. Such thinking made him feel old. Fathers were teachers. Grandfathers even. Rob was neither of these and was beginning to get that ‘fish out of water’ feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was either that or last night’s curry.
    His head was buzzing. Unable to focus on the news headlines, he left his coffee on a nearby table, and began to aimlessly pace around the flat. It was small, one hallway, a bathroom, kitchen, bedroom and lounge, the walls bare. It was a blank canvas, but Rob preferred that. It would allow him to put his own personal stamp on the place.
    He had only been in the place two weeks and in that time had really only done the bare minimum of work to it: a couch, a double bed, a TV and, most important of all bookshelves. To call Rob a literature junkie would not have been an unfair assessment, except that he was far more picky than most. He loved books, and like any connoisseur, he had high standards. Yet, he wasn’t a snob. First editions and collectables sat on shelves next to paperbacks, with no real order or pattern to speak of. The alphabet had no place here. It was a mark of Rob’s personality: quiet order hiding utter chaos.
    He wandered into his bedroom and stood in front of the mirror by the door. He glanced at his watch, before turning his attention to his own reflection.
    Shirt? Check.
    Trousers? Check.
    Flies done up? Double Check.
    Look of terror and inadequacy? Check, check and check.
    Dark circles had developed around his eyes, a product of two hours sleep. At least his hair was behaving itself. He’d always thought he had been cursed with his Father’s Irish hair, which maintained a kink at one side that would make it unmanageably wavy at a certain length. The small cut on his neck, administered earlier by a Gillette and a shaky hand, had faded also.
    Overall, he felt he’d done a decent job. At least he looked the part, he thought. Surely that was half the battle? The rest would be in the ‘welcome to teaching’ manual he would be handed as soon as he walked through the school doors, wouldn’t it? Christ, he hoped they gave him a manual! Something that would tell him what to expect, what protocol there would be.
    For instance, he had never been too sure what, legally; he was supposed to do if a student picked a fight with him. He had seen what boys of fifteen or sixteen looked like these days. They were huge. If one hit him, was he allowed to hit back? Would the other teachers be on his side? What if a girl hit him? Rob’s mind was racing now. This was not a good start.
    Outside, a bus drove by, making the window rattle, a unique feature of the property that his estate agent had, oddly, failed to mention. Rob’s focus shifted from his face to his unmade bed. He flopped down upon it, limply, facing the ceiling and exhaled the word
    “Shit”.
    He checked his watch again. It was seven-thirty a.m.
    “Shit, shit, shit, shit.” He knew he would have to make a move soon. He knew that soon he would be leaving the warmth and comfort of his flat, to walk down the cold granite street to his car. That he would get in, key in the ignition, a blast of cold air in the face, a quick re-tune on the radio and then he would be off to start his career. All this he knew.
    And yet, while his heart was in it, his head and guts betrayed him and, quietly, he died inside at just the thought of putting his coat on.

FIVE
    Nothing had changed. The granite still made the building look depressing, even more so because it was a school which, to a teenager, was already the most depressing place on earth, a reputation that it had maintained for more than seventy years
    Voices still echoed in the hallways, while the classrooms, with their massive air conditioning vents, were so dry that they could have evolved their own eco-system. The air smelled of chalk dust and