Chapter 7-8

In Chapters 7 and 8, Issy has another meeting with Mrs Bridges and begins to reveal more about the past that plagues her.

If you prefer to listen, the audio is here too.

Chapter Seven Early-Winter 2015 Isabella

We’re studying the Romantics with Mrs Barnett. The Romantics thought that nature could speak, like the musician looking out of his window over his type writer, I guess. They trusted nature to reveal the sublime and they sought comfort and knowledge in the subjective truths that a relationship with nature offered them. I suppose that’s why anyone likes poetry really. It’s easy to accuse poetry of pointlessness and paradox – that it’s designed to convey universal and objective emotion and truth but obscures its message using words that are bafflingly niche and metaphor that is incomprehensibly subjective and personal. But to think that true human emotion can be conveyed any more simply devalues it. Human emotion is complex, and the most important human emotions are the most complex of all. These emotions are incommunicable if we only rely on simple sentences, laymen’s terms, or ‘just saying what we mean’. Poetry is precise and aims to pick the perfect language to best convey whatever it is the poet is trying to explain. It’s not perfect. It is subjective. And it is, at times, frustratingly obscure. But it is better than any alternative. This is the same reason that I like word selfies: really, all they are is poetry. A picture can mean a lot, but picking the right words means so much more. And having the time to pick the right words, rather than ruining what you want to say with the imperfections of spontaneity, makes communication so much more meaningful.

With my word selfies I’m trying to convey something of me to the people who look at them, but with poetry, I’m happy to forget about what the poet intended or what they wanted me to learn about and simply allow the words to move me. I mean, I like to study poetry academically, and think about what it reveals about the author and everything, but at the same time I like to read it for pleasure and to take anything I can from it.

Take William Blake’s poem, London, for example. He describes wandering through the streets of London and noticing ‘in every face I meet / Marks of weakness, marks of woe.’ This makes me think about how, in the modern world, we all just walk around behaving as we are expected to behave, thinking what we’re expected to think and acting like we’re expected to act, and believing that doing these things will make us happy, but really I think that they just make us sad, and the saddest thing about it is that we are too ignorant or too scared to realise that what we think makes us happy actually does the opposite. And that is just one small thing that that line means to me; it means all sorts of other things too, and that’s why those eleven words are infinitely better than the eighty-three words I took just explaining one thing that those lines mean to me.

Sometimes, when I’m walking around a place, I don’t really say much, even when I’m with people; because, in the moment, I don’t know how to compose words effectively enough to do what I am seeing and what it is making me feel justice. That’s why I like my composition book – so I can try things out before I talk about them. What’s the point in trying to reveal something important, if you know that you’re not going to reveal it properly?

So, I think the Romantics got it right, because they thought about what they said before they said it, and when they finally said it, they said it right, and, even though saying something can never convey exactly what you’re thinking and feeling perfectly, they got as close as possible. I suppose, what you’re really trying to do with your words is to make people feel the emotion that you’re describing – not just to conceptually understand it, but to actually feel it. If a reader smiles, or laughs or cries, then the writer has done their job better than if the reader just nods along in agreement.

I’m thinking this as Mrs Barnett asks us to turn to the Introduction of Songs of Innocence and Experience, and the moment she starts reading, I’m hooked.

Hear the voice of the Bard!

Who Present, Past and Future sees

Whose ears have heard the Holy Word,

That Walk’d among the ancient trees.

It sounds just like the opening of Paradise Lost. ‘Hear the voice of the Bard!’ I love how it is an exclamation and a command at the same time. I love how much significance it places on words and I love the way it reminds me of Plato’s philosopher king, who knows what is right for those who are weak and directionless:

And fallen fallen light renew!

I know I’m going to enjoy this anthology.

I’m outside Mrs Bridges’ office and everything is going as usual. I came here straight after class. I look at the pictures on the wall again and it feels nice to be looking at something familiar while I wait. It’s been a difficult few weeks, with Christmas Eve, Sarah’s birthday and walking through the woods and the park. When Mrs Bridges invites me in, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window opposite the door and something seems odd about it, though I can’t quite place what it is. I suddenly feel a little distant, like I’m floating above myself, watching my body walk in and sit down but not quite controlling what is happening. I can see it happening, but I can’t quite feel it happening. I think it’s sort of what people mean when they say they’re feeling numb, like your brain isn’t quite firing as quickly as normal, and everything slows down and you can’t quite grasp anything. I can see everything, but I can’t quite feel it or understand it and think about it.

I’m not completely stuck, because I’m able to walk forward and take my seat without stumbling, but suddenly my mind has gone blank. I don’t know if Mrs Bridges notices anything, because she sits down too and starts as normal.

‘So, how are you, Issy? Did you have a good break?’

This is normal conversation; she hasn’t started the professional questions yet – the ones that you need a degree to know how to ask.

‘Oh, yes. I managed to get a lot done over the break and it was quite nice to see a bit more of Mum and Dad – and Art had a good Christmas.’

‘Good. And how has this week felt?’

She knows about Sarah, so she’s not just asking about my first week back at school. I’m about to answer, but I can’t think of anything to say. My head still feels woolly and I don’t feel like any of my senses are really working properly apart from my sight. I notice a picture on the left-hand side of the door and I focus on it to try to regain some composure. I can tell why Mrs Bridges has it hung up in her office. It is full of warm golds and copper browns and it is wonderfully comforting. The copper brown looks like it has been splashed with hundreds of tiny stars of golden dust. In the middle of the picture are a man and a woman. They’re intertwined together, and the man is holding the woman’s head and kissing her cheek. They both have their eyes closed and she has her arm draped around his neck. They’re kneeling on a bed of deep evergreen grass and calming maroon flowers. There is something about the man that seems strong and wise and the woman looks delicate and beautiful. They are completely at peace, lightly draped in a protective blanket of sun-bright yellow, set against an infinity of copper-brown space, littered with hundreds and thousands of golden dusted stars. The golden dots remind me of the day dream I had when I was listening to Susan Merriweather playing the piano, before I overheard her conversation with her mother and then stupidly ran away.

The golden dust begins to swirl around, dancing off the face of the canvas. The two people in the centre of the image are replaced by a huge copper-brown oak tree. The swirling, dancing dust turns to rain droplets and starts to hammer down, splashing up from the dark green grass. The copper-brown background slowly grows darker, until it is black as night. The rain continues to pour, and my hearing gradually begins to work again. I hear the muffled sounds of a voice, drowned out almost entirely by the sound of the pouring rain and the pounding wind. Little by little the sound of the voice grows more distinct. It is a female voice – the voice of a child. It is a girl’s voice. She sounds scared. She is panicking. She is calling out a name. I strain to hear exactly what she is saying, to make out the name clearly. ‘Sarah’. The name is Sarah. And ‘Help’. She is calling for help. Over and over again, she is shouting those two words. Sarah. Help. Sarah. Sarah. Sarah. Help. Somebody help. Please. Somebody help. I can see something slightly more discernible now. There is something lying at the foot of the tree. It is lying on the roots that are protruding from the earth. I strain my eyes closer together, desperately trying to make out what it is. But the pouring rain and the pounding wind and my muffled senses prevent me from clearly discovering its form. The shouting turns to screaming. The pouring turns to bulleting. The pounding turns to a thrashing beating and yet my eyes begin to adjust. I strain towards the base of the tree – towards something. And I start to see. I see…

‘Issy?’

Suddenly I am back in Mrs Bridges’ office. She is crouched down next to me and looking into my face.

‘Sorry,’ I say, still half in a daze. ‘I was looking at your painting on the wall by the door. That one there and I must have zoned out. What is it?’

‘It is called The Kiss, by Gustav Klimt. Do you like it?’

‘I think the colours are beautiful.’

‘Issy, you looked very distressed a moment ago and you weren’t responding to me when I was trying to get your attention. Would you like to tell me what you were thinking about?’

I’m not sure I would like to tell her what I was thinking about. I’m not sure I want to tell anyone. I don’t even like to tell myself, but sometimes, like when I’m looking at a painting or I’m walking through the woods, or when I hear someone playing slow, melodic songs on the piano, my mind doesn’t give me the choice and the memories come flooding in, like they are happening all over again, but this time I am an outsider watching and I can’t interact with the world surrounding me.

‘The painting made me feel nostalgic. At first it was the good kind of nostalgia, when it isn’t even a specific memory, but a feeling. This was a feeling of warmth and security and comfort. And it felt like the world was alive with a protective magic. But then it changed – it always does now – and I can never hold on to those feelings.’

‘And do you see anything when the feeling changes? Do any specific memories come to mind?’

I know she knows the answer to this question; she must do. But I also suppose I know that that’s not the point.

‘The image always turns into the night when…’ I know I cannot bring myself to say it so the silence of my unfinished sentence hangs uncomfortably in the air. ‘It is always raining, and I am moving towards the oak tree in the fields behind my house – the ones near the Coleman’s farm.’ I stop there.

‘And how do you feel when the image changes? What is happening?’

‘Well, it’s raining, and it’s stormy and I can’t see properly. It’s dark and I’m wet through. I’m not wearing a coat and my bare arms are exposed. It’s very cold and I’m shivering. My hair is sticking to my face and I’m shaking.’ I stop again and stare at the painting on the wall, The Kiss. I’m picturing the moment before I stopped re-imagining it. I’m picturing that black outline in front of me, on top of the protruding roots of the tree.

‘How do you feel when you picture this, Issy?’

I still don’t answer. The memory grows in my mind again and the silence hangs in the room. I stare at the painting; my eyes see the copper-brown and gold, whilst my mind’s eye sees bulleting rain and a dark silhouette.

‘Ok, Issy, how about a cup of tea and a biscuit?’ Her words surprise me, and it jolts me back into the moment. My senses grow more alert and the foggy numbness I had been feeling since I entered the office, subsides. Mrs Bridges gets up and hands me a tissue she has taken from a box on her desk. For a moment, I’m not sure why she is handing it to me, and then I notice that my cheeks feel cold. I take the tissue as Mrs Bridges gives me a kind smile. I wipe my damp cheeks and blow my nose.

She boils a small electric kettle that is on a desk by the window. She makes me tea, but I can smell that she has made herself coffee. She hands me the mug of hot tea and I walk towards the window. The steam from the mug mists onto the pane. I trace a sad face on the glass: a circle with two eyes and a frown inside it.

‘Here, have a biscuit, Issy.’ She holds the tin of chocolate bourbons towards me. I take one.

‘Thanks.’

I dunk it into my tea for a few seconds and the warm soggy chocolate tastes nice. I breathe in deeply and the aroma of Mrs Bridges’ coffee, coupled with the lingering taste of the chocolate biscuit makes me feel warm again.

‘Issy, I understand that today was hard for you. I think that it may get harder, but I want you to know that we are making real progress. It may feel difficult now, but it will help you, and the further we get, the more it will help.’

I’m grateful for the way she says this. I don’t feel embarrassed and I don’t feel sickened by any sort of exaggerated sentiment. Mrs Bridges is a professional and she cares. If she didn’t care, she wouldn’t be working in a school – the qualifications framed on her walls show that she is massively overqualified. And if she wasn’t professional, she wouldn’t be helping: I don’t need to be told that everything is all right and I don’t need for anyone to tell me that it’s ok to still be so upset. The truth is, I don’t think that it is ok to still feel the way I do, and I don’t know if everything is going to be all right. But Mrs Bridges knows how to help, and I still want to see her next week.

‘Thank you.’ I say. ‘I need to let myself remember more. I know I do. But whenever I do remember, I don’t want to.’

‘That is perfectly normal, Issy.’ She lets the conversation rest there, and, again, I am grateful for her subtlety. I continue to look out of the window and sip my tea, and she continues to comfortably sip her coffee, sitting on the other side of the room. When I eventually turn around, she is jotting something down in her notebook. She looks up and smiles.

‘Well then, Issy. That’s almost time for your bus home, I think. Let me take that for you.’ She stands up and takes my mug from me. She places it on the side and walks over to the bookshelf that lines the left wall. She speaks as she stretches up and runs her fingers over the titles on the shelf.

‘I wonder if you might like to borrow a book from me. I think you may find it interesting. Yes, here it is.’ She pulls out a large book with a hardback cover. She dusts it off with her hand and hands it out for me to take.

‘It is an introduction to Art. I like this particular edition because it takes you through some of the most influential artists and shows you their most famous pieces. Each chapter is a different artist. It begins with a short biography of the artist and then discusses their major works next to pictures of them. There’s a chapter on Klimt in there, if I remember rightly.’ I take the book from her and flick through the first few pages.

‘Thank you. I’ll look after it. It looks great. I’m going to finish Paradise Lost tonight and Mr Harrison has set us an essay, but I’ll definitely read a chapter too.’ I feel like there is so much to consume, and no time to do it in.

Mrs Bridges lets out a good-natured laugh. ‘That’s ok, Issy. There’s no rush. Keep it for as long as you like. I just thought it might interest you.’

‘Oh, yes. It definitely will. Thank you, Mrs Bridges. I mean it. It looks great.’ I want her to know that it means a lot to me that she picked this book and thought to let me borrow it.

‘You’re very welcome, Issy. Now, I think it’s about time for that bus.’

‘Oh, yes. Thank you, Miss. I’ll see you again next week. Have a nice evening.’

‘You too, Issy.’

She opens the door for me and I say thank you again and then I’m off down the corridor to catch the bus home. I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. I take it out and see that it’s #me. I suddenly realise that today wasn’t the first time I’d notice that painting. I hadn’t noticed it in Mrs Bridges’ office before, but it’s the one #me has on the wall opposite his desk while he’s working. I must have been feeling very strange not to have made the connection straight away – it was only a few days ago that he showed me the picture. I remember what he said, about the two people in the picture. He said that he imagined I looked beautiful, like the woman in the painting. It makes me smile again thinking about it. I reply to his message as I descend the staircase towards school reception. I remember what he said earlier too, before I bumped into Bobby Peters. I smile again as I walk out of school, and head towards the bus stop.

Chapter Eight Early-Winter 2015 Isabella

I’ve been reading, and watching, and blogging, and messaging like people used to sleep and dream; I really wish there were more hours in the day. I’m pretty aware of the skin under my eyes looking puffy, and I’ve fallen asleep on the bus home most days this week, but honestly, I don’t feel too tired most of the time. And I’ve not become a coffee fiend or anything like that. I drink a lot of water and try to eat very healthily – when we’re not getting take out that is. It’s amazing how much better I feel after I drink a pint of water, or after I eat a colourful salad. Sometimes I crave something seriously sugary, like a piece of cake or a whole packet of biscuits, and sure, sometimes I go for it and it tastes really good, but most of the time I know, especially if I’m tired or bored or frustrated, that the sugar high and come down is going to make me even more tired or bored or frustrated. Why do we do things that we know are going to make us feel worse the moment after they’re done?

Anyway, I read that Margaret Thatcher survived on three hours sleep a night, and I also read that we don’t really need the sacred eight hours that people always say we do, so I guess I average about five hours a night, plus maybe thirty minutes or so on the bus, or a quick nap when I get home, so I don’t think I’m being unhealthy really. And I feel pretty good, now that I’m eating right too.

#me and I watched a film together last night. Well, the way we do it is that we message each other to make sure we start it at the same time, and then we message each other whilst we’re watching, so it’s better than going to the cinema or anything, because I hate when people talk at the cinema, but this way, I can watch silently when I really want to take a bit of the movie in, and we can also message each other when we really need to share something. I mean, we don’t even message too much when the film is on; it’s nice to just send emojis, like we’re turning to look at each other in shock or surprise. Last night, after the film had finished we gave ourselves twenty minutes to both write up a blog on the film, so we could compare what we both thought without being swayed by the other person’s reactions. People often say what other people want to hear.

The film we watched was called Tristan and Isolde, which is a bit like Romeo and Juliet. It’s all very complicated, but basically the English king’s adopted son, Tristan, has an affair with the English King’s wife, Isolde, an Irish princess. Problem: the English king is just about the nicest man in the world, so we’re torn when Tristan and Isolde have an affair between wanting their love to thrive and feeling sorry for the king who’s being deceived. And, problem: when the Irish king discovers the affair, it gives him the excuse he was waiting for to attack the English. And this is the bit that is just filled with honour and courage and all those great medieval knightly virtues: so, when the good king finds out about the betrayal, he sets Tristan and Isolde free, sending them away with their lives and their love. Of course, Tristan can’t go, because he knows that their love would never survive in the shadow of their shame. Isolde drifts off into the misty, moonlit night, and Tristan returns to regain his honour, dying in the process of saving the king and father he betrayed from the bloody war he started.

#me says that he thinks they should have fled together, because their love is more important than anything else. He thinks that by not going, Tristan’s love is brought into question. He says that he would have fled with me. It’s a corny line, but I smile when he says it. The great thing about blogging separately and at the same time is that I was able to say the opposite, and not feel bad about it. At the end of my blog I said:

Thank goodness that the film retains its integrity throughout, rather than giving in to some sort of Hollywood-happy ‘ever-after’ ending. If Tristan had fled with Isolde, their love would never have survived. They would have learned to hate themselves and resent each other for what they had done. It’s not brave to do something that feels compelling, but that you know will be fleeting before turning sour. Isolde loved Tristan because he was an honourable man, and by fleeing he would have lost the very thing that made him who he was. Maybe this sort of chivalry is dead? Do you know what I mean? Like how everyone says things like It can’t be wrong because it’s just my opinion, or Well, I can’t help the way I feel, so you can’t blame me for it. I think people sell themselves short a lot. Maybe they always have. But when people sell themselves short, they sell themselves out, and lose what makes humanity great: they lose trust and hope and truth and honour, to anxiety and depression and confusion and shame. So, Tristan, well done for no fleeing, but, I guess, the real catalyst for the tragedy was the affair that they Just couldn’t help themselves from having. People haven’t got a clue what to prioritise sometimes. Falling in love is easy: but preventing its degradation is everything. Do you know what I mean?

#me knew what I meant, but we disagreed for hours.

When I finally fell asleep that night, managing to make it to my bed and under the covers, I had a strange dream.

I’m running in the fields beyond the town, behind where Sarah’s family’s farm is. The moon is full and visible, but the stars are hidden behind grey and black cloud. It seems strange how the bright white orb is the only thing breaking through the cloud, like a spotlight in the sky; the stage is black, and I am running blind. I am out of breath, but I keep on running. My legs are burning, but I keep on running; I have to because something is chasing me. I don’t know what it is, but it is getting closer. However hard I run, I know that I am not outrunning my pursuer. Eventually I feel something change in the gradient beneath my feet. My toes point upwards and my heels down, as the flat plain I’m running on turns suddenly into a steep hill. My legs feel heavy because of the incline, and my muscles ache against the unfamiliar strain of running up. As I slow, I become aware of the arctic cold around me and wonder why I am out so late, in the cold, with my arms so exposed in only a flimsy t-shirt. The air feels heavy as my legs tire. Though it is my muscles that feel like lead, my mind believes it to be the air that has become thicker. If only the air would thin, I could run faster.

I feel the presence of my pursuer closer and closer behind me. I am afraid. Whatever is chasing me, I do not want it to catch me. I run on. I breathe on. I cling on. I reach the summit and I stop. The presence of my pursuer has disappeared. Suddenly I feel safe. I look up at the white-orb in the sky and the clouds have cleared. The sky is filled with twinkling stars, dotting the heavens. I think of Milton’s great abyss in which Satan travels from world to world and between universes. Though it is enormous, there is some comfort in it. I hear a man’s voice.

‘Sorrow only increased with knowledge.’

I look around. I cannot see anyone. The deep voice sounds again.

‘Sorrow only increased with knowledge.’

And now another voice.

‘The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.’

The first voice again.

‘Sorrow only increased with knowledge’

And now the second.

‘The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.’

Something about the words is familiar. They repeat over and over. They seem to be moving towards me, as they get louder and louder. As the volume increases to a deafening beat, the words rush over me like a gust of wind. I fall backwards in the tumult and as I pick myself up, I hear the words drift off into the distance behind me, continuing to sound, but off to grace other ears in other places, perhaps in other worlds.

I stand up, breathe in deeply and look up at the sky, remembering where I have heard those words before. The first voice was Frankenstein’s Monster, and the second Lucifer.

When I wake up, I am covered in a cold sweat and I know that I have dreamt something terrifying and yet somehow immeasurably important.

I take the bus into school today, the morning after I dream about the voices on the hill. I don’t think I can face walking with any other reminders of Sarah and the girl I was when I was with her. I sit in the same seat as I usually do. It is not a school bus, but at this time of day, most of the people on it are going to school. It’s stupid, but the bus is segregated right down the middle. On the back half of the bus, everyone sits in burgundy or black blazers. These students go to the same school as me. And on the front half of the bus, everyone is wearing blue V-neck jumpers and polo shirts. What a stupid thing to do: i) build two secondary schools at either end of the same road, and ii) draw up the catchment boundaries to divide the wealth in this corner of the city so clearly down the middle. So, our school gets the kids from the big houses, and the other school gets the kids from the poorer areas. The bus route goes through both areas, so students from both schools have to share the same bus. So, iii) make the wealthy school wear shirts and blazers and the poorer school wear polo-shirts and jumpers. I hate to make generalisations like the kids from the big houses go to the good schools and the kids from the poorer areas go to the bad schools, but where I live, there are no two ways about it. That doesn’t mean my school is perfect. It might run a tight ship, but it still has its fair share of issues, but they’re nothing compared to those down the road. Sometimes I think the schools perform so disparately because each one is spurred on to be identifiably different from the other. Our school sees what life on the other side is like and strives to stay away from it, and the other school calls ours pompous and uses it as an excuse not to improve.

So, the point today is that I don’t like the bus ride in to school. I’m sat halfway down the bus, where the class lines get blurry. Fortunately, I’m at the front of the back, and not the back of the front; this way I can see the sea of blue before me, whereas the back line of blue are blind to their adversaries. And they are adversaries. Everyone likes to be part of a group, even if it’s the worst group going – just like in the film about the Nazi experiment. I feel like a fraud, being sat on the row where anyone in a blue V-neck can turn around and see me representing the front line of their enemy. I’m not their enemy. I definitely like my school, and I like the identity of it, and I’m glad I don’t go to their school, but I don’t want them to look at me like I think that that makes me better than them or makes me think they’re scum or anything like that. I don’t know anything about them and I don’t care about the school rivalry. I’m just part of one community and they’re part of another.

And I’m not part of the pack behind me, anyway. I feel like I have my back turned to whispers and jokes and gossip that I’m not part of, and I’m facing turned heads of whispers and jokes and gossip I’m not part of. I’m IBHighLife, but they all see Isabella, so I’m not really on the bus anyway.

At the last stop before school, someone gets on and takes the seat next to me. It’s Emma Morrison. I feel bad, but my heart sort of sinks. I’m trying to block out everything around me and I’m talking to #me and keeping up to date with the responses to my blog about Tristan and Isolde last night. She smiles as she takes her seat.

‘Hi, Issy. How are you?’ I’m torn between the screen and the sound of Emma’s voice. I know that I look distracted when I respond.

‘Oh, hi, Emma.’ I say it so that it confirms we’re just saying hello, and don’t need to say anything else. Sometimes ‘How are you?’ just means ‘Hi’. It’s like when you see someone you sort of know but think they’ve not seen you yet, so you look the other way and keep on walking. That way, if they see you, they don’t think you’ve ignored them because they can see you’re looking the other way. And if they see you and ignore you, then it’s fine because you’ve both ignored each other. There’s no sense in going through the awkward catch up just for the sake of etiquette. But it’s rude if you see each other seeing each other and one of you pretends not to have noticed.

As I sit here feeling bad because I know I’m sort of ignoring someone who’s supposed to be a friend, I realise that Bobby Peters is supposed to be a friend too, but I know he won’t be. It annoys me that I have to feel bad, because it’s not like I’m not in the middle of something with someone else. You could say that Emma talking to me is rudely interrupting another conversation.

‘So, have they asked your mother to come in yet?’

I don’t know what she means. ‘Ermmm.’

‘You know, to talk about her paper that we read in English last term.’

‘Oh yeah.’ I’d forgotten about that conversation.

‘Did you ask her or Mrs Marlow or Mrs Barnett?’

‘Oh, I forgot. Mum’s been very busy with some research and I wasn’t sure she’d have time for it.’

- I’ve got fifty likes and twenty comments so far, how about you?

- I’ve got forty likes and eighteen comments. I’m catching up.

- Or falling behind!

‘So, what is your mum working on?’

‘I’m sorry?’ I really can’t split myself between the screen and the bus. It’s funny because inside I can jump from conversation to conversation easily. That said, if I’m writing or reading I won’t do anything else. That’s just where I have to draw the line. I mean, some things just take focus.

‘Your mum, Issy. You said she’s been busy with research. Is it something interesting?’

‘Oh, right. She’s…’ I pause. I can’t think what she’s working on. I don’t think I’ve forgotten; it occurs to me that I never knew. ‘Ermmm.’

‘It’s alright, Issy.’ She says it like she means it, and she smiles as she turns away. I don’t even think she’s being sarcastic. She digs in her bag and I see her pull out a book. As I turn my eyes back to my screen, I catch the cover out of the corner of my eye. I’m not sure if I looked on purpose or not. It’s The Picture of Dorian Gray. I freeze for a moment, stuck between two worlds. I’m straddling two platforms, with one foot in the bus and the other somewhere else. The gap is getting bigger, until I’m nearly doing the splits. If I don’t grab on to one side soon and pull myself up, the two platforms will be too far apart, and I’ll fall into the abyss between them. I start to formulate a sentence in my mind. I almost say that I’ve read Dorian Gray too, but as the words begin to escape my mouth, I turn them into a sneeze. I hear Emma say, ‘Bless you!’ I say, ‘Thank you’ and smile at her like I really mean it. She doesn’t notice, and I turn back to my phone.

- That’s fifty-one likes and twenty-one comments. I’m leaving you behind.

I talk to #me all the way to Mr Harrison’s room for morning registration. When I get there and pull myself out, I realise I forgot to say ‘Good day’ to Emma when we got off the bus. I wonder if she said it to me.

When I look up to take my seat, my heart sinks again for a moment when I think I see Mrs Hemsworth at the teacher’s desk, instead of Mr Harrison. Of course, I hope that Mrs Hemsworth’s father is okay, but Mr Harrison is a better form tutor and I was hoping to try out my ideas on the film he asked us to watch, Her, in my composition book today. My shock is not quite so severe when I realise that, though it is not Mr Harrison sat at his desk, it isn’t Mrs Hemsworth either: it’s Mrs Marlow, one of my English teachers. She’s the really good one; Mrs Barnet is the good one. When the clock hits precisely ten to nine, she stands up to address the class. She’s very punctual, Mrs Marlow. She isn’t a teacher that students pester out of lesson time; it’s sort of an unspoken understanding that she’s not the one to go to with your problems. I mean, she’s lovely, so I’m sure she’d listen if anyone did go to her, but we respect that she’s not the ‘go-to’ problem solver. As such, lesson time with Mrs Marlow is precious, not to be wasted. She’s almost as good as Mr Harrison. Anyway, she addresses the class:

‘Good morning. Mr Harrison is tied up in a meeting with the students from the ‘Pause Tech Group’, so I’m here to register you.’

‘The Pause Tech Group.’ Mr Harrison leads it. It’s all about socialising in what they call the real world. They think we spend too much time on social media and not enough time really socialising. They put posters up around the school. I just about disagree with everything they say. I mean, I know some people are depressed and lonely, but inside they can find people to make them less lonely. The odds are just much better: there are millions of people your age available online, and only a couple of hundred at school. Mrs Marlow continues:

‘I think it would be nice if you could all have a chat about something interesting. Maybe some of you watched the news this morning.’ She sort of raises a sardonic eyebrow as she says this last bit. I begin to make a move towards my phone: I don’t sit in the front row, and, from the sounds of it, it doesn’t look like Mrs Marlow is going to expect us to do anything other than chat quietly; I expect her to sit back down and check her emails, but as I look up, just checking that the coast is clear to go inside for a bit, I see her walking over to me. She takes the empty chair next to me. I look around and see everyone else chatting away.

‘Hi, Issy.’ She gives me a pretty warm smile, and I think of how attractive she is, in a mid-forties, classy sort of way. She has natural blonde hair and good skin that shows only the slightest trace of subtly applied make-up. She looks like she could probably have written half the stuff we study in her English class. She sort of looks like my mother – she really is a beautiful woman too, and in a sophisticated sort of way.

‘Good morning, Miss.’

‘Mr Harrison mentioned that he’d set his Sociology class an extra project to do with AI. Are you doing it?’

‘Yes. I’ve watched everything that he recommended, but I haven’t started writing my essay yet.’

‘I thought that you’d be giving it a go. I wonder if you’ve thought of the parallels with Frankenstein. You had some lovely ideas about that when we studied it.’

‘Well,’ and after this opener I don’t stop talking for about five minutes. ‘I started with the film, Her, the one about the man who falls in love with his operating system. I liked the angle that the AI didn’t have a body, like the robots and synths in the other things that Mr Harrison recommended. I thought it was interesting at the start how the operating system, she names herself Samantha, is what they call ‘intuitive’, which means she learns from her environment.

‘At the start, this makes her the perfect match for the man who buys her, Jolan, because she reads every sign and nuance in what he says and how he acts, so she is able to respond perfectly. I think she could do this because she had the whole of recorded human history to help inform her intuitions – she could read a book in less than a second.

‘I felt happy for Jolan because he was lonely after his divorce and Samantha gave him the chance to be happy. Then I started to think about whether this was good for Jolan because there seemed something artificial about the way that he and Samantha got on so well. I felt sorry for him because he couldn’t quite feel proud that Samantha loved him because she was a well programmed AI, not a real person.

‘But as the film went on, it felt like we were able to get past the fact that she began life as a human engineered computer programme. The mere fact that she was intuitive made her just like any other human being, only she was like a superhuman, because she could do everything a million time faster than a normal person.

‘I think that maybe you could see the film as symbolic of human evolution. Why couldn’t this be the next step in the evolutionary drive for more perfect adaptation? For a while I thought that Samantha had one great and tragic flaw: she didn’t have a body. This seemed incongruous with the human form – like it couldn’t be the next step of human evolution because it was too unhuman-like. But then I realised (the character realised it after I did, which was quite cool) that Samantha, the OS, was immortal. Not only was she super human in her ability to consume a generation’s worth of information in mere moments, but she would be able to continue to do this forever. So, her lack of having a body was only a drawback because she was interacting with people who had bodies. If no one had a body then it wouldn’t be a weakness anymore, would it?

‘I don’t know. It’s just interesting to think of how we assume that the best version of humanity has to look the way we do now, but maybe the best version of humanity doesn’t have to be so narrow. Frankenstein’s monster was rejected because he looked different; he looked unhuman-like.’

I realise I have just been talking non-stop for five minutes. I think I thought I was writing my blog or writing my entry in the composition book that Mr Harrison gave us. Mrs Marlow looks at me, her chin resting in the palm of her hand, like she has been thoroughly engaged in my five-minute ramble: I’ll write my ideas up far more clearly when I come to write my essay. She smiles, and when she is sure that I’ve finished she speaks.

‘Well, Issy. You’ve certainly thought about it a great deal. What I liked most about your essays on Frankenstein was your empathy for the creature, who had been shunned by society. Personally, I like the idea that a happier ending for Shelley’s novel would have been for the creature to be welcomed by the De Lacey family, who realise the foolishness of their former prejudice. I wonder if your response to the film is the opposite. Your ideas would translate to lots of Frankenstein’s Monsters running away together, to colonise an unknown continent and sever all links with human-kind. From what you’ve told me, I’m not sure that Jolan’s problems lie in humanity’s irreconcilable imperfections, but in his own.’

I look at Mrs Marlow like she was looking at me, and I wait for her to continue.

‘I remember reading something somewhere that said something like ‘a true and lasting solution can only ever evolve out of the problem itself.’ I always liked that. We must fix the systems that are failing, not knock them down and replace them. If we do that, then the same cracks will just come back.’

‘Hmmmm.’ I take in what she has said, but I don’t have time to think of a response without just repeating myself. We sit silently for a moment, the chatting of other students a mild hum in the background, like the sound of waves when you’re reading on the beach. I think of something to say; I feel that it is related, but I’m not entirely sure how.

‘I think the feeling that I want to capture is like the one I feel when I’m reading. We once went to Pembrokeshire, to a beautiful beach that’s looked after by the National Trust. What I liked about the beach is that it wasn’t overcrowded – you know, like most touristy beaches; it always makes me laugh how people sit on the first bit of sand they see when they arrive at a beach. If you just walk for five minutes, you’ll find all the space in the world, stretching out in front of you. If all the people crammed on the first hundred-foot square of the beach spread out, everyone would still have room to cartwheel and build a sand castle kingdom without infringing on another family’s space.’ Mrs Marlow is still listening, so I carry on.

‘Anyway, the thing that was different about this beach was that you couldn’t drive right to it, so you had to park a good fifteen-minute walk away, and the walk was a bit of an up and down one. So, when you got to the beach, you knew that everyone who was there had been willing to work to get there. This particular beach is beautiful. It’s like a Mediterranean cove, but the surrounding hills are layered with dense, green trees and rich vegetation. I sometimes think that the countryside in the Mediterranean looks too dry and barren to be as beautiful as people say it is. So once we were on the beach, I felt like I was a world apart. And I sat down to read my book under the sun. And for two hours I barely looked up, but I felt safely cocooned there, absorbed in the fantastical world I was reading, the sound of crashing waves peacefully and soothingly in front of me and knowing that behind me were luscious trees and hills and fields, and no one for nearly a mile who would just get to the beach and sit next to the car park. It was beautiful. I think that’s what it would be like for Frankenstein’s Monster, if he did go off with everyone else who was rejected. I don’t think the De Lacey’s were going to change – even his creator had abandoned him, so why not leave and make a paradise of their own somewhere, with the waves crashing in front of them and the trees and hills and fields stretching out around them?’ I pause, realising as I do, that I’ve been speaking for a long time again. I look at Mrs Marlow and she’s sat again with her chin in the palm of her hand, elbow resting on the table. She says,

‘It sounds like you have very little faith in humanity’s ability to improve. I wonder whether thinking that the De Lacey’s, or people like the De Lacey’s, can’t change is one of the things that stops them from changing. And don’t forget that the old man accepts the creature.’

‘Yes, but he’s blind.’

‘Ah, but doesn’t that reveal the problem that needs to be solved? The problem is that we base many of our judgements on appearance, and we make many judgements too quickly. We should not overlook the virtue in Felix trying to protect his family, just as some of those beach goers who sit near the car park have trouble walking or forgot their picnic. Find the problem to solve, not to abandon.’

I think about what she is saying, resting my chin in the palm of my hand and looking beyond Mrs Marlow, out of the window that shows me a view of the green sports pitches, bordered by trees.

‘And on that note, Issy.’ She looks at her watch. ‘I think it’s time for lessons.’ She gets up and I do the same. As I begin to leave, she adds. ‘Issy, think about what I’ve said.’

‘Thanks, Miss. Have a good day.’

‘You too, Issy.’

As I leave the classroom, I see Mr Harrison and the ‘Pause Tech Group’ putting up new posters around the school. I don’t really like it.

I don’t concentrate very well in Maths as I’m thinking hard about what Mrs Marlow has said about growing solutions out of problems.