Open Heart Surgery

Have you ever watched someone drown? Have you stood helplessly by and seen them sink lower and lower into despair? I’m seeing it now, she’s showing all the signs- wide eyes, desperate looks around to see if there’s anyone to save her, white face and a sort of terrified, shell shocked expression. I am not however leaning over the side of a boat. I’m in a history classroom, and the victim, my teacher, has been backed into a corner, or rather the table of year seven exercise books, by two middle class parents.

‘And what is it you do at this school that makes History special?’ There’s always one. One set of parents who decide they are too good to mingle with the populace, so they skip the talk and go and torture any available teachers who they can get their claws into. They’d started off pleasantly enough.

‘Are we your first visitors?’ was the apparently polite opening statement, albeit spoken in an unmistakeable upper middle class drawl. Half expecting to see her nonchalantly twirling some four wheel drive keys from her little finger I’d looked her up and down. She was interrupting our castle building game and she didn’t even look sorry. Still, Miss H was prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt.

‘Yes, welcome to History’. This was accompanied by a benevolent smile and steely eye contact. Pushy mum was evidently not completely stupid as she realised that this one was not to be messed with and instead made purposeful movements towards Mrs O who had unwisely separated herself from the group. That was around the time it got nasty.

Now I squint at them. She doesn’t even look Catholic. Mrs O is gallantly holding her own but there’s more.

‘And did you choose those subjects because they’re interesting?’ Oh God, just leave, just take your husband, and your precious daughter- Annabelle or Georgia or whatever, and just leave. We were happy before you, we were building castles.

Mercifully they do go, after enquiring about year seven trips and barely concealing their disapproving looks when they learn that, actually, their little darling will have to wait until year eight to see some ‘real history’. There’s a sort of stunned silence until they’re out of earshot.

‘Do they think we choose subjects because they’re boring or something?’ Shake of the head.

‘No, we want to send your daughter to sleep.’ Roll of the eyes.

I roll my eyes too and feel really grown up and included.

Is that more people?

I suddenly have no idea what to do, where to go, what to say. When I volunteered for this I kind of forgot to say that I’m not exactly a people person. That, truthfully, when confronted with new people, instead of having a meaningful conversation with them, I sort of stutter out a few words and blush. Especially if they start asking me about curriculums and syllabuses and all that teacher stuff.

Lamely I sidle over to Mrs O. ‘I can stay with you right?’ She nods and kindly doesn’t point out that, at seventeen, I shouldn’t be so afraid of a few parents. So I stand with her and nod intelligently while she talks to the parents. I even say ‘yeah’ when she makes a particularly good point. Go me. So I’m feeling really proud of myself when I suddenly vaguely remember Miss H saying something about ‘floating between the two rooms’. I wander next door to see what’s going on.

‘I thought, Miss, that you might be lonely.’ See, I can construct sentences. And be witty and ironic.

My first useful act of the evening is to hold the door because it keeps closing. I do this until I realise that Miss H put a piece of paper under it quite a while ago and I’m just standing there looking like an idiot. Damn. Upon moving away from the door I see a parent moving toward me looking, quite scarily, like he might ask me something. Okay, it’s okay, just don’t panic.

‘What’s the best way to the canteen?’

Okay, well that’s easy isn’t it? Down the stairs and out the door and into the quad. Will he know what the quad is though? If he doesn’t how do I explain it? And yeah it’s down the stairs but there’s corridors and stuff in between isn’t there, do I tell him about those? Will it overcomplicate things? Do I just take him there? Will it look weird? Oh God, just give up.

‘Miss H, what’s the best way to the canteen?’ I can’t look her in the eye.

‘Down the stairs and out the door.’ If only, if only, I was as cool as her. The guy smiles at her, throws a pitying look my way and is gone. My desperate glance falls on the clock.

‘You know Fionnuala, the more people, the quicker the evening will go.’ I had foolishly forgotten she could read minds. On the bright side I haven’t been disowned because she sits on the desk with me and talks to me. A brave move considering my recent lack of conversational skills.

‘Someone came in here earlier and said to me: ‘Where in here can I get a drink?’ I laugh along while inwardly thinking good question. Still, there seems to be less people in here which is definitely good. I feel I have to justify myself.

‘You know I’m not really good with questions,’ I’m normal, I swear.

‘It’s okay, Fionnuala, you just get flustered.’

‘Yeah, even when people ask my name, not that I don’t know my name-’

‘It’s okay, Fionnuala.’

I swear she’s further away. Okay, say something intelligent. Something brilliant.

‘Miss, your video’s stopped.’

‘Yes.’

‘It looks like out of that film, you know- The Ring.’

‘Yes.’

Maybe it’s time to go back next door, or maybe if I stand rooted to the spot long enough the ground will swallow me up and it will all be over. Open Evening- Torture Evening more like.

There’s even less people now and they’re drifting towards the door. Miss H says ‘bye’ and ‘good night’ and all that. I don’t risk opening my mouth, just sort of smile without actually making eye contact. Mrs O’s back, the two of them are talking about SMT or PTA or something. Just keep quiet, keep your eyes on the floor, act like a human being for chrissakes.

From far away a sound registers in my tired head. Bells. Peace on earth? Oh no, the real bell, making the same constant annoying noise it always has. I wonder vaguely, why it’s ringing at 9pm.

‘The bell’s ringing.’ Wow, this seems to be my day for intelligent observations.

They stop their conversation and sort of smile kindly at me and nod.

‘It’s not stopping.’ I make a mental note to go to textiles the next day and get a zip sewn on my mouth to prevent this ever happening again. Then a sudden ecstatic thunderbolt hits me: the bell is signalling the end of the evening and I can go home. The pain can end.

‘Well- thanks, Fionnuala.’

‘Yes- Thanks.’

While I am unsure exactly what they are thanking me for I feel, given my current verbal skills I’d better not ask and instead bolt for the door in the politest way possible.

Escape.