Grass

It's so fucking easy.

“I saw Imelda do it,” I say, making my face solemn.

The teacher frowns. His eyes flick away from me, to Peter then to the field outside. I note that he tries not to look at my breasts under my school blouse.

“I saw her do it. I saw her rolling it by the art rooms.”

“So did I Mr Schofield,” says Peter.

Teachers are not police inspectors or private investigators. Their heads are stuffed with sexual frustrations and instant coffee.

“She was selling it. It smelled of bonfires and old tea.” Peter nods as I speak.

“Well, yes. Thank you for telling me Gina.”

For a second I am scared that the matter will end here, disappointment making the tears running down my nose briefly real.

“But it's wrong isn't it Mr Schofield? I'm scared for her Mr Schofield.”

Schofield stands to try to retain control of the conversation: “Leave it to me you two. I'll look into it.”

In the corridor outside, Peter and I kiss knowing that Schofield will find the package we place in Imelda's bag.

Knowing that we will be one step nearer top of the class.

Knowing Candice is next.