They don’t like each other. They don’t talk. They sit too far apart. He is sulky and aggressive. She is withdrawn and frightened. This is his first parents’ evening. She’s been here once before. He gazes anywhere but me. She looks at the floor. His face is smudged by alcohol. Her face is smudged by lipstick. He’s got a livid tattoo of a spider crawling from his neck. There’s booze on his breath.
Their daughter, Geena, is in my 9th year. She was going to sit with us, but ran away.
“My parents are shit, sir. Hate my dad.”
Geena is bright, but she’s doing badly. She’s starting to bunk. She’s been caught by the cops with cider and skunk under the Westway with some older, errant boys.
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