The Room at the End of the Corridor
Every school Jamie had ever attended had one — a room at the end of a corridor, with a laminated sign on the door and a teacher in it who was kind in a way that made your skin itch.
This one had a beanbag. It always did. Somebody, somewhere, had decided that a beanbag was what a child like Jamie needed, and the decision had travelled to every school in the country and settled in every room at the end of every corridor, along with a poster about feelings and a box of fidget toys that nobody had ever seen anybody use.
Mrs Aziz did not sit on the beanbag. She sat at the table, on an ordinary chair, and pushed a second ordinary chair out with her foot.
"Sit if you want," she said. "Or don't. I've got marking."
Jamie stood in the doorway for a while, working out whether this was a technique.
It probably was. Everything was a technique. The bright voices were a technique, and the concerned head-tilts were a technique, and last year there had been a woman who kept saying his name in the middle of sentences, which had turned out to be a technique too, from a training course. He had looked it up.
But Mrs Aziz had gone back to her marking, and she wasn't doing the thing where they pretend to be busy while watching you out of the corner of their eye. He knew that thing. He'd seen it a hundred times. She was actually marking. She had a red pen and a stack of books and a small frown of concentration, and after a minute she made a noise of genuine irritation at something a Year 8 had written.
He sat down.
She did not congratulate him. She did not say well done for coming in today, Jamie. She turned a page.
"There's a kettle," she said, without looking up. "It's rubbish, but it works."
The clock above the door was the sort with a second hand that jumped rather than swept, and Jamie watched it go round twice, which is two minutes, which was longer than he had spent in a room with a teacher since March.
Then Mrs Aziz put her pen down and looked at him properly for the first time.
"Right," she said. "You don't have to talk. But if you did, I'd want to know what actually happened in October, not the version in the file. The version in the file is rubbish, like the kettle."
Jamie looked at the beanbag. "It's a stupid beanbag," he said.
"It's an appalling beanbag," said Mrs Aziz. "I've asked them to take it away four times."
And that, it turned out, was where they started.