The School Lesson, or Miss Emily
Jake Thompson was coming back from the cafeteria when he heard a faint rustling under the stairs. Curious, he peeked beneath and spotted Tim and Ollie huddled together.
“What are you two doing?”
“Mind your business,” Tim scoffed, shooing him away.
Just then, the bell rang. Tim and Ollie bolted from their hiding spot, stuffing something into their pockets before racing upstairs, skipping steps two at a time. They slipped into class just before the door closed.
Miss Emily was writing test questions on the board. The students scrambled to their seats. Jake glanced around—his classmates were rustling papers, hiding textbooks under their desks, ready to cheat.
Miss Emily spun around sharply, and the room fell silent.
“If I catch anyone cheating, it’s an instant fail,” she warned, her cheeks flushing pink. Then she turned back to the board, and the whispering resumed.
She had only been teaching for two years, fresh out of university. To mask her youth, she wore oversized glasses with plain lenses and a stern, no-nonsense air. But her voice trembled when she raised it, and her blushes gave her away. Jake liked her for it.
It was his joke that had started the nickname “Miss Emily” around school. This year, she’d become their form tutor in Year 8. The boys—and even some girls—pushed her limits, disrupting lessons. She floundered, struggling to control the class, and once Jake thought she might cry. He couldn’t stand it.
“Enough!” he snapped, standing abruptly. “What’s wrong with you? She’s trying to help. If you don’t want to learn, fine—but don’t ruin it for the rest of us.”
The room went still. Only Ollie snickered, muttering, “Jake’s got a crush.” A chorus of shushes shut him up. From then on, the class quietened down—mostly.
Miss Emily finished writing and picked up the chalk—just as a barrage of paper pellets, shot from a pen tube, struck her back. A few got tangled in her hair. She shuddered, flicking them off like spiders. Someone giggled.
Jake turned to the back, where Tim and Ollie sat, stone-faced. But the flicker in their eyes gave them away. *So that’s what they were doing under the stairs—preparing to disrupt the test.*
“Open your exercise books,” Miss Emily said, her voice tight.
The rustling started again.
“Left side of the row—Option A. Everyone else—Option B.” She sat at her desk.
Jake glared at Tim and Ollie and raised a fist. Another round of pellets flew, missing the teacher but hitting girls in the front row.
“Miss Emily, Tim and Ollie are throwing things,” Lucy piped up.
“Since when? We didn’t do anything!” Tim protested, half-standing—just as Jake hurled a tightly crumpled ball of paper at him.
“Ow!” Tim clutched his cheek. “See?!”
“Jake!” Miss Emily snapped, rising from her desk. “Of all people, I didn’t expect this from *you*. Bring me your planner. You fail this test!” Her face was red as she scribbled in the register.
Jake trudged forward and handed over his planner. She wrote a sharp note, then handed it back. “I want your parents in school tomorrow.”
At dinner, his father finally asked, “How was school?”
“Fine. Miss Emily wants to see you.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing,” Jake muttered.
His dad sighed. “No one gets called in for *nothing*. Talk.”
Jake relented. “We had a maths test today. Tim and Ollie started shooting pellets at Miss Emily. I felt bad, so I retaliated—hit Tim. She saw, gave me a zero, and sent me out.”
His father frowned. “So you’re saying you were unfairly punished?”
Jake shrugged.
“Maybe I *should* send you to your gran’s,” his dad mused.
“Dad, I’m serious! I didn’t start it. I’m not lying!” Jake’s voice cracked.
“We’ll see,” his father said, turning back to the telly.
But term wasn’t over yet. Jake hoped something would change his father’s mind.
The next day, his dad came to school during his lunch break. Miss Emily had a free period, grading tests in the staff room.
“Hello. James Thompson,” he introduced himself, walking in without knocking.
Miss Emily adjusted her glasses, which always slid down her nose. James was tall, broad-shouldered, and strikingly handsome—early forties, with a presence that made women’s hearts skip.
“Emily Carter,” she said, standing. For some reason, she removed her glasses, then hastily put them back.
“I need to tell you—” She straightened, lifting her chin to meet his gaze.
“No, *I* need to speak,” James interrupted. “My son did nothing wrong, yet you failed him and sent him out. And now you’ve called me in?”
She bristled. “Is that so?”
“Yes. Two boys tried to sabotage the test—hoping you’d cancel it. They shot pellets at you, right? Jake defended you. So you punish *him* while they get away with it?”
“The test *was* their punishment,” she countered. “Neither knows maths. Should I have excused them? Jake, however,”—her tone softened slightly—”is brilliant at maths. The test was easy for him. I didn’t mark him down. *They* failed.” She gestured to the stack of papers.
“Ah. A lesson, then. So why call *me* if you know he’s innocent?”
Her expression faltered.
“Well… Jake *did* shoot back,” she said weakly. “Same method, even if his reasons were good. He disrupted class.”
James studied her. *Young. Pretty. Fresh out of uni. Playing strict with those ridiculous glasses. No kids of her own, yet trying to discipline ours…*
Under his gaze, she flushed, looking more like a schoolgirl than a teacher.
*I’d have stood up for her too,* he thought unexpectedly.
An awkward silence settled. James softened.
“Jake’s mum died six months ago. Cancer. Fast. I nearly sent him to his gran’s but changed my mind. I work long hours—he’s alone a lot. It’s… hard.” The words spilled out before he could stop them.
“I didn’t know,” she murmured. “He never said.”
“I told him not to. No pity.” He exhaled. “So we’re done here? My break’s nearly over.” Yet he didn’t move.
They stared until Miss Emily blinked, removing her glasses again—then quickly putting them back. Without them, she felt exposed.
“Yes. Of course.”
“Goodbye.” James smiled, and her pulse raced.
After school, she took Jake home with her.
“Why?” he asked, baffled.
“All classrooms are booked. You’ll retake the test here. Unless you *want* that zero?”
“No.”
He walked beside her, confused. She was different—kinder. It irritated him.
“I could just give you an A. It’s easy for you. But it’d look suspicious, so you’ll retake it properly.”
“Did Dad tell you? About Mum? You feel sorry for me?”
“Your father loves you deeply. You’re all he has.” She said nothing else the rest of the way.
“Mum, we’re home!” she called as they entered. “Leave your shoes here,” she told Jake.
“We?” Her mother—petite, sweet-faced—appeared in the hallway.
“This is Jake Thompson, my best maths student. Mum, this is Lydia. We’re famished.” She nudged Jake toward the bathroom.
He meant to refuse lunch, but a steaming plate of roast beef awaited, and his mouth watered. He ate slowly—until the food vanished, and Lydia served him seconds.
Then Miss Emily sat him at her desk with a test.
“But this isn’t what we did in class.”
“Too easy for you. Try this.” She left.
Jake could’ve cheated but didn’t. The problems were tough, and soon he was absorbed, forgetting everything else.
She graded it on the spot, praised him, and marked it an A.
“Here’s a book with extra methods for solving problems.”
As he took it, a photograph slipped out—a man in a naval uniform, squinting in the sun.
“My father. He was a ship’s captain.” She retrieved it quickly.
“*Was*?”
“He died.”
Jake felt a sudden kinship. Then he realized—*she’s not wearing her glasses*. Without them, she looked… different.
His phone buzzed.
“Dad, yeah,” he answered. Miss Emily politely turned away. “I’m at Miss Em—Emily’s… Did the test… Okay.”
“Sorry for keeping you,” she said as he texted.
“Dad’s picking me up. Sent him your address.”
“Tea before you go?”They sipped tea in the kitchen, and when the doorbell rang, Jake knew—somehow—that this was just the beginning of something new.
