Free The Ice Cream Girls by Dorothy Koomson

don’t you think?’ he’d said.
    This was the first time he said something like that or touched me, though.
    ‘Oh God, I’m sorry,’ he said and leapt up. ‘I should not have said that or done that. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’ Red in the face, and shaking with nerves, I guessed, he moved to the other side of the classroom.
    ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m so, so sorry, I don’t know what came over me.’ He stumbled over a few chairs as he went to the blackboard, picked up the chalk-powdered eraser and started to rub out the things he’d written on the board earlier that day. ‘I’ll, I’ll, erm, talk to the Head. I’ll find you another tutor. I’ll say it’s not working out.’ He cleared his throat, moving the eraser back and forth over the same spot, even though it was clear of his spidery writing. ‘I’m, erm, thinking of leaving at the end of the term anyway, but once you tell your parents and the school find out, I’ll probably be asked to leave before then.’ He stopped what he was doing, then turned to me. ‘I want you to know that it wasn’t your fault. I’m the adult, I shouldn’t have crossed the line like that. Blame me for doing something so wrong, OK? Not yourself. You have done nothing wrong here, OK?’
    I nodded.
    ‘Good girl,’ he said with a smile. ‘Now, you’d better go. Tell your parents that I’ll more than understand if they want me fired.’ He smiled at me again, then turned to the blackboard. ‘Goodbye, Serena.’
    ‘Bye, Sir,’ I replied, deciding I needed to be formal again. I slowly got up, started to pack my books away. I took my time shutting each book and then putting them carefully in my brown satchel. When I was finished, I swung my bag on to my shoulder. He hadn’t turned around at all: he stood at the board, rubbing it clean over and over.
    When I was at the door, he said, ‘Have a good evening, Serena.’
    ‘Thanks, Sir,’ I replied.
    I walked home instead of getting the bus and along the way, I kept reaching up to touch my face. His touch had been so gentle and soft. And the way he said he wanted to take care of me made my stomach tingle upside-down every time I ran it through in my head. He wanted to take care of me. That must mean I was special. Someone thought I was special. Someone as clever and grown-up as him thought I was special.
    ‘Hello, Serena,’ Mum called from the kitchen as I opened the front door and dropped my bag and took off my school blazer, hooking it over the globe of the banister.
    ‘Hello, Mummy,’ I said, as I ambled into the kitchen.
    Mum was stirring something on the stove and the whole house smelt of tomatoes and oxtail and onion and garden eggs. I wasn’t hungry, I realised. My stomach had been rumbling after school but the hunger left me after he touched me – that one, quick touch had taken away my hunger and left in its place . . . I couldn’t properly describe what I felt.
    ‘Are you all right?’ Mum asked as I pulled out a chair at the dinner table and sat down.
    I nodded. I was more than all right.
    ‘How was your History lesson?’
    ‘It was OK.’
    ‘Are you going to get an A for your O’Level, then?’ she asked. She asked me this after every lesson.
    ‘I hope so,’ I said, stroking the place setting at the table. ‘I just have to keep working really hard.’
    ‘Good,’ Mum said. ‘Now, go and get changed and start your homework before dinner.’
    ‘OK,’ I said.
    I climbed the stairs feeling as if I could float up them, and as I changed I wondered if Sir would like my stonewash jeans and big white T-shirt? If he liked my hair in a ponytail or if he’d prefer it loose? If he would like me to wear mascara and lipstick like the other girls at school? I couldn’t concentrate on my homework. Instead, I flicked on the radio part of the tape player that I’d ‘borrowed’ from Faye and Medina’s room when they went off to university two years ago. Sade’s voice sang out,