Free The Teacher's Secret by Suzanne Leal Page A

centre of the stage, and there she is, right behind it.
    ‘Good morning, students,’ she says.
    ‘Good morning, Miss Mathews.’ And although they answer in singsong unison, most of them falter over her name.
    ‘Last week,’ she tells them, ‘I noticed that a lot of students were not wearing full school uniform. And as I look around me now, I can see that many of you are still not wearing full school uniform.’
    When she says this, Kurt elbows Cody in the side and gives him a low victory sign. Theirs is a loose interpretation of the uniform requirement. Instead of black leather lace-up school shoes with white socks, Kurt is wearing his old favourites: a pair of battered white Volleys that have begun to split at the sides. As usual, he wears them straight, without socks. Sometimes Cody turns up in thongs, but today he’s wearing a pair of his brother’s Nikes. Whenever he has them on, he struts around like he’s the king of cool, although privately Terry thinks he looks ridiculous flapping around in shoes four sizes too big for him. But Nikes are Nikes, whatever the size.
    ‘You should all be proud to be students of Brindle Public School. And you should show pride in your school by wearing your full school uniform. So from now on, I expect you all to come to school dressed appropriately—and that includes the proper footwear.’
    Terry swallows a smile as his eyes sweep the room. Of the hundred and sixty kids sitting there—give or take a few—he reckons maybe thirty are wearing black leather school shoes. Good luck, lady, he thinks to himself.
    Himself, he’s all for having a uniform—it keeps things easy and it stops the playground from becoming a fashion parade—but as for doing army checks to make sure it’s all to regulation, well, he’d say that’s going too far.
    And the uniform chat is all she’s got for the kids on this occasion, so then it’s over to Terry to MC the rest of the show. Unclipping the microphone from the side of the lectern, he walks right up to the front of the stage.
    ‘Good morning, Brindle Public,’ he says, using his stage voice.
    As the kids start to reply, he takes another step forward, then pretends to take another, one that will send him tumbling off the stage and into the sea of faces in front of him. His foot in mid-air, he puts a hand behind one of his ears. ‘Can’t hear you, Brindle Public.’
    The kids are laughing now but they don’t say anything until he counts them down. ‘One, two, three: good morning, Brindle Public.’
    This time the kids scream it out. ‘Good morning, Mr Pritchard!’
    He steps back. ‘That’s better, Brindle Public. Sounds like you might be ready for a bit of music then?’
    It’s a Brindle Public tradition, the assembly singalong, and something Diane and he used to do together. This year, for the first time, he’s flying solo. Pointing the control button at the back of the stage, he waits for the projection screen to unroll until, finally, it completely covers the left-hand side of the stage. With the press of another button, lyrics cover the screen; one more button and crackly music fills the hall. The kids start to nudge each other. He’s chosen a goody: Diane’s favourite and probably the school favourite, too.
    Over-excited, some of the kids come in too soon, shut up, then try again. Feigning disappointment, Terry shakes his head and, with another press of the button, cuts the music.
    Let’s give it another shot, Brindle Public,’ he cajoles them. ‘“Blame It on the Boogie”. From the top.’
    When the music starts again, Terry sing-speaks into the mic to keep them all together. Mostly it’s a mess, but God, it makes him laugh. Shame about the other stuff, but there’s still a lot to like about Mr Michael Jackson.
    As the chorus approaches, there’s a build-up of momentum, then an eruption of singing and arm-waving and sitting-down dancing.
    For the kindergarten kids, and for anyone else who’s forgotten, Terry