By Klayton Frost
Copyright 2012 Klayton Frost
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She told me to call her Brandy. We were sitting in her car outside the building where she lived when she first told me her name. I didn't think it suited her. I was more used to thinking of her as Ms Harman, my maths teacher.
As we climbed out of the car I wondered just how this could be happening. It was hazy. Ms Harman . . . Brandy, I mean, had started teaching my class at the start of the year. She'd had a hard time of it. Mine is a boy's school, and the kids in my year aren't exactly nice. Brandy was one of those teachers where you could sense their nervousness right off, and so after a few sessions things broke down pretty badly. She'd spend half the lessons calling for quiet and not getting any, and the other half trying to teach despite being completely ignored.
I guess I'd tried to be nice to her. A couple of times I had stayed after class to help her tidy up and we'd ended up chatting. She'd been really easy to speak to on those occasions; almost like a friend rather than a woman at least ten years my senior. I'd never really thought that much about her until that night.