Chef is in Year 11, he smokes and, since he reeks of it most of the time, I know he smokes. He knows I know and doesn’t bother to hide it from me (as if….).
One particular day during a quiet part of a lesson, when the Teacher had wandered off to get some books, he showed me his new lighter.
‘What do you think of my new lighter Sir? Smart, innit?’
I hold out my hand, ‘It looks very nice, let me see it properly….’
‘Promise you won’t confiscate it?’ He’s not sure….
‘What’s the point? You’d only get another one.’ I reassure him.
‘Ok sir, I trust you…’ (Fool!) He hands it over.
I throw it out of the nearest window where it falls thirty feet to the concrete below. The tinkley sound of it breaking is echoed up in the classroom by the sound of Chef’s jaw hitting the desk. He looks at me with wide, staring, uncomprehending eyes. ‘You…you….you just threw my lighter out the window!’
‘Did I? Ooops, butterfingers’ I shrug, I really don’t care.
There’s a pause while he lets the facts percolate through his tiny brain. Then, he’s up like a shot and out of the fire door at the back of the room. As he pounds down the old iron steps I close the door behind him, locking him out.
I can still hear him crooning over his dead lighter far below when the Teacher returns.
‘Where’s Chef?’ She asks. I tell her, she smiles and hands out the new books. We both ignore the plaintive scratching that comes from the other side of the fire exit as she finishes. Eventually Chef’ll find his way back by going the long way round. Eventually.
