Remote

Short Fiction | Rue Baldry

‘It’s a bit weird, looking at a screen full of icons.’

But no one switches on their camera.

I keep talking, eyes on the chat box, waiting for a question to be typed. I avoid looking back at the black-themed collage of their chosen images, taking up most of the screen, and at my own rumpled face and unkempt hair, the only sign of life, in its corner.

I say, ‘It’s been an unusual year, and it wouldn’t be surprising if some of you were feeling a bit unsettled. Do any of you want to talk about anything?’

The chat box stays empty; their cameras and mics stay off.

‘Anyone concerned about the virus? Maybe vulnerable relatives?’

It’s the last form time of term; what else can you expect from thirteen year-olds?

I miss their physical presence, their shufflings, fidgets and interactions. I want to see who is having a growth spurt, who’s changed their hair or pierced something, all those little personalisations of the uniform. I want to keep an eye on whose eyes are red, or dark-shadowed, or eye-shadowed, downcast or twinkling, avoiding or seeking someone else’s.

‘Is there anything you’ve found particularly difficult about the remote learning this term?’

They might miss each other, but it is unlikely that they care about me.

I look up from my laptop, out at my view of the side wall of a neighbouring block of flats. I remember that my own camera is still on, so they’ve seen me look away from them. I return my attention.

‘So there’s an email gone out from the Deputy Heads about the end of term arrangements. Anybody not get that?’

I could nip down to the Spar in my lunch hour, get a sandwich or something. At least that way I’d see a human face, though I’ll considerately keep a bandana over my own. I know grocery shopping is supposed to be essentials only and as infrequently as possible, but it couldn’t hurt much, could it? And I’d still be able to go out for a run after school time.

‘You’ve done really well. Most of you have got most of your work submitted. Mostly on time. I haven’t had as many complaints from subject teachers as I was expecting, to be honest.’

I try to think of something else to say.

‘There’s a lot going on in the news. Black Lives Matter. That kind of thing. Anyone got any opinions about any of that?’

I suppose it’s different for them. They’re likely to be thoroughly sick of family members they’ve been locked down with. The opposite problem to mine.

I wonder what they are doing at this moment, sat beside their computers with one ear on me, if I’m lucky. Some of them illicitly on their phones, no doubt. No way of telling. I expect the next lesson has been posted by now. What do they have next? I drag over my binder with their timetable pasted to the front.

Geography. Yes, she’s efficient. A few will be getting on with whatever she’s set them.

‘Anybody got anything they want to ask about anything at all?’

Fifteen more minutes. I could just release them.

I wonder who is playing a video game, who is dozing, who is checking social media on a second device or a tab. I wonder how many of them are messaging each other secretly, privately, while I drone on.

I could be getting on with something more useful myself. I’m going to have a lot of work ahead of me planning lessons for next term. I could make a start.

‘Have you all been managing to get out for your daily exercise? Keeping yourselves busy?’

But I can’t prepare anything because nobody knows what’ll be happening by September. And I’ve already sent out the rest of my lessons for this week. That’s the thing with Maths—I just research the sites we’ve got subscriptions for, send everyone a link and sit waiting all lesson for someone to ask for help, which they hardly ever do. And then I get the scores. I’ve already reviewed this week’s. No surprises. Hardly any this term.

I stretch a hand to the radiator on my left, while looking straight ahead at the camera, check if my running gear has dried out yet. If not, I’ll have to run in what I’m wearing now.

A sock falls off the radiator. 

I don’t think I visibly reacted. Hope not.

‘What about your plans for the holidays? I know some of you usually—oh!’

Three dots in a chat box. A response!

‘Yes, Jacob? Something you want to share? A question?’ I shouldn’t be betraying this much excitement. I stop talking, wait for him to press Return.

Here it comes:

what time school ends last day

‘Oh right, yeah, that’s all on the email I was talking about. It’s 2:30. 2:30 on Thursday.’

I wait for a follow-up. There isn’t one.

Ten more minutes to kill.