FRIDAY

"You swear too much."

I think about saying—no shit Sherlock—but that would prove his point. "Do I," I say instead, "is that very bad?"

"Up to you," he says, "but I know you have a powerful imagination, Savannah, and I think you waste it. Use your imagination to sift through your vocabulary to find some better words instead. You can, of course, still swear if you feel it's appropriate and there are no better words."

Mr A—brilliant teacher of English (as mentioned to Sandy) and new to our school since September. Cheryl and I Google-d him when he first arrived because we wanted to find out his first name and it's...drum roll, Bertram. Was he born one hundred years ago or what? But Bertram Adams it is, and as I said my favourite teacher.

"What about fanny flibberty instead of the f-word?" I ask, "Is that any better?"

He shoots me a look. Approval/non-approval? Wondering where on earth I got fanny flibberty from?

Cheryl and I also found out his age from our research—forty, which made the two of us start in surprise. That's ancient, but he doesn't look it. We only looked him up because he's something apart from the other teachers. Not like a teacher at all, as I told Sandy. And hot. I thought it, but Cheryl said it first, telling me he reminded her of Robert Pattinson. Or at least what his older brother might look like.

I scoffed, then looked again. Tall? Tick. Dark hair? Doesn't smile often, but broods a lot. Double tick. And then my heart did that thing where it starts to pound and my tongue flattens itself to the bottom of my mouth and refuses to say anything.

The eyes remind me of the river of chocolate in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory? They fix on me, I think. I hope. He can hold eye contact for a long time—not like all the stupid lads our age or who either look at the ground or stare at your chest. They get a much better eyeful when they look at Cheryl's rather than mine.

Here's the other thing about Mr A. Cheryl and I discovered this when we did our Google stalking, and we've actually managed to keep our mouths shut about it. Miracle. Especially in Cheryl's case. Mr A was an actor in the 1990s. Yes, a real, live actor in an actual TV programme. We found old episodes of his show on YouTube and spent five minutes zooming in on the faces to check if we were right.

The programme was a drama about five young people living together who all worked in the city. They spent their time doing drugs, sleeping with each other and going to wild parties. There was one bit where we saw his bum—gross, Cheryl said (and can you see now why I'm so amazed she's managed to keep this quiet for so long), but I felt my heart do the pounding thing when I watched it. How was I gonna watch him in class when he turned his back to us and NOT imagine that scene?

We didn't tell anyone else, but we both stayed behind one day after a lesson and asked him. I went first: "Sir, did you used to be an actor?"

He rolled his eyes. "No. You're talking about Jonathan Taylor, aren't you? He looks exactly like me. I've heard this most of my life."

Jonathan Taylor was the name that came up in the credits, but don't actors use different names all the time, and if I was called Jonathan Taylor, you can bet your bottom dollar I'd have changed my name toot suite too.

"You look really like him," Cheryl said. She'd folded her arms and put her youngest child in the family stubborn look on. Plus, she likes to be right.

"If I was really an actor, do you think I'd be working in a school?" he'd perched himself on the corner of his desk and fixed us with those chocolate river eyes of his. A reasonable question, right?

"Maybe you were a crap actor and no-one offered you any more work after that show," I said. I reckon that was the truth because we hadn't found any more programmes starring Jonathan Taylor.

The words I said hung there and I wished I could grab them back, cram them into my mouth and swallow them down. Sometimes, I can't help what comes out of my mouth, just as a lot of the time I can't control what goes in it either.

"Ah, youth..." he sighed, and pushed himself off the desk. Conversation over by the looks of the things.

"Or maybe you didn't like acting very much," I said quickly; though at the same time could that be the case? Er, hello? Not like acting? Not like being a star? Not like being famous? Not like showing your arse on TV and having women swoon over you? I don't think so.

"I don't like talking about my past," he said, "and it isn't the business of schoolgirls anyway. I look like Jonathan Taylor, I've been mistaken for him ever since that programme came out—so that's about twenty years now of denying that I'm Jonathan Taylor. It gets tedious after a while."

"Sorreee," Cheryl said and grabbed my arm, "C'mon Savvy. We're off."

We got up to leave, but he called out, "Wait."

I turned back, even though Cheryl was still pulling at my arm to leave.

"I was Jonathan Taylor," he said. "It's my real name."

Cheryl grinned—right again. "No way! So, what happened?"

"A bit of what you said, a bit of real life."

I tugged Cheryl's arm back as it looked as if this was a story that was going to take some telling and we might as well sit down.

"My mum was diagnosed with breast cancer after the second series of the programme and as she was on her own I wanted to look after her and I stopped working for a while. And then I'd been away from the acting scene for so long having never really been that great an actor, that no-one was interested. It seemed like a very artificial world by that point too."

"Did she die then?" My sensitive friend Cheryl. I nudged her hard in the ribs.

He nodded, slowly. I thought his eyes looked watery and in my mind, I walked forward, took out a tissue and dabbed his face, the two of us heads forward so we touched, and then...

"Let's go, Chezza," I said, and muttered that I was sorry about his mum as we left the room.

"Chezza, we are NOT telling anyone that story okay?" I gripped her arm hard as we headed out of school. "Do you promise, DO YOU PROMISE?"

"Yeah, yeah—let me go you sappy bitch. You were trying not to cry, weren't you?"

"Whatevs. Just don't tell though."

Cheryl agreed and she has so far kept her promise—I think it might just be because she forgot all about it. Hot New Lads to chase and an Instagram account to update all the time. And Matt Rogham of course, proper actor, not one who starred in a show most people have never seen.

After today's English class, Mr A said he wanted to talk to me so could I stay behind. He suggested I think about doing more creative writing, and I'd thought back to the other day, taking the little rat to school, stuffing my face with food and then sleeping it off, and doing nothing at all. So I said something really, really rude about extra writing.

"Do you really think I've got a good imagination?" I ask.

He stops wiping the whiteboard and turns round to face me. He leans on the edge of the desk, folds his arms and crosses his ankles.

"Savvy, your essays are incredible. I sometimes have trouble believing they have been written by a sixteen-year-old. Your powers of description are amazing. Why do you need me to tell you this?"

I'm fiddling with my hair, twirling the side bit over and over in my fingers. My other hand itches to do the same.

"Katie once told me I should swap essays with her to see if she could get the same mark for her essay if you thought it was written by me. She says you have favourites," I burst out.

His jaw drops and he stares at me really hard for a few seconds.

"Stupid fucking bitch."

I open my mouth too, but I'm grinning.

"That one, that one," he mutters. "Right—this is between you and me. I mean it, Savvy you mustn't tell anyone this and, especially, please DO NOT tell Cheryl... but Katie Greenfield? I know she is bright and I know she's university material etc etc., but Katie has sod all imagination I promise you. I dread reading her stuff, because I know it will be worthwhile and grammatically correct but there will be no life to it at all. Do you know what I mean when I say someone talks in a monotone fashion?"

I nod.

"That's what her writing is like; correct, proper and dull as... Obviously, I've been spending too much time in your company, as I was going to use the f-word in front of an impressionable teenage girl." He raises his eyebrow at that.

"Language!" I say, but I'm still grinning.

"So yes," he continues. "I would know if you and Katie Greenfield swapped essays. I would know from the very first word."

I smile. "Good," I say. "Can I tell her?"

He jumps off the desk. "NO! Absolutely not! Savvy, I should not have told you that about her—it was really unprofessional of me. I was just concerned that you thought she might be right; that I give you good marks because you are one of my favourites. I don't, Savvy; I give you good marks because you are a fantastic writer."

I grin back at him. "Thanks, Sir."

"Oh don't call me Sir," he says. "It makes me feel so old. I know The Fuhrer likes old-fashioned discipline at the school, but I'm not convinced."

I grin back at him again. Amazing—he knows what we all call Gilmour, the head teacher.

"So what is it then?" I ask. "Bertram or Jonathan?"

"Touché. Jonathan then... but I'd rather you didnt do that in class."

I nod. "Fair enough... Jonathan. Anyway, by this time on a Friday me and Chezza are usually totally wasted so I've gotta go."

He actually looks shocked.

"No, we're NOT," I say, "I just say that kind of thing to the olds to shock them."

He rolls his body off the desk.

"Olds? Thank YOU. Can I drop you anywhere?" he asks, shaking his car keys, "and preferably not in the gutter."

I look up at him. I can smell his deodorant and the washing-up powder off his shirt. I remember the sight of his arse on YouTube and for a few seconds, I think about what his hands would feel like on my waist. I shoot upwards from my chair so that he and I are standing almost opposite each other and I am looking into his eyes.

There's a sudden pause.

"Actually, I've got to go," he turns away from me. "I need to get home quickly tonight so I can't give you a lift. See you next week and remember to look up that writing site I told you about, Teenwriters. You should try it out."

He bolts out the classroom, not even locking the door behind him.

I sink back into the chair. What just happened?

Savvyslim:  Annies, what happens when someone sees your body? I hate showing my body to anyone, do you ever let people see your body?

I'm wondering about this now because there's this guy... he's really gorgeous and I think he's interested in me. I'll need to lose a lot of weight first though because I feel ginormously fat and I worry he'll be repulsed when he sees my disgusting body...