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“You’re a maths teacher,” I say before I can stop myself, eyes still on the page. “That speaks for itself.”
James lets out a dramatic gasp, like I’ve mortally wounded him.
“Et tu, Robinson? I thought you were on my side.”
“I just think maths teachers are proof that suffering can be a career choice,” I say.
Tom actually laughs out loud at that one. He leans in slightly, his voice pitched low just for me. “You know, it’s a little unfair that you’re funnier than both of us combined.”
I can feel the heat in my cheeks, and I have no idea how to respond. Thankfully, at that exact moment the bus starts moving.
“Tom,” one of the other teachers on the trip calls from a few seats behind. “At some point over the weekend have you got a moment to talk about the assembly you were planning for next week?”
“Yep,” Tom replies, twisting round to face her. “Though I feel like I’ve been in more assemblies than Louis XVI by this point, and each is a step closer to my demise.”
There’s a pause. A long one.
Unfortunately, I can’t stifle my laugh, and let out an unladylike snort that becomes a full-on chuckle.
“Sorry,” I say, trying to calm down. “That was just quite a good French Revolution joke.”
James is looking at me blankly.
“You know because King Louis… and the assemblies…?” I trail off, frowning as it becomes painfully clear no one else paid attention in history. I tuck my hair behind my ear awkwardly. I really thought a school bus would be the right crowd for that sort of humour.
“French Revolution jokes,” James mouths at me. “Really?”
I frown at him, and then do a very convincing impersonation of being invested in my notebook for the next few minutes. Though I can’t help but notice that the corner of Tom’s mouth is twitching.
***
The day ended up being surprisingly fun. I spent an hour at one checkpoint taking photographs of the children crossing a scenic bridge before moving to the next. The sun was out, the snacks were plentiful, and I managed to get some good shots of the kids having lunch or climbing over stiles. Even some more artistic angles I’m looking forward to editing later. I’ve always found editing photos surprisingly therapeutic, just tinkering around with filters and backgrounds.
I strategically spent a mere twenty minutes at Tom’s checkpoint, despite James insisting it had “excellent lighting” for photography.
Which, to be fair, it did.
Unfortunately it also contained Tom looking attractive in hiking boots, and I’m only about eighty percent confident I can currently hold a normal conversation with him without accidentally revealing my entire emotional state. Luckily, he was engaged in helping a student who’d developed blisters and didn’t have time for a proper chat.
But then at the next checkpoint I ended up with James, who appeared to be engaged in a one-man competition to mention Tom as often as humanly possible.
I like that hill… “Well, surprising you should mention it, but Tom and I once went trail running over some hills just like that one, you have so much in common.”
Oh, I enjoy that TV show… “How interesting, Tom likes it too.”
I like this brand of chocolate… “Weird coincidence but Tom bought that exact brand on the last Duke of Edinburgh trip.”
I breathe air… shockingly Tom does too.
Eventually, after James started not-so-subtly humming the wedding march under his breath, I threatened to hit him with my camera and made a strategic exit to another checkpoint. It’s a relief to make it to the campsite in the evening, where I can get away from everyone and set up my tent in peace.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I nearly drop my water bottle trying to get it out. The signal has been awful all day, so I’m surprised a message has managed to force its way through the wilderness.
Mum: I’ve booked dinner for tomorrow night. You should thank Sophia, it’s very kind of her to offer to move things around because of your camping trip.
I stare at the message for a moment.
Translated from Mum-speak, this reads as: this is very inconvenient for me, please be aware of that.
