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But he did say today’s meetings, if that’s what they really are, are important. He seemed excited, in fact.
I sigh. I should just leave it for an hour or so, see if she turns up. But it’s four thirty and there’s no harm in calling the school.
Sarah, the receptionist, picks up. She is, I think, a little scared of me, what with my involvement with the PTA and school fundraisers. So I tell her again how grateful I am for the new events calendar before explaining about Jenna.
‘She’ll have been at her drama rehearsal, I think, with, uh, Miss Smith?’ As I say it my ears fill with the buzz of bees tending to honeysuckle on the way back into the orchard.
‘Oh, what fun,’ says Sarah. ‘I can’t wait for the show. Miss Smith is amazing. I’ll give her a call and…’
Miss Smith is amazing.
She’s great. Kind of perfect, actually.
It’s important to focus on what Sarah’s saying. She’s nice. I should make more of an effort with her. She has a busy job and the Valentine’s dance mix-up wasn’t a big deal. Maybe I’ll get her something for the end of term. It’s good to keep these people on side. She always has perfume on her desk. Maybe she’d like something fancier – but what would that be saying? Here, now you can smell like us. Do I want to say I think she smells common? Even if she probably does. She probably gets those tacky little bottles at the supermarket. Tesco Clubcard deals.
My hand is stinging again. It looks red.
Why am I thinking such mean things about Sarah? What has she been saying?
I try to focus but instead I see a flash of Georgia Smith this morning. The pristine white skirt suit. That short-cut bob, a bit like Jenna’s new haircut.
I feel like I’m wearing a corset and someone has just wrenched the laces tight.
9
BEFORE
There are rumours about Miss Smith. People say her skirts are too short. She gets too cosy with the dads on parents’ evening. And why exactly did she leave her last school? The stories are wild.
She embezzled funds for a new sports centre.
She got obsessed with the headteacher and killed his dog.
She’s a high-class hooker in her spare time.
She had an affair with a student.
I don’t know how it got so crazy or why anyone believes a word of it. She’s nice – kind – and it’s weird that all these polite children from fancy families would turn on her like this. It’s not her fault she’s beautiful.
What’s funny is, in a few years, when everyone here now has gone to uni or Nepal or whatever, the stories will fade and she’ll never have a clue any of this was ever said.
But today, every whisper, every laugh cut short, is about her.
Or me.
Since that evening in the orchard – Princess crying, pushing me – it’s been like I’m diseased.
I walk down the long corridor towards the auditorium, clutching my books to my chest, filled with that familiar feeling of tingling dread. I don’t like acting. I hate getting up in front of people, making myself heard. People are always like, ‘What? Can you speak a bit louder? Pro-ject.’
But I love the stories, and we talk about them in a different way when we’re figuring out how to become a character. And if I close my eyes when I sing, I can pretend no one else is there.
But now that everyone hates me, I’m not sure I can make myself do it.
Miss Smith thinks she can help me enjoy the acting more, loosen up a bit. I reckon whatever she has in mind can only make it worse.
Some boys are getting roasted for doing keepie-uppies by a glass trophy cabinet. I’m still watching them as I reach the auditorium doors, so it’s only right then that I notice who’s holding them open.
One tall, handsome boy and three gorgeous, waif-like girls.
