It's a Girl Thing (7 page)

“Bring those sweets up here,” Ball instructs.

Sajid trudges to the front of the class, surrendering his crumpled bag.

No sooner is Saj reseated, Mr. Ball is pointing at the blackboard with one hand while his other furry hand begins foraging amongst the sweeties, making them disappear into a clearing in his face forest.

“Sweets are forbidden in the chemistry lab, Sajid,” Mr. Ball says. “
Mmeghg-
specially”—chomp, chomp—“delicious chocolate-coated
mgh
Turkish Delight
sugch
as this. You children could have any manner of hazardous chemical on your hands when you're eating. Your innards could dissolve!”

Sadly, this is what always happens when weak-willed Mr. Ball finds sweets in his classroom. Firstly he confiscates them as he's “paranoid we'll get poisoned,” then he ends up scoffing the lot. Afterward, Mr. Ball feels wracked with guilt about pilfering confectionery from victims under five feet tall, so he ends up buying the pupil more sweets in return next lesson. The LBD all roll their eyes and giggle.

“Stop moaning, Mr. Pratak,” says Mr. Ball. “Just you get on with writing up that experiment till the end of the lesson.”

BBBBBBBBBRRRRRRRRRING
goes the school bell.

“Which is now!” Mr. Ball smiles, relieved.

We all start packing our bags.

“Good-bye, Year Ten!” shouts Mr. Ball, making a sharp exit for the staff room before some pesky student teacher nicks his comfy chair by the radiator. “See you soon!”

“Year Nine!” we all shout.

And then he's gone.

“But what are we going to say to him?” I ask Claude anxiously as we head toward McGraw's lair.

We're weaving through the morning breaktime crush of a thousand Blackwell bodies. Agghh . . . I spot Jimi standing just inside the school yard with his two mates Aaron and Naz. Thank God Naz is doing something extremely impressive with a football (spinning it on one finger, since you ask), meaning I can slip by without Jimi seeing my face. I flinch again when I see Panama and two of her clique, Abigail and Leeza, hovering around one of the doorways that we need to pass through. As tradition requires, the girls all flash filthy looks at Fleur simply for being taller and naturally prettier than they are. They're mumbling some rubbish about Fleur being a “lanky cow,” their usual route of attack. Most girls would crumble under such abuse; however, Fleur seems oblivious. Fleur Swan really is bully-proof—just like her name suggests, she glides right through trouble with her nose in the air, which just seems to make her tormentors more determined. It doesn't matter today anyway, we're moving pretty quickly. Fleur and I have to hurry to keep step with Claude's increasingly purposeful stride. We're now drawing dangerously close to the doors of the administration corridor, a sort of Blackwell inner sanctum situated in the center of the school, home to the offices of McGraw; Mrs. Guinevere, deputy head; plus Edith, school secretary (and part-time fire-breathing dragon).

I cannot flipping believe Claude is taking us here.

Nobody chooses to walk down this corridor via their own choice.

No, this is a corridor that you're sent to, well, to be more accurate, frog-marched to, when you've been caught slap-bang in the midst of being a social nuisance.

Actually, for such a scary place, the admin corridor is really rather beautiful. In general, Blackwell's decor is a fetching hue of sludge green, earwax yellow and incontinence brown; however, this 100 meters of space boasts pristine white marble floors that are polished daily, fresh pale turquoise walls and opaque patterned glass lamp shades. It's almost like a TV home makeover team turned up, blew all their budget on the admin corridor, then decorated the rest of Blackwell for £14.29.

“Er . . . well, I've not really planned
exactly
what we're going to say, as such,” says Claude, knocking on Mr. McGraw's polished teak door. “And anyway, it's not just McGraw. I forgot to tell you, it's Guinevere as well. I said it would be better if they both were there. Y'know, kill two birds with one stone?”

Fleur and I look at each other in sheer horror.

I suddenly feel a terrible urge to go to the toilet.

But it's too late, the door has opened.

“Ah, Claudette Cassiera. Come in, come in,” McGraw says, his gray face alive with delight. This is about as enthusiastic as I have ever heard McGraw being about anything, including last winter when he appeared on local radio saying the school was flood-damaged and closed for the week.

“And Veronica Ripperton too?” he adds, with a weaker smile, probably clocking that I'm wearing cream ankle socks instead of regulation three-quarter white ribbed ones.

“Oh, and it's you. Fleur Swan. What a lovely, er, surprise,” McGraw lies, clearly remembering bouncy castles, Bovril and a whole string of other minor offenses he could be taking into consideration.

Claude nudges Fleur, who, on cue, gives a big broad smile from ear to ear, sort of twinkling her fingers at him. She looks like she should be dispensing dinners on a Virgin Airways flight.

We all file into the office, then stand rigidly in an arc facing McGraw's desk.

“Oh, please, young ladies, do have a seat,” says McGraw, flourishing his hand around the room, pointing out chairs usually reserved for parents.

A seat?

A SEAT!?

Ha ha! How flipping different is the McGraw Office Experience when you're not there for Bovril-related wrongdoing?

Unbelievable!

Suddenly there's a further knock on the door. Mrs. Guinevere slips in behind us.

“Sorry I'm late, Sam, er, I mean Mr. McGraw,” she says in her rich Dublin accent.

Mrs. Guinevere looks almost regal in a long black velvet skirt, an ornate flowered waistcoat and a crisp white linen blouse. Her cropped auburn hair is flecked with strands of gray, which shine like platinum.

“Mrs. Guinevere, please have my seat,” says Claude, spotting the chair shortage and leaping up. Quickly she's taller and slightly more powerful-looking than anyone else in the room.

Very cunning.

“So, Claudette, what can we do for you?” asks McGraw. “Something about a special concert you'd like to help organize?” McGraw is looking down at a slip of paper with Edith's swirly writing across it.

“Yes, sir,” begins Claude. “An open-air music event for school musicians. You know, like a real chance for local talent to perform? Plus, an opportunity to raise money for local charities too . . .”

Jeez, Claude, when you put it like that, I think I'll be busy hand-washing my thongs that day. Still, five minutes into the meeting and we've not been ejected yet.

“And what musicians do you have in mind?” probes McGraw. “I know that the Blackwell Bellringing Society has suffered a huge drop in support since Mr. Cheeseman left for his new teaching job....Yet still they ring on, spreading joy. Would they get a slot on the bill?”

“Er . . . well—” Claude winces.

“And I DO know that Miss Nash from the music department has been teaching her lunchtime choir group some wonderful Elizabethan close-harmony madrigals,” McGraw continues.

“Veronica, make a note of that,” says Claude, simply for effect. “They sound very promising.”

BUGGER OFF,
I write on my notepad, showing both Claude and Fleur. Fleur almost giggles, but at the last minute turns it into another big smile. McGraw and Guinevere peer at us all intently.

“But, really, it would be a celebration of all things musical and rhythmic,” says Claude, stepping up her campaign. “You know, like singing and rapping, and dancing . . . and we'd have rock bands and pop music and—”

“Pop music?” says McGraw.

In the same tone as you'd say “Dog poo?” if you found it on the bottom of your flip-flop.

“Yes, pop music,” says Claude. “And other stuff.”

Claude, to give her due, then follows this up by making some dead grown-up points about “school morale” and “making Blackwell a household name.” But by this point I don't think McGraw is listening.

He's staring out of the window mournfully, probably imagining Blackwell School filled with marauding youth, all of them dancing, stage-diving, playing loud guitars, snogging each other and having a really fantastic time. Ironic, as this is exactly what we can see slipping away from us.

“Well, girls,” McGraw says, drawing a red pen line through the slip of paper before him, “I really don't consider Blackwell School grounds a fitting location to hold an event such as—”

McGraw begins what sounds like it might be extended grumble, but he doesn't get too far.

“I love it,” says Mrs. Guinevere. Her eyes are all twinkly. “It would be like a little mini local music festival!” she enthuses. “What an exciting idea! That sounds like great craic!”

Mrs. Guinevere says the word
craic
to sound like
crack.
In this context none of the LBD are that sure what it means, but it sounds like a really good giggle nevertheless.

We all flash Mrs. Guinevere our largest, most relieved smiles. “We think so too!” I say. “It would be totally fantabulous!”

“I'm sorry?” says Mrs. Guinevere.

“It'd be good fun,” explains Claude.

“Ahhh . . . I get you now!” Mrs. Guinevere laughs.

Mr. McGraw huffs, puffs, then places his left elbow onto the desk, resting his head forlornly on his hand, directly beside a framed black-and-white photograph of his depressed-looking self standing with Myrtle, his equally gloomy wife. Our headmaster then sighs again, in a tired-of-life way, this time from the very bottom of his belly.

“Look, what you're suggesting isn't some picnic in the park, you know, girls?” moans McGraw. “It will require a lot of long, arduous, complex planning and hard work . . . and a lot of responsibility heaped on your young, inexperienced shoulders. I really don't think that three Year Nine girls are up to this task.” McGraw shakes his head. “I mean, how will you even manage to . . .”

I hate to admit this, but I think he could be just a teensy- weensy bit right. We could really mess this thing up here. Well, all right, it's most likely to be me,
I could really mess this up.
This whole thing seems like another fab opportunity for me to prove to the teachers that I'm a burnout who “doesn't see projects through till the end” and “flakes out under responsibility.”

Wonderful.

Okay, this might just be nerves.

Don't get me wrong, I really want Blackwell Live to happen, it's just the potentially hideous, snowballing sense of personal failure that I'd rather avoid.

“I'll help them,” interrupts Mrs. Guinevere. “I don't mind, in fact I'd love to get involved! We put on many a play and concert without too much strife when I was a young girl at St. Hilda's in Dublin.”

Mrs. Guinevere breaks out another big grin, even just remembering it.

“It'll certainly be a challenge, but I'm confident these girls can rise to what's needed of them.”

You go, Mrs. G!

“Anyway, the girls can report in to me with their day-to-day progress,” Guinevere adds. “So I'll know if they've tried to sell the school to the sultan of Brunei or blow up the playing fields . . . oh, I'm sure it will be fine, Mr. McGraw.”

We all flash our best angelic smiles in Mr. McGraw's direction. He wrinkles his nose back at us.

“Well, think about it at least,” Mrs. Guinevere says.

McGraw stares once again out of the window; he must love this, knowing the whole room hangs on his every word.

Following a long silence in which I notice that Mr. McGraw has been doodling a picture of a tree on his phone message pad, King Doom eventually speaks.

“Money,” he says, placing both hands behind his head, satisfied with the stumbling block he's conjured up. “How are you planning to pay for all of this? Are your piggy banks going to stand the strain, or are you all doing double paper routes at the moment?”

McGraw smirks. He's found, so he reckons, the chink in Claude Cassiera's armor.

“Well, I thought we'd sell tickets,” answers Claude. “The concert will take place over the weekend, after all, so people would probably expect to pay a little entrance fee just to cover costs, wouldn't they?”

Claude does seem to have a good answer for everything so far. I'm so glad nobody's asked me anything yet, or Fleur, who looks about ready to tell McGraw to stick his school fields up his bum. Or worse.

“Oh, deary me,” mocks McGraw. “You're going to invite pupils to show up at Blackwell over the weekend? . . . And you're going to make them pay for the pleasure?! Come now, Miss Cassiera. If I thought that was feasible, I'd be holding this conversation with you via conference call from the Happy Coconut Beach Bar in Honolulu! I'd be a millionaire by now.”

Okay, McGraw's joke is slightly amusing, but no girl gives the big spoilsport the pleasure of a chuckle, especially not Mrs. Guinevere, who is possibly even angrier than Fleur at this point.

Claude is rustling about in her folder. She produces a single sheet of paper covered in what looks like percentages and equations.

“Okay, I understand your concerns, Mr. McGraw, but if I can refer you back to the results of the Blackwell questionnaire that we filled out last year.” Claude waves her piece of paper. “It seems that pupils probably
would
pay to see music, if we put on a good enough show for them, that is.”

“Questionnaire? What questionnaire? We've never done a . . . ,” argues McGraw, looking confused.