Read Online It's a Girl Thing by Grace Dent - Free Book Online

snogging each other and having a really fantastic time. Ironic, as this is exactly what we can see slipping away from us.
    â€œWell, 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.
    â€œI 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!”
    â€œI’m sorry?” says Mrs. Guinevere.
    â€œIt’d be good fun,” explains Claude.
    â€œAhhh . . . 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.
    â€œLook, 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.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œIt’ll certainly be a challenge, but I’m confident these girls can rise to what’s needed of them.”
    You go, Mrs. G!
    â€œAnyway, 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.
    â€œWell, 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.
    â€œMoney,” 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