Read Online Out of My Depth by Emily Barr - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Emily Barr
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You?’
‘English and French.’
‘Oooh, you’re mad! All those books to read. And French? Couldn’t you just stick to Debussy?’
Mrs Grey’s entrance sent Tamsin and Izzy scurrying to their own classroom. Mrs Spencer! Hairy Mary! Izzy still couldn’t believe her misfortune.
Tamsin looked at her and grimaced. ‘I don’t know how you deal with those misfits,’ she remarked, as they sat down together at the furthest table from Mrs Spencer’s desk.
‘Oh, MJ’s all right,’ Izzy said, mildly. ‘You just have to get used to her. She’s led a sheltered life and she doesn’t know how to talk to people.’ She thought about Mary-Jane in the wider world. ‘She’s probably a bit autistic or something.’
‘Your music lessons are going to be a laugh a minute.’
Izzy’s heart sank still further. ‘I know.’ She looked at Tamsin. ‘We still could leave, you know. It’s not too late. We haven’t started anything yet.’
‘Yeah. We could, but we won’t. We’ll stay here and hate it and get some A levels, and then we’ll run away from Cardiff and never look back.’
Mrs Spencer strode into the classroom. Tamsin and Izzy looked at one another. Mrs Spencer was the very queen of the misfits. She was as broad as she was tall, just about, and in years to come Izzy would be unable to differentiate her, mentally, from Anne Widdecombe. There was, however, something more sinister about her than about the future prisons minister. At least, later on, once Ms Widdecombe went blonde, Izzy came to regard her as a benign form of Mrs Spencer. Mrs Spencer had platinum blonde hair, which she wore in a Beatles cut. She wore two-piece suits with buttons that stretched over her saggy front, where breasts and stomach merged into one amorphous bulge. Her shoes bulged out, the leather taking the shapes of individual toes. None of this mattered, of course. Izzy would not have dreamed of thinking less of someone because they looked weird. It was just convenient that Mrs Spencer’s appearance provided a focus point for the girls’ hostility; because Mrs Spencer was malign and mean and unfair, and drunk on her own power. Isabelle had long loathed her. She started hating her one day in the fourth form, when she had taken her grade five clarinet exam. The exams were held in school, and girls missed lessons to go to them. Everyone knew that. Her exam happened to fall in a biology lesson. It went well, she was relieved, and when she slipped into the lesson, to catch the last fifteen minutes, she was smiling because it was over.
Mrs Spencer was in the middle of explaining osmosis, with the aid of a complex diagram on the blackboard. She broke off, mid-sentence, when she saw Izzy, and stared at her thunderously, sucking her breath in ominously past her teeth.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ Izzy said, walking to her desk and sitting next to Suzii. ‘I had my clarinet exam.’
All eyes were on Mrs Spencer. Several of the girls had music exams that week, and Izzy’s behaviour was entirely normal and sanctioned. Yet Mrs Spencer had the evil glint in her eye.
‘You had a clarinet exam?’ she shrieked, suddenly and furiously. ‘Well, I HAD A BIOLOGY LESSON!’
‘Sorry,’ said Izzy, confused, and she started taking her books out of her bag.
‘DON’T YOU LOOK AWAY WHEN I’M TALKING TO YOU, YOU IMPERTINENT GIRL! STAND UP!’
Izzy stood up and, for five minutes, Mrs Spencer yelled at her. A stream of unfocused rage ended with the demand to know, ‘WHY DID YOU NOT TELL ME YOU WERE GOING TO BE LATE?’
Izzy tried to stand up for herself. ‘Because you don’t have to with music exams. They’re part of school. Mrs Twiss specifically said we didn’t need to excuse ourselves from lessons because all teachers knew there were music—’
‘YOU ARE EXTRAORDINARILY RUDE! I HAVE OFTEN NOTICED THAT GIRLS WHO DO MUSIC ARE RUDER THAN GIRLS WHO DO NOT. STAND OUTSIDE THE DOOR AND COME AND APOLOGISE TO ME AT THE END OF THE LESSON.’
Oh, piss
‘English and French.’
‘Oooh, you’re mad! All those books to read. And French? Couldn’t you just stick to Debussy?’
Mrs Grey’s entrance sent Tamsin and Izzy scurrying to their own classroom. Mrs Spencer! Hairy Mary! Izzy still couldn’t believe her misfortune.
Tamsin looked at her and grimaced. ‘I don’t know how you deal with those misfits,’ she remarked, as they sat down together at the furthest table from Mrs Spencer’s desk.
‘Oh, MJ’s all right,’ Izzy said, mildly. ‘You just have to get used to her. She’s led a sheltered life and she doesn’t know how to talk to people.’ She thought about Mary-Jane in the wider world. ‘She’s probably a bit autistic or something.’
‘Your music lessons are going to be a laugh a minute.’
Izzy’s heart sank still further. ‘I know.’ She looked at Tamsin. ‘We still could leave, you know. It’s not too late. We haven’t started anything yet.’
‘Yeah. We could, but we won’t. We’ll stay here and hate it and get some A levels, and then we’ll run away from Cardiff and never look back.’
Mrs Spencer strode into the classroom. Tamsin and Izzy looked at one another. Mrs Spencer was the very queen of the misfits. She was as broad as she was tall, just about, and in years to come Izzy would be unable to differentiate her, mentally, from Anne Widdecombe. There was, however, something more sinister about her than about the future prisons minister. At least, later on, once Ms Widdecombe went blonde, Izzy came to regard her as a benign form of Mrs Spencer. Mrs Spencer had platinum blonde hair, which she wore in a Beatles cut. She wore two-piece suits with buttons that stretched over her saggy front, where breasts and stomach merged into one amorphous bulge. Her shoes bulged out, the leather taking the shapes of individual toes. None of this mattered, of course. Izzy would not have dreamed of thinking less of someone because they looked weird. It was just convenient that Mrs Spencer’s appearance provided a focus point for the girls’ hostility; because Mrs Spencer was malign and mean and unfair, and drunk on her own power. Isabelle had long loathed her. She started hating her one day in the fourth form, when she had taken her grade five clarinet exam. The exams were held in school, and girls missed lessons to go to them. Everyone knew that. Her exam happened to fall in a biology lesson. It went well, she was relieved, and when she slipped into the lesson, to catch the last fifteen minutes, she was smiling because it was over.
Mrs Spencer was in the middle of explaining osmosis, with the aid of a complex diagram on the blackboard. She broke off, mid-sentence, when she saw Izzy, and stared at her thunderously, sucking her breath in ominously past her teeth.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ Izzy said, walking to her desk and sitting next to Suzii. ‘I had my clarinet exam.’
All eyes were on Mrs Spencer. Several of the girls had music exams that week, and Izzy’s behaviour was entirely normal and sanctioned. Yet Mrs Spencer had the evil glint in her eye.
‘You had a clarinet exam?’ she shrieked, suddenly and furiously. ‘Well, I HAD A BIOLOGY LESSON!’
‘Sorry,’ said Izzy, confused, and she started taking her books out of her bag.
‘DON’T YOU LOOK AWAY WHEN I’M TALKING TO YOU, YOU IMPERTINENT GIRL! STAND UP!’
Izzy stood up and, for five minutes, Mrs Spencer yelled at her. A stream of unfocused rage ended with the demand to know, ‘WHY DID YOU NOT TELL ME YOU WERE GOING TO BE LATE?’
Izzy tried to stand up for herself. ‘Because you don’t have to with music exams. They’re part of school. Mrs Twiss specifically said we didn’t need to excuse ourselves from lessons because all teachers knew there were music—’
‘YOU ARE EXTRAORDINARILY RUDE! I HAVE OFTEN NOTICED THAT GIRLS WHO DO MUSIC ARE RUDER THAN GIRLS WHO DO NOT. STAND OUTSIDE THE DOOR AND COME AND APOLOGISE TO ME AT THE END OF THE LESSON.’
Oh, piss
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