Read Online Phosphorescence by Raffaella Barker - Free Book Online
Authors: Raffaella Barker
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your drama group. Are they fit?â
Chapter 5
Sun pours through the high, smudged windows of the geography room, causing me to squint and doodle pairs of sunglasses all over my folder. Mr Lascalles is outlining a project on elements at the coast, and his enthusiasm is causing him to spit small blossoms of saliva on to the whiteboard. Unheeding of this, he continues with his marker, underlining vigorously to prove a point. The spit begins to slide slowly down the board; I shall hold my breath until Mr Lascalles wipes it off. Next to me, Pansy is pretending to write, while tapping messages into her telephone, which is hidden in a pencil case on her desktop. A buzzing begins in my head as I continue to hold my breath. Pansyâs phone, which is set on silent mode, vibrates with a call.
âCover for me,â she whispers.
âHow?â
I forget to hold my breath and gulp air in. Pansy needs my help; this is a first, a chance for me to get in with her; I donât want to let her down. I must create a diversion. Pansy has draped her hair across her face like a curtain and is whispering into her phone, doubled up as if she has terrible pains in her stomach.
Mr Lascalles is still busy with his marker on the board, swooping his hand rhythmically like a conductor. The spitballs have gone now. Without stopping to consider what I am doing, or how I will carry it off, I stand up and move forwards.
âSir, I wonder if you could explain this to me?â
It is like walking in the dark, but without being allowed your hands in front of you. Mr Lascalles turns in surprise.
âDear me. I thought I was being remarkably clear,â he says.
I have no idea what I will say or do next. I bend my head over my open folder to give a studious but confused appearance. There is very little in the folder, apart from the pictures of the sunglasses. Mr Lascalles comes to stand next to me, turning his back to the class and Pansyâs phone call. So thatâs good. My heart is pumping. Weakly, I turn the pages of my folder, hoping for a miracle.
âIâm not sure I understood our homework,â I mumble, reddening as I can feel the restless attention of the class behind me, and the heat burning in my cheeks.
This is such a lie, as the one topic in the whole of geography that I understand is the British coastline â for reasons I donât feel like telling Mr Lascalles. I gaze at him, and wish I could faint to order. I have often thought how wonderful and glamorous it would be if I was a hypersensitive person living on my nerves, always swooning and having hysterics. Right now it would be such a bonus. Mr Lascalles looks from me to my folder.
âBut you havenât done it.â
Ha! I can do this one.
âThatâs because I didnât understand it,â I respond with a flourish.
Actually, I didnât do it because it was so easy I kept putting it off until I ran out of time. I can see a way through now. A glance over my shoulder reassures me that Pansy has stopped talking and is leaning back in her chair filing her nails while ostentatiously chewing gum. She blows me a kiss and mouths
thank you
before turning back to her manicure. It has worked. Mr Lascalles is none the wiser. I didnât blow Pansyâs cover; now she might even talk to me instead of looking straight through me, as she has done so far this term. The only problem now is Mr Lascalles, who thinks I am an imbecile. His face is grey and impatient.
âLook here. I think it might be better if you saw me after the lesson. We can go through it properly then.â
The bell goes. With a sinking heart I turn back to him as the others file out of the classroom.
At break I am suddenly worth talking to, and Freda, Pansyâs best friend, slouches over to stand next to me as we queue for the hot-chocolate machine. It seems a good idea to loll against the radiator in the corridor with her.
âCool belt.â Freda glances
Chapter 5
Sun pours through the high, smudged windows of the geography room, causing me to squint and doodle pairs of sunglasses all over my folder. Mr Lascalles is outlining a project on elements at the coast, and his enthusiasm is causing him to spit small blossoms of saliva on to the whiteboard. Unheeding of this, he continues with his marker, underlining vigorously to prove a point. The spit begins to slide slowly down the board; I shall hold my breath until Mr Lascalles wipes it off. Next to me, Pansy is pretending to write, while tapping messages into her telephone, which is hidden in a pencil case on her desktop. A buzzing begins in my head as I continue to hold my breath. Pansyâs phone, which is set on silent mode, vibrates with a call.
âCover for me,â she whispers.
âHow?â
I forget to hold my breath and gulp air in. Pansy needs my help; this is a first, a chance for me to get in with her; I donât want to let her down. I must create a diversion. Pansy has draped her hair across her face like a curtain and is whispering into her phone, doubled up as if she has terrible pains in her stomach.
Mr Lascalles is still busy with his marker on the board, swooping his hand rhythmically like a conductor. The spitballs have gone now. Without stopping to consider what I am doing, or how I will carry it off, I stand up and move forwards.
âSir, I wonder if you could explain this to me?â
It is like walking in the dark, but without being allowed your hands in front of you. Mr Lascalles turns in surprise.
âDear me. I thought I was being remarkably clear,â he says.
I have no idea what I will say or do next. I bend my head over my open folder to give a studious but confused appearance. There is very little in the folder, apart from the pictures of the sunglasses. Mr Lascalles comes to stand next to me, turning his back to the class and Pansyâs phone call. So thatâs good. My heart is pumping. Weakly, I turn the pages of my folder, hoping for a miracle.
âIâm not sure I understood our homework,â I mumble, reddening as I can feel the restless attention of the class behind me, and the heat burning in my cheeks.
This is such a lie, as the one topic in the whole of geography that I understand is the British coastline â for reasons I donât feel like telling Mr Lascalles. I gaze at him, and wish I could faint to order. I have often thought how wonderful and glamorous it would be if I was a hypersensitive person living on my nerves, always swooning and having hysterics. Right now it would be such a bonus. Mr Lascalles looks from me to my folder.
âBut you havenât done it.â
Ha! I can do this one.
âThatâs because I didnât understand it,â I respond with a flourish.
Actually, I didnât do it because it was so easy I kept putting it off until I ran out of time. I can see a way through now. A glance over my shoulder reassures me that Pansy has stopped talking and is leaning back in her chair filing her nails while ostentatiously chewing gum. She blows me a kiss and mouths
thank you
before turning back to her manicure. It has worked. Mr Lascalles is none the wiser. I didnât blow Pansyâs cover; now she might even talk to me instead of looking straight through me, as she has done so far this term. The only problem now is Mr Lascalles, who thinks I am an imbecile. His face is grey and impatient.
âLook here. I think it might be better if you saw me after the lesson. We can go through it properly then.â
The bell goes. With a sinking heart I turn back to him as the others file out of the classroom.
At break I am suddenly worth talking to, and Freda, Pansyâs best friend, slouches over to stand next to me as we queue for the hot-chocolate machine. It seems a good idea to loll against the radiator in the corridor with her.
âCool belt.â Freda glances
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