yourself out. Go. To. Sleep.’ She flopped back down onto her pillow.
Bobbie realised she wasn’t going to get any sense out of Naya now, and her friend did have a point. Everything
would
feel different in the morning. She looked around their dorm, at the embellishments they’d made – their furry throws, their framed photos, their Hello Kitty, John Green and
Satanville
posters. It felt safe. ‘Can we keep a light on?’
‘I don’t care. Just stop talking.’
Bobbie couldn’t remember falling asleep. She read through her story for a bit while Naya lightly snored, but she must have nodded off eventually. She didn’t even remember closing her eyes – for the longest time she stared at the centimetre gap under the door to check that no feet were coming past their room.
‘MARY!’
Bobbie was in class. It was the music room – the same floor-to-ceiling bay windows and the view overlooking the hockey pitch. Only, for some reason, everything was different. For one thing, although it was November, it was mild and sunny and the classroom smelled of freshly mown grass. The furniture was arranged differently for a second; all the music stands and instruments had been cleared away. Now there were rows upon rows of vintage-looking individual desks – the sort Bobbie had only seen wheeled out for exam time. They were the really old-fashioned ones with the surface that lifted up to reveal a compartment within.
This all felt very odd. There was a summery haze over the room, as if she were seeing the world through a Vaseline-smeared lens. A couple of girls milled around her, distributing exercise books, but they moved in half-time as if they were walking on the moon.
‘Mary!’ the same voice trilled.
Bobbie looked behind her, only to realise she was in the last row. She wore her hair in a neat plait, something she hadn’t done since she was very young.
‘Mary Worthington, are you listening to a word I’m saying?’ Bobbie didn’t recognise the teacher. She wore the scratchiest-looking cardigan and skirt combo Bobbie had ever seen, with thick wool tights sagging around conservative court shoes. It took her a moment to realise that the severe woman was glaring at her.
‘Me?’
‘Well, is there another Mary Worthington whom I don’t know about?’ The girls tittered, all looking at her. They were all strangers. Prim, white girls, all wearing the Piper’s Hall uniform, but a slight variation of the one she was so familiar with. The kilts were longer and the white socks were higher. ‘Could you please answer the question?’
Bobbie felt her cheeks blaze. ‘I … I don’t know, Miss.’
‘Of course you don’t – you were half asleep. Miss Worthington, do you have any idea how
lucky
you are? A girl like
you
in a school like
this
?’ The word
lucky
stung like a slap.
The bell rang out, the same bell that still rang out to signal the change of lessons. The girls gathered their belongings. ‘Don’t all charge at once, please.’
The other girls glowered at Bobbie with barely concealed disdain, giving her a wide berth as they filed past her out of the classroom. Bewildered, Bobbie followed them. This was a dream, but it felt fragile somehow, like she was on the very verge of waking up. A dream made out of the finest spun sugar.
The hallway looked almost identical to how it did now, but Bobbie sensed this was some time ago – the way the teacher was dressed, the lack of display boards, the blackboard where there was now an interactive whiteboard. There were subtle differences everywhere.
Bobbie drifted, feeling lost in her own school. Sideways glances and whispers all aimed at her. She couldn’t be sure, but the loudest whisper sounded something like ‘Scary Mary’.
It was one of
those
dreams. She was half in it, half looking in on it. She wasn’t herself. She didn’t feel like Bobbie Rowe, she felt sadder, like there was nothing to look forward to, nothing to laugh about. She felt a kind of inky,
Bobbie realised she wasn’t going to get any sense out of Naya now, and her friend did have a point. Everything
would
feel different in the morning. She looked around their dorm, at the embellishments they’d made – their furry throws, their framed photos, their Hello Kitty, John Green and
Satanville
posters. It felt safe. ‘Can we keep a light on?’
‘I don’t care. Just stop talking.’
Bobbie couldn’t remember falling asleep. She read through her story for a bit while Naya lightly snored, but she must have nodded off eventually. She didn’t even remember closing her eyes – for the longest time she stared at the centimetre gap under the door to check that no feet were coming past their room.
‘MARY!’
Bobbie was in class. It was the music room – the same floor-to-ceiling bay windows and the view overlooking the hockey pitch. Only, for some reason, everything was different. For one thing, although it was November, it was mild and sunny and the classroom smelled of freshly mown grass. The furniture was arranged differently for a second; all the music stands and instruments had been cleared away. Now there were rows upon rows of vintage-looking individual desks – the sort Bobbie had only seen wheeled out for exam time. They were the really old-fashioned ones with the surface that lifted up to reveal a compartment within.
This all felt very odd. There was a summery haze over the room, as if she were seeing the world through a Vaseline-smeared lens. A couple of girls milled around her, distributing exercise books, but they moved in half-time as if they were walking on the moon.
‘Mary!’ the same voice trilled.
Bobbie looked behind her, only to realise she was in the last row. She wore her hair in a neat plait, something she hadn’t done since she was very young.
‘Mary Worthington, are you listening to a word I’m saying?’ Bobbie didn’t recognise the teacher. She wore the scratchiest-looking cardigan and skirt combo Bobbie had ever seen, with thick wool tights sagging around conservative court shoes. It took her a moment to realise that the severe woman was glaring at her.
‘Me?’
‘Well, is there another Mary Worthington whom I don’t know about?’ The girls tittered, all looking at her. They were all strangers. Prim, white girls, all wearing the Piper’s Hall uniform, but a slight variation of the one she was so familiar with. The kilts were longer and the white socks were higher. ‘Could you please answer the question?’
Bobbie felt her cheeks blaze. ‘I … I don’t know, Miss.’
‘Of course you don’t – you were half asleep. Miss Worthington, do you have any idea how
lucky
you are? A girl like
you
in a school like
this
?’ The word
lucky
stung like a slap.
The bell rang out, the same bell that still rang out to signal the change of lessons. The girls gathered their belongings. ‘Don’t all charge at once, please.’
The other girls glowered at Bobbie with barely concealed disdain, giving her a wide berth as they filed past her out of the classroom. Bewildered, Bobbie followed them. This was a dream, but it felt fragile somehow, like she was on the very verge of waking up. A dream made out of the finest spun sugar.
The hallway looked almost identical to how it did now, but Bobbie sensed this was some time ago – the way the teacher was dressed, the lack of display boards, the blackboard where there was now an interactive whiteboard. There were subtle differences everywhere.
Bobbie drifted, feeling lost in her own school. Sideways glances and whispers all aimed at her. She couldn’t be sure, but the loudest whisper sounded something like ‘Scary Mary’.
It was one of
those
dreams. She was half in it, half looking in on it. She wasn’t herself. She didn’t feel like Bobbie Rowe, she felt sadder, like there was nothing to look forward to, nothing to laugh about. She felt a kind of inky,
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