glasses were flattering, but that it was entirely up to me and my family what I should wear. “She is our top girl, after all,” Miss Smith said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “She has a duty to look her best.”
The discussion over the glasses and my appearance did not end there. Grandmother, Laure and Miss Skerry followed me to my room, which was empty, I discovered with relief. The thought of Janie Banks Geoffreys watching me while I dressed was more than I could bear.
Laure immediately started rummaging in the closet, cooing over my roommate’s dresses. She found the white Sunday frock Grandmother had made for me and laid it on my bed. “How do you want your hair, Agnes?” she asked, turning me around and eyeing me thoughtfully.
I hated every second of it. I had many positive attributes but my looks were not among them. No new dress or hairstyle was going to hide this fact.
Despite my protests Grandmother confiscated my glasses and manoeuvred me into the white frock. Laure, meanwhile, began twisting and braiding my hair. Miss Skerry took no part in these operations, but occupied herself by flipping through my year’s worth of exercise books and scholarly manuals. I interpreted this as a subtle form of solidarity, although it was hard to say for sure. Miss Skerry’s face was now as blurry as everything else in the room.
“My brain has won the prizes,” I observed.
Grandmother shot a meaningful glance at Miss Skerry. “This school,” she said, “has not been an unmitigated success, Georgina. Agnes’s time here has done little to smooth her edges.”
“That’s unfair,” I shot back. “What I need is a real place of learning, where substance is valued, not appearance.”
“Form is as necessary as substance,” said Miss Skerry, who in the four years that I had known her had never shown more than a rudimentary concern for her clothes. “The two are halves of a whole.”
“A school tunic is fine apparel for an educated mind,” I shot back. “Just as glasses are fine for eyes that like to read.”
Miss Skerry shook her head. “As the French say, Agnes, there is no need to crash through open doors. You are at the centre of the honours today. I am afraid I have to agree with your grandmother. You must look the part.”
Just before eleven they led me down the stairs to the main floor, where a crowd milled outside the auditorium. A couple of girls waved, but they were so blurred that I could identify only one of them — Felicity Hingston, the sole student at the academy who came close to being a friend. Over six-feet tall with skinny, hairy arms and legs, she was difficult to miss. She had been top-ranked in academics prior to my arrival.
The blur was a comfort in its way. It reminded me of childhood, when all I could make out were basic shapes and I had not suspected there could be more. My dress was now transparent in spots with sweat. We all trotted up to the front to get our diplomas, but then I was forced to rise a second time — and a third, and a fourth — until the sweat was running freely down my sides. I won all the academic prizes that year.
Each time my name was called I had to rise from my seat and walk up the centre aisle through throngs of girls. I was aware I looked ridiculous. My dress was too tight, exposing a body I usually hid in my loose-fitting tunic. The auditorium was as hot as my grandmother’s kitchen on pie day, and people were getting audibly restless. By the time I was summoned up for my final prize and valedictory speech, a few of the girls actually groaned.
The audience began to applaud as they had for the other prizes, but mechanically this time, just going through the motions. I could hear rustlings and muffled laughter. I could not see, of course, which may have been a blessing, but by the time I made it to the front of the room it was obvious that most of my classmates were not feeling friendly. After all, I was responsible for holding them there in the
The discussion over the glasses and my appearance did not end there. Grandmother, Laure and Miss Skerry followed me to my room, which was empty, I discovered with relief. The thought of Janie Banks Geoffreys watching me while I dressed was more than I could bear.
Laure immediately started rummaging in the closet, cooing over my roommate’s dresses. She found the white Sunday frock Grandmother had made for me and laid it on my bed. “How do you want your hair, Agnes?” she asked, turning me around and eyeing me thoughtfully.
I hated every second of it. I had many positive attributes but my looks were not among them. No new dress or hairstyle was going to hide this fact.
Despite my protests Grandmother confiscated my glasses and manoeuvred me into the white frock. Laure, meanwhile, began twisting and braiding my hair. Miss Skerry took no part in these operations, but occupied herself by flipping through my year’s worth of exercise books and scholarly manuals. I interpreted this as a subtle form of solidarity, although it was hard to say for sure. Miss Skerry’s face was now as blurry as everything else in the room.
“My brain has won the prizes,” I observed.
Grandmother shot a meaningful glance at Miss Skerry. “This school,” she said, “has not been an unmitigated success, Georgina. Agnes’s time here has done little to smooth her edges.”
“That’s unfair,” I shot back. “What I need is a real place of learning, where substance is valued, not appearance.”
“Form is as necessary as substance,” said Miss Skerry, who in the four years that I had known her had never shown more than a rudimentary concern for her clothes. “The two are halves of a whole.”
“A school tunic is fine apparel for an educated mind,” I shot back. “Just as glasses are fine for eyes that like to read.”
Miss Skerry shook her head. “As the French say, Agnes, there is no need to crash through open doors. You are at the centre of the honours today. I am afraid I have to agree with your grandmother. You must look the part.”
Just before eleven they led me down the stairs to the main floor, where a crowd milled outside the auditorium. A couple of girls waved, but they were so blurred that I could identify only one of them — Felicity Hingston, the sole student at the academy who came close to being a friend. Over six-feet tall with skinny, hairy arms and legs, she was difficult to miss. She had been top-ranked in academics prior to my arrival.
The blur was a comfort in its way. It reminded me of childhood, when all I could make out were basic shapes and I had not suspected there could be more. My dress was now transparent in spots with sweat. We all trotted up to the front to get our diplomas, but then I was forced to rise a second time — and a third, and a fourth — until the sweat was running freely down my sides. I won all the academic prizes that year.
Each time my name was called I had to rise from my seat and walk up the centre aisle through throngs of girls. I was aware I looked ridiculous. My dress was too tight, exposing a body I usually hid in my loose-fitting tunic. The auditorium was as hot as my grandmother’s kitchen on pie day, and people were getting audibly restless. By the time I was summoned up for my final prize and valedictory speech, a few of the girls actually groaned.
The audience began to applaud as they had for the other prizes, but mechanically this time, just going through the motions. I could hear rustlings and muffled laughter. I could not see, of course, which may have been a blessing, but by the time I made it to the front of the room it was obvious that most of my classmates were not feeling friendly. After all, I was responsible for holding them there in the
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