CHAPTER FOUR
It’s Monday. Again.
There’s a smell in here that’s making it impossible to concentrate. I’m vaguely aware that Miss Jones is saying something, but I can’t pick it out amongst the stink. It’s overwhelming.
‘GRACE!’
I open my eyes. Tabassum, who has – I’ve just realized – been nudging me, lets out a resigned sigh. She knows what’s coming next.
‘What?’
Holly Carmichael, who sits opposite me, mutters ‘weirdo’ under her breath. I don’t look at her. I haven’t looked her in the eye since she deliberately wrecked my donkey painting in Year Four, just because it was loads better than hers. I’m aware that sounds ridiculous, but we all have coping mechanisms, and not looking at people is one of mine. I don’t imagine she’s even noticed – I’m not exactly on her radar these days. I’m just glad she’s forgotten the time I peed in my pants at her fifth birthday party because I was having a meltdown and the balloons were scaring me.
‘Don’t you “what” me, my girl.’ Miss Jones is approaching the table now, her mouth set in a straight line. She slams her palm down on the table so my books all jump in the air. Holly makes a ‘wooooo’ sound, which makes the rest of the class laugh. I reach a hand forward to straighten the books, but Tabassum kicks me under the table.
The smell’s coming from outside, I realize, as I see a man jumping down from the low roof of the PE storage sheds. They’re sticking something down and the gluey smell has adhered to my nostrils and it’s making me want to throw up. And I’ve just realized she’s still talking.
‘. . . a whole class here, Grace, and I can’t keep interrupting to deal with you if you can’t keep on task and I . . .’
I reach into my pocket. I can’t concentrate on a word she’s saying and it’s all in the textbook anyway.
‘Miss . . .’ Tabassum begins, hesitantly.
I shoot her a look. There’s no point even trying to explain when she’s on a roll. I pull out the time-out card so it’s tucked in my palm and hand it to Miss, standing up as I do so. I don’t have to stay here. I’m going to the library to read about the circulatory system in peace.
‘Sit down.’
‘I’ve got a time-out card.’ I say this almost under my breath, turning away so that the only people who can hear me are the teacher and Tabassum. It’s not a state secret, but my parents seem to think life will be easier if my autism is on a need-to-know basis. I’m not sure it works, but nobody bothered to ask me. So the teachers know, and most of my friends, but –
‘I don’t care what you’ve got, young lady.’ Miss looks down at the card again, and back at me. She’s got a sort of wart thing on her forehead, and there’s a speck of mascara on her cheek. ‘You’re not leaving my class.’
I knew this would happen when Miss Young laminated this time-out card. Half the teachers are terrified in case I start climbing on the tables or setting fire to the desks. But the old-school ones – and they’re not old-wrinkly-old; some of them are the youngest teachers we’ve got here – think it’s just a cop out, an excuse for me to disappear out of class before anyone realizes I haven’t done my homework. The irony is I always do my homework, because I’m terrified of getting into trouble. But trouble just keeps getting into me.
I can feel everyone looking now, getting ready for something to gossip about over lunch. The silence is roaring in my ears and their eyes are all on me, all over me. I feel hot and cold and sick.
‘If you’re feeling stressed, Grace –’ in what I assume is her attempt to tick the box and do the right thing, she has lowered her voice to a whispered hiss, her face rigid with fury – ‘why don’t you turn the chair round to face the wall?’
‘What?’
Have we gone back to the Victorian times? I can’t concentrate on a thing she’s saying because the smell is screaming in my head and everything I have is focusing on not throwing up on the table, and she wants me to face the wall?
‘What?’ I repeat it, scrunching up my face to indicate I literally do not get it.
‘You mean pardon.’ The words are sharp-edged. They feel like broken glass.
‘I don’t mean “pardon”, actually. If you’d read Nancy Mitford –’ (which I did last summer at Grandma’s house, when I was completely obsessed with British manners and all that stuff, but I digress) – ‘you’d know that saying pardon is incredibly rude. So – for that matter – is toilet instead of loo, and serviette instead of napkin, and –’
A vein stands out on Miss Jones’s forehead and I watch her face turn puce with fury.
I don’t turn my chair round. I don’t throw up on the table. I sit for the remaining twenty-five minutes with my nails digging into my palms, everything shut down so I don’t hear a word she says, and then when the class is over I turn round to pick up my stuff, but because I’m stressed and hungry – and, well, because I’m me – I drop my bag and the contents spill out all over the floor.
And because my life is only like the crappy bits of films, as I’m scrabbling around on the tiles shoving it all back in, I realize that there is a pair of immaculate black shoes standing in my way and I follow them up and there’s Holly Carmichael, and she’s holding something in her hand.
It’s my time-out card.
Holly taps it thoughtfully on her palm, her head cocked slightly to one side. She looks down at it for a moment, thinking. I can feel my heart racing and my stomach lurches as if I’m going to throw up.
She looks at me, her eyebrows raised. Her voice is dripping with scorn.
‘You don’t look autistic.’
‘And you don’t look ignorant. And yet here we are.’
She gives a snort, half turning as if to check her harpies are all still in place (which they are, flanking her on either side, like gormless, gum-cracking henchmen).
I snatch the card from her hand and march out of the room before she has a chance to answer.
As soon as I turn the corner, I flop back against the wall of the science corridor and start to laugh.
Yes. Yes, yes, YES. I’ve had that bloody comeback stored away in my armoury forever. Stuff you, Holly Carmichael.