Adorkable by Sarra Manning Read Free Book Online Page A

entire class in that last comment,’ I pointed out and Ms Ferguson rested her chin in her hands and rolled her eyes.
    Usually when she rolled her eyes it was more conspiratorial. I’d roll my eyes too and we’d share a look that said, ‘God, what are we doing here?’
    Ms Ferguson, or actually Allison as I call her outside of school, was an almost-friend. I saw her at gigs and art shows in Hoxton and we followed each other on Twitter. That said, what happened outside school stayed outside school. I even knew she was in a band called The Fuck Puppets and it was a secret I’d take to my grave, which must have been why she was finding it so hard to give me the bollocking that I sort of deserved.
    ‘I shouldn’t have said “retarded”,’ I conceded. ‘Because it’s offensive and, er, disablist, but how can anyone get
The Great Gatsby
muddled up with
The Fountainhead
if they’ve actually read both of them? It’s like muddling up monkeys and daffodils or baked beans and Pez dispensers or—’
    ‘Yes, I get the idea,’ Ms Ferguson snapped, then she folded her arms and tried to stare me down. I obediently lowered my eyes so I looked a little contrite. ‘I expect much better of you. You let yourself down.’
    Ihate it when people give you the whole ‘I’m not angry at you, I’m just disappointed’ speech. It was so predictable and, quite frankly,
I
expected much better from Allison. But that wasn’t the point right now. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, though my usual monotone delivery made it sound as insincere as it did in my head.
    ‘It’s no use saying sorry to me. You have to say sorry to Scarlett. In front of me, and, Jeane, I want an unambiguous apology that isn’t some clever play on words that could be misinterpreted. OK?’
    She knew me so well. ‘OK.’
    I shoved my folder and my dog-eared copies of
Gatsby
and
The Fountainhead
in my school tote bag, which I’d made myself and had ‘I Dork, Therefore I Am’ embroidered on it, because I thought we were done, when Allison made an awkward choking sound.
    ‘Everything’s OK, isn’t it? With the whole living by yourself deal because if there’s anything you need to talk about, you know that I’m he—’
    ‘No, no,’ I said quickly, standing up. ‘Everything’s fine. It’s better than fine. It’s absolutely dandy.’
    Allison actually followed me to the classroom door. ‘We could talk
outside
school,’ she murmured meaningfully. ‘If you like.’
    ‘I have to go. I’m going to be late for Business Studies,’ I said, and it wasn’t just to get her off my back: I was horribly late and I hadn’t managed to listen to all of the podcast because Michael Lee had interrupted me.
    I tried to keep my head down for the next forty minutes but the lesson took an alarming turn when Mr Latymer decided todrill me to within an inch of my young life about the positive effects of fair trade farming in the developing world. There was only one thing to do and that was to launch into a skin-stripping rant about the negative effects of so many corporate owned coffee chains taking over Britain’s high streets.
    It turned out most of the class preferred to argue over who did the better Frappuccino – Starbucks or Caffè Nero – than about fair trade farming. It got very heated very fast and I could sit back and tweet to my heart’s content as Heidi/Hilda threatened to wallop Hardeep when he tried to introduce Costa Coffee’s Frescatos into the debate.
    The bell went as Mr Latymer was trying to restore order and I could quietly slip out of the classroom, while all around me people were being given detentions and shouting things like, ‘I don’t care if there are five hundred calories in a Double Chocolate Frappé made with skimmed milk. Why do you have to ruin everything for me?’
    All I had to do was get my bike basket and pannier out of my locker and I’d be free of this hellhole that reeked of cheap disinfectant and failure until 8.40 the next