getting ready to experiment, but I noticed that Gwennie from science class (and Fishcoteque) wasn’t even there.
I pulled on a white lab coat, snapped on some goggles, and felt very intelligent indeed. The teacher partnered me with another new person, and we stood over a little Bunsen burner with two glass beakers. The teacher spoke pretty quickly, and I was having trouble keeping up with his instructions. Especially since his accent was so thick. I’m not sure I understood it at all. The liquid in the blue-rimmed beaker went in first . . . or was it the red one first? Don’t put the liquid from the yellow bottle in . . . or did that one go in all of them?
“Did you write all that down?” I whispered to my lab partner.
“I thought you were getting it,” he said. He looked about as clueless as I felt.
I looked around and saw that several others were pouring the liquid from the yellow bottle into a beaker. So I did the same thing and then set it on the stove, or cooker, or whatever they call it. Apparently everybody else had done something special to their beakers first or had superstrength ones or something. Oh no!
My beaker was the only one that shattered, sounding like a hammer hitting a lightbulb. It spewed dangerous liquid in every direction. Great. My British nickname would be Beaker Breaker.
“Ah, blimey,” my partner said and tried to distance himself from me.
After getting the mess cleaned up and everyone calmed down, the instructor came over.
“Miss . . .”
“Smith,” I said. “Savannah Smith.”
“Have you ever had a proper chemistry class before?” he asked.
I shook my head. He said nothing more—he just kept looking at me.
“I guess I should try the gymnastics club?” I suggested, knowing that really all I wanted to do was write.
“That sounds like a splendid idea,” he agreed. “A really splendid idea.”
Chapter 7
The gymnastics club met every day, but new people could only try out on Mondays. I skipped Fishcoteque and slipped into a leotard after school. I had no idea that the gymnasts were expected to do anything involving coordination on the trampoline, nor that the trampoline would be so bouncy. Weren’t they supposed to have spotters by the sides? Did people in London sue for injuries like they did in Seattle?
“Miss Smith! You all right?” The coach came running to my side as I lay on the cool mats several feet below the trampoline. Great. I’d be known as the Bounced Beach Ball.
“I’m . . . I’m fine.” I tried to pull myself up off of the floor. One kind-looking girl held out her hand and pulled me to my feet. She smiled at me before heading back to do some perfect turns on the balance beam.
The coach made sure I was all right and then asked, “Have you done a lot of work in gymnastics?”
“Not blooming likely,” I heard someone behind me mutter.
I shook my head. “I guess I should try the art club?”
“An excellent idea. If you fancy art, you should give it a go.” She nodded approvingly and went back to the balance beam.
Well, no, I don’t fancy art, actually. I fancy journalism. I went to change back into my school uniform. Maybe an e-mail would be waiting for me when I got home.
Chapter 8
Tuesday morning I got up early and, after putting on my uniform, headed off to school. Jesus, I need some help, I prayed as I made my way around campus. I’m trying, but nothing’s working out right. And to tell You the truth, it’s pretty lonely.
I looked for the school newspaper at one of the stands—it was supposed to come out on Tuesdays—but surprisingly, none were there. None were anywhere on campus, as far as I could tell. I’d been hoping to see if a new writer’s byline was listed. If not, maybe I still had a chance. It was possible—I’d been spying on the newspaper table during lunchtime, and I hadn’t seen any new faces yet.
I had to drop off a transfer form at the office, and miraculously, as one of the Aristocats was
I pulled on a white lab coat, snapped on some goggles, and felt very intelligent indeed. The teacher partnered me with another new person, and we stood over a little Bunsen burner with two glass beakers. The teacher spoke pretty quickly, and I was having trouble keeping up with his instructions. Especially since his accent was so thick. I’m not sure I understood it at all. The liquid in the blue-rimmed beaker went in first . . . or was it the red one first? Don’t put the liquid from the yellow bottle in . . . or did that one go in all of them?
“Did you write all that down?” I whispered to my lab partner.
“I thought you were getting it,” he said. He looked about as clueless as I felt.
I looked around and saw that several others were pouring the liquid from the yellow bottle into a beaker. So I did the same thing and then set it on the stove, or cooker, or whatever they call it. Apparently everybody else had done something special to their beakers first or had superstrength ones or something. Oh no!
My beaker was the only one that shattered, sounding like a hammer hitting a lightbulb. It spewed dangerous liquid in every direction. Great. My British nickname would be Beaker Breaker.
“Ah, blimey,” my partner said and tried to distance himself from me.
After getting the mess cleaned up and everyone calmed down, the instructor came over.
“Miss . . .”
“Smith,” I said. “Savannah Smith.”
“Have you ever had a proper chemistry class before?” he asked.
I shook my head. He said nothing more—he just kept looking at me.
“I guess I should try the gymnastics club?” I suggested, knowing that really all I wanted to do was write.
“That sounds like a splendid idea,” he agreed. “A really splendid idea.”
Chapter 7
The gymnastics club met every day, but new people could only try out on Mondays. I skipped Fishcoteque and slipped into a leotard after school. I had no idea that the gymnasts were expected to do anything involving coordination on the trampoline, nor that the trampoline would be so bouncy. Weren’t they supposed to have spotters by the sides? Did people in London sue for injuries like they did in Seattle?
“Miss Smith! You all right?” The coach came running to my side as I lay on the cool mats several feet below the trampoline. Great. I’d be known as the Bounced Beach Ball.
“I’m . . . I’m fine.” I tried to pull myself up off of the floor. One kind-looking girl held out her hand and pulled me to my feet. She smiled at me before heading back to do some perfect turns on the balance beam.
The coach made sure I was all right and then asked, “Have you done a lot of work in gymnastics?”
“Not blooming likely,” I heard someone behind me mutter.
I shook my head. “I guess I should try the art club?”
“An excellent idea. If you fancy art, you should give it a go.” She nodded approvingly and went back to the balance beam.
Well, no, I don’t fancy art, actually. I fancy journalism. I went to change back into my school uniform. Maybe an e-mail would be waiting for me when I got home.
Chapter 8
Tuesday morning I got up early and, after putting on my uniform, headed off to school. Jesus, I need some help, I prayed as I made my way around campus. I’m trying, but nothing’s working out right. And to tell You the truth, it’s pretty lonely.
I looked for the school newspaper at one of the stands—it was supposed to come out on Tuesdays—but surprisingly, none were there. None were anywhere on campus, as far as I could tell. I’d been hoping to see if a new writer’s byline was listed. If not, maybe I still had a chance. It was possible—I’d been spying on the newspaper table during lunchtime, and I hadn’t seen any new faces yet.
I had to drop off a transfer form at the office, and miraculously, as one of the Aristocats was
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