Читать книгу A MILLION ANGELS - Kate Maryon, Kate Maryon - Страница 11

I hate school lunchtime more than I hate the bus. The toilets are torture chambers full of bitchy girls like Tory Halligan and the cooks and supervisors are worse. They’re the school’s sergeant majors. You can see their tonsils dangling when they shout out their commands, and little bubbles of spit that gather in the corners of their mouths when they speak.

“Jemima Taylor-Jones!” shouts Mrs Currie, the head cook. “Uniform!”

I look at her, then down at my boots and smile.

“My dog ate my shoes, miss,” I lie. “It was these or my trainers. Mummy thought black was best.”

She flaps her bingo wings.

“I was referring to the beret, Jemima,” she spits. “This isn’t French week, you know! Take it off now, please, before I’m forced to send you to Mrs Bostock’s office. And she will confiscate it! Rules are put in place to be adhered to.”

“Rules are made to be broken,” sniggers Jess, sliding on to the seat next to me. “Have you heard?” she says.

“What?”

“The news?” She pulls out her phone and opens a text from her mum. “There’s been another bomb,” she says. “Really bad! Soldiers have been killed. My mum’s at home, just waiting for more news. You never know… but then the lines are probably down – we might not find out who’s dead for days. It feels weird, knowing it might be my dad. The thought kind of bubbles in my tummy.”

She dips a chip in ketchup.