Scarlett - Cathy Cassidy [2]
‘Oh dear,’ says Mum.
‘Oh dear, indeed,’ echoes Mrs Mulhern. ‘We have never had a riot at Greenhall Academy before. But then again, we have never had a pupil quite like Scarlett.’
‘You can’t blame her for the whole thing,’ Mum says reasonably. ‘She’s certainly behaved badly, but –’
‘But nothing,’ Mrs Mulhern snaps. ‘In the midst of the fray, Ms Murray, my cook was assaulted by your daughter.’
‘She slipped!’ I protest.
‘She had to be taken to casualty, although fortunately nothing seems to be broken. She has also handed in her notice after more than twenty years at Greenhall.’
She’s missed out the bit where the old bag chased me with a spatula and pelted me with semolina pudding, but I doubt whether these details will help my case any.
‘Ah.’ Mum sighs. ‘I see.’
‘I’ve no option but to exclude Scarlett from Greenhall Academy. A third exclusion, as you know, is a final one. We have a reputation to maintain, and we cannot tolerate incidents indeed, pupils – such as this. You will need to make alternative arrangements for Scarlett. I regret to tell you she is no longer a pupil at Greenhall Academy.’
‘Whoop-de-doo,’ I mutter, arranging the hem of my black school skirt so that it sits neatly across my knees.
‘Mrs Mulhern,’ Mum appeals, ‘are you saying my daughter has been expelled?’
The Headmistress gives a slow, solemn nod.
‘There’s nothing I can say or do to make you reconsider?’
‘Sadly, no,’ Mrs Mulhern replies. ‘Scarlett is a bright girl. She could have done well here, but she has major problems with authority – and with her temper. A broken home can affect young people in so many dreadful ways. Scarlett is quite one of the angriest twelve-year-olds I’ve ever come across.’
Mrs Mulhern stands up, offering a podgy, pink-taloned hand for Mum to shake. ‘Have you ever thought that family counselling might be a solution?’ she adds as an afterthought, and Mum drops the hand like a hot potato. Her face flushes with fury as she ushers me into the outer office.
‘Everything OK, Ms Murray?’ Miss Phipps calls sweetly, getting her own back at last for an afternoon wasted leaving urgent messages for my mother. ‘Scarlett?’
Like she doesn’t know. All afternoon, she’s probably been typing up official forms and letters kicking me out of the school. She smirks at me from behind her PC.
Mum sails past as though Miss Phipps is invisible, but I find time to pause in the doorway and reveal my last and, possibly, my finest assault on the school-uniform rules. I’ve kept it secret for six whole weeks, which hasn’t been easy, but hey, it’s going to be worth it.
I open my mouth and stick my tongue out at Miss Phipps, wide enough and long enough for her to see the gold stud that pierces the middle of it. Then I close my mouth, smile sweetly and slam the door behind me.
Goodbye, Mrs Mulhern. So long, Miss Phipps. It’s been fun.
Of course, getting kicked out of Greenhall Academy is no joke. Head teachers and school secretaries don’t scare me, but Mum – well, that’s a different story.
We travel home on the tube in stony silence, which is not good news. The first time I got excluded from Greenhall, Mum laughed and said that dyeing your hair green in the school toilets was hardly a criminal offence.
OK, I shouldn’t have nicked that bottle of hydrogen peroxide from the chemistry lab, but I’d heard the stuff was used in hair dye, and I was trying to get a few cool blonde streaks. I didn’t know it’d turn my hair into something that looked, felt and smelt like clumps of mouldering seaweed. Attractive – not.
Mum booked me into her swish Covent Garden hairdresser’s and told them to cover up the mess, and I couldn’t find a shade of brown I liked so I ended up going red. Mrs Mulhern nearly had a seizure when I walked back into school after my three-day exclusion with chin-length curls the colour of tomato ketchup.
The next time was worse. I had a scrap with my biology teacher, Miss Jessop,