The Boy With The Hopeless Dreams

Chapter Twenty-Six

The next morning, I woke up at the usual time and carelessly got dressed, raking a brush through my knot-ridden hair. I shuffled downstairs, still not fully awake and was surprised to find the kitchen empty. Straining my ears, I listened out for the usual sounds of either Mac or Mum getting ready but heard nothing. I thought they’d overslept so I was walking upstairs to wake them up when I looked at the clock in the kitchen: it was fifteen minutes past nine. Nine. Not eight. My clock was an hour slow.

Crap.

I ran back to bedroom to grab my phone and, sure enough, I had three missed calls and ten texts, all from Amy asking where I was.  After sending her a quick reply, I started typing a very angry message to my mother for not waking me up. Without wasting any more time, I haphazardly wrenched my coat on and ended up putting it on inside out. I was so frustrated and angry that I threw the coat on the floor and left without it, a decision I greatly regretted the minute I stepped outside. 

Summers in Britain were cold so as we were nearing the height of winter, to say it was freezing would be an understatement. As I ran, I could feel my toes and fingers stiffening with cold, making it more and more difficult to keep up my pace. The thought that spurred me on was that of Mrs. Watson’s smug, bulbous face, smiling as she announced I had a billion detentions for being this late. I racked my brain and tried to remember which lesson I had first. I groaned internally; groaning out loud would take up too much valuable energy, and being lazy, my energy levels were pretty much non-existent. I had English, with Mr. Oliver and him. Great.

It was just my luck, wasn’t it?

It was half past nine when I finally got to the front office, sweaty, out of breath and red faced; the combination of these made me look gloriously attractive… I signed into the register and made my way, hurriedly, to English.  The halls were totally empty, a sign that I really was very late, and the only person I saw was the janitor, miserably mopping the floor.  He gave me a venomous look as I walked straight through the patch of floor he’d just cleaned. I heard him mutter something that you certainly wouldn’t say to your priest but carried on charging down the corridor. After what felt like eons, I opened the door and kept my head down as I scurried to my seat. I felt, rather than saw, the figure beside me tense as I took my place and could tell that he was defiantly staring straight ahead.  All the other students, however, were gazing, boggle-eyed, right at me. Mr. Oliver cleared his throat.

“Banbury, Mrs. Watson wants to see you in her office,” he said, sounding not in the slightest bothered that I’d turned up forty-five minutes late to his lesson.

Having just sunk down into the chair, which provided a welcome break for my poor, exhausted feet, I stood up, sighing loudly.
“Yes, sir,” I replied, monotonously. I left my bag where it was as I figured this meeting wouldn’t take long, only a few minutes of being mercilessly reprimanded.  Mrs. Watson’s office was only in the corridor next to Mr. Oliver’s classroom so I didn’t have very far to walk. 

I knocked, hesitantly, on the door and awaited Mrs. Watson’s usual barking reply. Instead, the door opened violently towards me and I had to take a step back to avoid being hit in the face by it.
“Ah, good,” Mrs. Watson scowled. “Step inside, Miss. Banbury. I need a word.”

Reluctantly, I dragged my feet and entered her office. Its décor was not a reflection of her personality.  Everything was either pink or yellow – a disgusting combination, if you ask me – and there was a dreadfully old armchair in the corner of the room, looking as though if somebody sat on it, it was surely collapse with a heavy exhalation.

“Mrs. Watson, I’m so sorry I’m late,” I began. “My clock was wrong and my mum and sister left without waking me up -”

“I will not tolerate any of your hopeless excuses,” Watson interrupted. “You have been late innumerable times.”