Every Cloud

Chapter Three

The crowds in the schoolyard are thinning as we make our way towards the front doors, considering we're a few minutes late. My heart continues to thump as I press my hand against the door and push it open, stepping into the hallway. It seems as if a hush falls upon most of the people I walk past as we attempt to reach our lockers, however at the same time the noise and bustle of the corridor is overwhelming and makes my head ache. There's a typical Red-Sea parting as I make my way to my locker door, Grace following closely at my heels, clutching onto my arm. I avoid eye contact with most people, letting my hair fall loose like a cloak as I quickly twist open my locker and deposit a few of my folders.

Registration isn't much better. I sidle in along the edge of the room and take a seat at my old desk, boring holes into the tabletop. When my name is called, and I answer with a feeble 'here, Miss', a dozen pair of eyes swivel to focus on my face. As always, I avert eye contact and start to pick around my nails, the skin already puckered and torn. After the register, it's time for lessons or, in my case, to go and wait for my meeting with Miss Rogers. Grace comes with me up to the staff corridor, then gets turned away by the narcissistic deputy head teacher and is told to hurry along to assembly. Therefore, I step into the reception area alone, which reeks of furniture polish, the poignant scent washing over me and making my nose scrunch up in disgust.

"Um, I'm here to see Miss Rogers? I'm Armelle Taylor." I cough up to the receptionist, who taps away at her computer for a moment, her plastic nails clacking against the keys.

"Ah yes, good to see you Armelle," She says, shooting me a sympathetic smile, "If you just take a seat she'll be ready for you in a few minutes."

"Okay, thanks." I mumble, tucking myself away into one of the wooden seats in the corner. After two minutes of staring into space and breathing in through my mouth to avoid the stench of cheap chemicals, I decide to wander over to the water fountain and grab myself a drink. The plastic cup crinkles beneath my touch as I let ice-cold water swirl up to the point of contact with my fingertips. I'm just finishing my second gulp when the receptionist enters through the side door and announces that she can take me through to Miss Roger's office. I abandon my drink and bag as she holds onto my arm and steers me down the corridor, through to her office.

"It's good to have you back, Armelle." She lets a warm smile shoot up her lips, however it doesn't quite reach her eyes. Why do people keep saying that they're glad I'm back? It's not as if they've actually noticed that I've been gone, nor particularly cared, apart from knowing to handle me with caution, like I'm a fragile piece of glasswork or something.

"Thanks." I return a quiver of a smile as I position myself on the chair on the opposite side of her desk.

"I heard that you've been getting your homework and class handouts and such from your friends is it? Or Zachary?"

"Yeah, Zach brought me everything I need so I've kept up to date."

"Brilliant," She flashes a slither of shining teeth, "Your teachers have offered extra sessions with you if you want them, just to catch up with the last few bits of work for your mock exams." Crap. My mock exams are in two weeks, and apart from a bundle of notes stuffed under my bed, I haven't actually done any thorough revision.

"Yeah, that would be useful actually, I, um, haven't had much of a chance to do a lot of preparation." I shift my eyesight down to the grain of her desk, and I must look especially sorry for myself because Miss Rogers reaches over the desk and pats me on the sleeve of my blazer slightly awkwardly.

"Of course, Armelle, that's completely understandable, given, you know, the circumstances. In fact, what I actually wanted to talk to you about this morning was a proposition I wanted to ask you about—" She pauses her speech to rifle through one of her desk drawers, pulling out a lemon-yellow slip of paper stapled to a booklet printed with the words "You've got this!". I inwardly groan as I reach for the collection of papers and scan quickly over the first sheet.
'Mr Thompson, graduate from UCL, psychology and sociology degree. Counsellor specialising in young patients,' fills the first few lines, followed by a box for my guardian to sign. I feel a rush of heat flame up my cheeks as I quickly fold up the sheets and shove them into my pocket out of sight.