"This is what she had become."
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Cleopatra Banks' last week in the small town of New Chelsea is nothing like she would have imagined it, but nothing could have prepared her for the stinging betrayal she's faced with and suddenly the prospect of...
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This is a disaster.
A colossal disaster of epic proportions.
First it took my sleep deprived brain twenty minutes to wrap my head around the fact that we were supposed to be making esters and not ethers so not only did I mess up my equations but I also mixed things I shouldn't have mixed together during the first part of my Chemistry practical so that's a heap of marks down the drain and later on just before we left, some idiot who sits next to me thought it would be a fantastic idea to pour water into concentrated hydrochloric acid and it literally burnt a hole through the side of my shoe when she knocked it over and it landed on my feet and now I have to run barefoot to Mrs. Cavendish's class all the way on the other side of the school.
Oh and did I mention that I'm also running ten minutes late for that?
"You're late. Prep time is finished. If you don't start now you will fail!" Mrs. Cavendish eloquently greets me when she first sees me running towards her class where she's standing by the door.
She blocks her nose upon catching a whiff of my unflattering scent but stops me from entering the class when she points down at my sock clad feet. My wet sock clad feet. "You can't enter like that, you need shoes. Where are your shoes?" she demands.
I first try to catch my breath but seeing as how all this panting will not stop now I start talking either way. "Chem—prac—hydro—chlo—ric acid—burnt shoes," I attempt to say, not sure if she heard anything. "Lazy science kids. You're embarrassing me!" she frowns and in all honesty I feel every fiber of strength left in my body begin to leave.
I can't fail this cooking practical. I worked so hard last night and all for nothing?
Mrs. Cavendish looks around, peers into the class where a variety of smells and noises are emanating from. But before I can launch into a tear jerking speech of why she should allow me into the kitchen anyway while a bunch of professional chefs watch on, she does something totally unexpected.
She takes off her shoes and hands them over to me. I look at them, not sure what to do with myself. "Don't look at them like that, put them on," she instructs me, still making sure nobody is looking.
"What?" I ask. She gives me a stern look. "Must I put them on for you?" she asks. I shake my head and then with trembling hands I take the size eight shoes from the woman and slide into them. They're a bit loose but I guess they'll do. This is so weird.
"Get to your station and start immediately. Tell Ferdinand that you had a practical, he'll know what you're talking about. I'll be right back," she says, shooing me into the kitchen where a bunch of chefs in their black chef jackets walk around examining everything that the poor students are doing.
"Keep calm and don't mess up," Mrs. Cavendish whispers from behind me before walking away barefooted.
There must be some really terrifying stuff in the bitter cold air today.
