Secrets at Silver Spires (8 page)

I stared at the floor for ages, hoping that a miracle might happen and a teardrop would suddenly magically appear. But eventually I had to stop looking and make my way miserably up to the dorm, my happy, ambitious feelings about the art exhibition slipping and sliding into bleakness, until by the time I'd got to the third floor I'd decided I'd have to leave the eyes out altogether. That thought was so depressing that I began to wonder whether there was any point in carrying on with the art piece at all. How could I have been so careless as to lose something so precious?

But I knew the answer to that perfectly well, and I started punishing myself harshly with the cruellest words, because that was what I deserved.

It's your stupid dyslexic brain, Jess. It even affects your art now.

Very gradually, I noticed my reading improving, and that really made me happy. I hadn't had any problems escaping from my friends to go and see Miss Cardwell for my twice weekly sessions either. I think they'd just got used to me going off to work on my project whenever there was a spare moment, because none of them batted an eyelid whenever I said I was going to the secret garden. Not even Grace.

Miss Cardwell was my second favourite teacher now, but Mr. Cary would always be my favourite. I'd told him I was doing a piece of installation art for the exhibition and he'd wanted to hear all about it, but then when I'd explained that I wanted to keep it a secret until it was finished, he'd completely understood.

“Sign of a true artist, Jess! I'm looking forward to seeing it. Any ideas where you're going to install it?”

I shook my head. It was true, I didn't know exactly where would be the best place, except that I wanted my four figures to be surrounding a tree somehow.

If only Mr. Reeves understood me like Mr. Cary did. But he was the complete opposite. He probably thought he was being helpful, but I was growing to dread English lessons because of the things he said to me, and the way people stared.

“Don't worry about spellings, Jessica. It's the content that's important.”

Why did he have to say
Jessica
? Now, everyone who wasn't sure before was definitely quite clear that Jessica Roud couldn't spell to save her life.

One day I was sitting in my usual place, roughly in the middle of the room, with Isis and Sophie just behind me. Mr. Reeves was setting us some comprehension work, and as usual he told me not to worry if I couldn't get through it all. “But I'm expecting the rest of you to manage the whole thing,” he added, before turning his attention to his laptop. Immediately there was a buzz of noise, but Mr. Reeves was already in his own little world, slapping a CD into the CD player and frowning at the case, too engrossed to tell us to be quiet.

I could have died, but I just sighed inside and tried to settle down to read the mass of words in front of me. A moment later though I felt my face getting hot because Sophie said something to Isis in a voice just loud enough for me to hear.

“Hey, Isis, don't you wish you could do about half the work of everyone else and not even get told off?”

“You're not kidding!”

My throat felt suddenly as though it had something stuck in it and I couldn't swallow. Half of me wanted to turn round and shout and scream, but the other half was scared and cowering. I tried not to move at all. Maybe they'd think I hadn't heard. Everyone else was taking the opportunity to chat with their friends while Mr. Reeves was engrossed with trying to find the right place on a CD, bits of music blasting out every so often, the noise level rising.

I forced myself to try and read the words on the page in front of me instead of just staring at them, but I'd only sounded out half a sentence when Isis's voice made me freeze.

“Hey, Sophie, how about we deliberately make a few spelling mistakes? Then all the teachers will be really nice to us.”

That did it. My misery and temper started to roll into one because I was never going to be able to cope in this world of words. Not caring about anything any more, I ripped a page out of my English book and handed it back to Isis. “There you go!” I said in a hiss. “Why not start with those? There are at least three spelling mistakes on every line, because I can't help it. I can't spell. Satisfied?”

I turned away abruptly, feeling my face flooding with colour. It was pathetic, what I'd just said. I was going to be the laughing stock of the class. Why couldn't I have thought of something calm and clever to say that would make them feel small, like Naomi had done?

Around me the class chatted on happily and Mr. Reeves pointed the remote in small impatient jerks at the CD player. Isis and Sophie fell silent behind me but I imagined them rolling their eyes at each other. And when I dared to glance round I saw that no one seemed to have noticed the little pocket of despair where I sat in the middle.

For the rest of that day and for the next two days I don't remember feeling happy at all. Isis and Sophie looked at me as though I was an amusing little child, and although they didn't make any nasty comments in the next English lesson, and didn't come anywhere near me and my friends in the dining hall, I was still tense and anxious. What if they said something to Grace and the others, now they knew for sure that I'd got a big problem?

And if I wasn't replaying that whole horrible English lesson and getting myself worked up all over again, I was trying to think what I could possibly do about the eyes for my art piece. It would be such a shame if this one vital part was missing when I'd worked so hard on the wire bodies. All four of them were finished now, and each figure was made with two strands of wire twisted round into a double, and then three doubles plaited together. It had taken me ages. My girl figure looked incredible, with the bubble wrap in the exact shape of a skirt, and on the top half I'd wrapped the bubble wrap round so it looked like a sweatshirt.

I'd searched again for the missing teardrop but it was obviously lost for good. I was really despairing about what to do until I came across Tony the following day and had the sudden idea of checking with him that the chandelier had actually been thrown away. There was a tiny chance, after all, that it might have been taken somewhere else. I mean it wasn't the kind of thing you could just chuck out with the rubbish; you'd need to arrange for a special collection. Maybe it was being stored somewhere else, ready to be taken away.

Grace and I had been swimming, but Grace had had to stay behind to talk to Mrs. Mellor, the PE teacher, about something. I was waiting outside for her when Tony walked past.

“Can I ask you something?” I blurted out, before I could change my mind.

He turned and grinned at me. “As long as it's nothing to do with maths or English or anything.”

“No, it's about…well, you know that room at Hazeldean next to the room where our cases and trunks are stored…”

He stared up at the sky as though he was trying to think where I meant. “Yep, due for decorating, that one,” he said, nodding to himself.

“And you know the chandelier in there…”

“Oh, you saw that, did you?” He grinned. “Naughty, naughty! Didn't you read the notice on the door?”

I felt myself blushing as I remembered that there had been words written on a sign on the door but I hadn't tried to read them properly because it would have taken too long. I shook my head, feeling a fool and wondering what the words might have said.

“
Strictly no admission
! Don't think you could have failed to see that!” He was wagging his finger at me, but in a jokey way. “Don't worry, I'll let you off. 'Spect you were just curious…”

At least he wasn't cross, but I was cross with myself. I felt a complete idiot. My terrible reading had let me down yet again. I wasn't sure whether to ask my question now, because a part of me wanted to just get away and put an end to this conversation. But, on the other hand, I'd started off by saying I had a question, so really I had to carry on. “I only poked my head round the door…but I was…wondering whether…er…you've actually chucked the chandelier away yet?”

He looked at me as though I'd just sprouted a horn right in the middle of my forehead. “Chucked it away?
Chucked it away!
You're kidding! That is one precious chandelier, you know. We stored it in there to make sure it was safe. It's been taken away for restoration. It's going to take pride of place in the main reception hall once they've got it back to how it was, with all those bits of glass in place and the whole thing gleaming like twinkle city!” He chuckled to himself, then shook his head as though I was a hopeless case. “Chucked it
away
!”

I was suddenly finding it difficult to swallow. What had I done? I just didn't seem to be able to get anything right. If I'd been able to read the sign I wouldn't have even gone in the stupid room in the first place, but now it looked as though I was a thief as well! They'd get the chandelier to the restorers and find that there were eight pieces of glass missing. I couldn't bear to think about it. I was desperate to ask Tony if they'd have any spare pieces, because I really needed to know whether I was going to be in trouble. But I couldn't ask that question, could I? Or I'd be the – what do you call it in crime films? – yes, the prime suspect. That's what I'd be. I felt my face turning pale.

“What did you want to know for anyway?” asked Tony.

How did I reply to that one? The truth was out of the question. I searched round desperately and my stupid brain actually managed to come up with something.

“I…I thought it would be nice to take a photo of it, that's all. But it's okay, I'll wait till it's hanging up in the reception hall.”

“Ooh, yes, I reckon everyone'll be taking photos once it's hanging up. All that glass. Very expensive, you know.”

Maybe this was a chance…if I was very careful. “Yes, it must be. How many pieces of glass are there in it altogether? Or doesn't it matter about having an exact number?”

I held my breath and deliberately let my eyes roam around as though I was just making casual conversation, and the answer wasn't that important to me.

“Oh, it matters, all right! You can't replace all those pieces, you know. Well you could, but it'd cost a bit, and it wouldn't be the same.”

Then he was on his way, not a care in the world, while I stood there waiting for Grace and feeling a million cares weighing me down. I must be the most stupid person in the entire world.

On Friday evening it was history and science prep. I'd quite like history if it wasn't for all the reading and writing, but I hate science. Georgie and I are in the same set for science and she's no better at it than me, but not for the same reason. The thing about Georgie is that she's just not bothered about any subjects except English and drama, although I've noticed she's recently got keener on French, but that's because she's interested in working on her accent because of her love of acting. I think she might even be planning on taking up another language for GCSE.

I get really worried when I think about things like that. I used to feel okay knowing that Georgie and I were kind of in the same boat, each having one big thing that we're good at. But now she's getting better at other subjects, I feel really anxious that I'm going to be left on my own in bottom sets for ever, because of my brain not working properly.

My eyes went from the mass of meaningless letters in my chemistry book to the door, then back to the book, then back to the door. I was desperately hoping that Grace would arrive. She was having tennis coaching again, just when I needed her. Mia was on the other side of me, but I didn't dare ask her to help me. She'd think I was really thick to not even understand the simplest thing about chemical elements. When I'd had my session with Miss Cardwell earlier on she'd said she could really hear an improvement in my reading, and I'd been so happy. But it wasn't helping me right now, when I couldn't think of the spelling of the simplest word, and I had to keep trying things out on my piece of scrap paper, which would go straight in the bin afterwards.