In this scene: Roles for the new English project are being picked and delivered. Lol.
Miss Walker’s face falls. I bet she thought we’d be excited and punching the air and running around naked in euphoric exhibitionism. I was surprised to see her when she walked into English, until Mr. Smith announced, ‘This project will be a collaboration between English and Drama, so your participation will count toward the annual assessment of not one but two subjects. Which means if you don’t take this seriously it’s goodbye to grades and college.’
Mr. Smith knows how to hit where it hurts. College, for us, is the ticket out of here and failing grades mean being stuck in this hell-hole for life. My reasons for going to college are entirely different from Sarah or Mel’s – who want to be fashion journalists. Heck, I’m even clueless about what I want to do. All I know is that I must go somewhere far, far away, where Aunt Ruby’s pity-pool eyes won’t watch my every move fearing when I’ll break and the neighbours won’t be whispering how tragic I am behind my back. School is a part time escape. College should be full time.
‘Cobweb, assistant fairy extraordinaire.’ Sarah crumbles her chit and pushes the hat toward me. Shredded pieces of fate – only half the original chits left now. Mr. Smith nods at Sarah and writes down her role. She looks disinterested already but Miss Walker keeps a steady gaze on her, searching for some sort of a smile.
I pick the smallest scrap of paper hoping it will say something like ‘lighting’ or ‘set design’ or ‘background sound’ – anything non-performance based.
Unfold the paper and my annual fate smirks back at me.
‘Ronni?’ Mr. Smith smiles expectantly.
‘Can I change?’
‘No. What you pick is what you play.’
‘Can I pick again?’
‘What do you have there, Ronni?’
I say it aloud and it’s wrapped and sealed and stuck forever.