The Gaps by Leanne Hall (young adult books to read .TXT) 📗

begin the Chapter Ten exercises but it’s hard to concentrate. Petra is restless when she studies; she crosses and uncrosses her legs, scrunches bits of paper, sighs a lot, drums her fingers on the table.

After a few more minutes of my mind sliding over maths problems and not landing anywhere I catch Petra sneaking glances at me.

I put down my pen. ‘These graphs are killing me.’

It’s an excuse to talk—in fact the only good thing about stats is drawing nice neat diagrams on clean, checked graph paper. Petra looks tired. We haven’t bumped into each other at our lockers yet this week.

‘How were your holidays?’ I ask.

She looks away so I barely catch her words. ‘I went home.’

‘Where’s home?’

‘Karraton. The country.’

If I didn’t know better I’d say she’s upset about something. We’ve built up a tenuous connection since the notorious self-defence class, but none of that is there today. I try to think of a topic that will interest her but I fail and return to my calculations.

A few minutes later Petra packs up her things abruptly and leaves without saying goodbye.

I pedal as hard as I can on stats, trying to make up for my neglect. Mrs Wang has been trying to talk me into doing Advanced Maths next year, but I’m not sure.

If I could, I’d do all humanities and absolutely no science or maths for the next two years, but Balmoral want us to choose subjects that will get our university entrance scores scaled up, even if we’re not interested in them. I’m already worried our careers counsellor won’t let me study Art next year unless I commit to applying for a Visual Arts course at uni, which isn’t an actual option.

With about fifteen minutes of period two left, Mrs Berryman gives me a heart attack by appearing right next to me, out of thin air. Secret librarian skills.

‘Chloe? Ms Nouri has asked to see you.’

‘Now? Why?’

‘Not sure, love, but she wants you to go up to her office.’

Mrs Berryman should swap places with the school counsellor or nurse, she’s that nice.

I gather my things and pretend that it’s not unusual that Ms Nouri wants to see me.

My heart thumps a little faster. Could it be something to do with the prize? Surely the judges haven’t made their decision already.

As I make my way to the third floor I run through my favourite fantasy, a blatantly unrealistic daydream where Ms Nouri tells me that her art-dealer friend likes my work and wants to give me a giant pot of money to go overseas to make art and find myself.

Ms Nouri’s office is barely bigger than a broom closet, and she shares it with two other art teachers. Once you’ve crammed in three desks, bookshelves, a portable heater, three oversized handbags and a collection of lumpy statues, there’s barely room to move. Funny things are going on with my insides.

‘Chloe, take a seat.’

Ms Nouri is alone in the office and I perch on a spare chair. There are art books, sketchbooks, stacks of paper, jars of pens, posters on every available surface. A framed photo of Ms Nouri and her wife and their little boy is tucked on the shelf nearby and I try not to look too nosy.

‘How are you doing?’

‘Good.’ It’s hard not to sound nervous.

Ms Nouri taps her big teacher’s diary with glitter-storm fingernails.

‘I have something difficult to tell you, Chloe.’

She hasn’t looked at me properly until now. She looks worried.

‘A decision has been made to remove your artwork from the exhibition. After receiving a complaint, Mrs Christie has decided this is the best course of action, to prevent others from getting upset.’

Ice runs through me. It’s very similar to the feeling I had when Sam went missing at the mall. It takes a few seconds for me to get any words out.

‘What kind of complaint?’

‘I didn’t field the complaint personally, so I don’t know every detail. Mrs Christie indicated that the person was distraught.’

‘My photo upset them?’ I ask, trying to make sense of it. Ms Nouri has spent the entire year telling us art is supposed to make us feel something. ‘I don’t get it. Why didn’t I get called into the principal’s office?’

‘It was thought best that I discuss it with you. Break the news to you gently.’ Ms Nouri attempts a laugh and sounds nothing but bitter. It dawns on me that Mrs Christie has made her do this. ‘I can still accept the piece as your final project, though. Your grade won’t be affected at all.’

I think of all the guidance Ms Nouri gave me, the suggestions, the extra attention. Maybe she had been doing that for everyone, though. Here I was thinking I was someone special.

‘What do you think?’ The ice floes melt, and all of a sudden I flood, turn to water. ‘Do you think I did something wrong?’

My cheeks are wet, my eyes spilling over. I don’t care about dignity anymore.

I spent every bit of my money I had. I endured awkward exchanges with Natalia. I barely went outside all holidays. Tears fall onto my school tights, soaking my legs.

‘I’m in a difficult position, Chloe. I can’t talk as freely as I’d like.’ Ms Nouri rolls her chair closer and pats my shoulder. ‘I can tell you though, that you’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘But I’m disqualified from the prize.’

‘Yes.’

It’s true that Balmoral isn’t for people like me. They let you think for a moment that it is, that you’re on equal footing to them, and the whole time it’s not true.

I knew I’d never get that prize or money. I shouldn’t have bothered.

‘You didn’t tell Mrs Christie what you think, though. You didn’t tell her you think I’d done nothing wrong. You—’

But I’m hiccup-crying too hard to get the words out so I stand up, wipe my face.

‘It’s so unfair.’

‘My hands are tied, Chloe.’ Ms Nouri fusses about on her desk, finds an envelope and hands it to me. ‘Please understand that, I want you