class was going to kill her. Was it possible to die of boredom? Gina, halfway through another lesson 113
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with Miss Ballantyne, was beginning to suspect that it was.
‘Why are we copying notes from the board?’ she’d hissed at Niffy.
‘Because that is all we do in this class,’ came the reply. ‘ Facts, girls! History is all about facts, not guesses, not surmises and certainly not opinions! ’ Niffy imitated Miss Ballantyne in a high-pitched whisper.
Gina had gone on copying laboriously in longhand for a few more minutes, then she’d stuck her hand up in the air.
‘Miss Ballantyne?’
‘Yes?’ The stern-faced teacher had turned from the board and peered at Gina over the top of her spectacles and the frilly blouse she wore buttoned up to the chin.
‘Wouldn’t it be possible for you to print out your notes and hand them out to us?’ Gina asked.
She felt something of a collective intake of breath in the room at this question.
‘These notes are not stored on a computer,’ came the brisk reply. ‘I can’t just print them out !’
‘Well, what about photocopying them?’ Gina wasn’t going to be fobbed off. ‘It would save us all so much time.’
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A gasp, both from Miss Ballantyne and Gina’s classmates, met this outrageous suggestion.
‘Really!’ Miss Ballantyne snapped, giving the icy look St Jude’s staff had nearly all perfected.
‘What?’ Gina had asked.
‘These notes are the fruit of years of teaching; they are covered with my edits, with my thoughts and observations. They are not just to be photocopied and handed out, erm . . .’
‘Gina Peterson,’ Gina had offered, then, cheekily referring to the teacher’s age, she added, ‘Maybe you knew my mother, Lorelei Winkelmann?’
Miss Ballantyne’s face gave a distinct flash of recognition at the name and she looked at Gina closely. ‘Indeed!’ she snapped ‘Well, we shall see how you fare, Gina.’
Gina would have liked to ask something about her mother, but Miss Ballantyne had turned back to the board and was writing again.
The conversation was clearly over and the boredom of the history lesson continued without any further outrageous interruptions.
‘She wouldn’t know what else to do with us,’ Niffy whispered into Gina’s ear. ‘She makes every class copy out the same notes year after year. I’ve even checked a 115
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Fifth Year’s old jotters – exactly the same, word for word.’
Gina was hoping that at least the physics lesson would go a bit better, because she’d been receiving some intensive tuition from Min. Last night, in the study room, while Amy worked on a detailed sketch of Jason’s face and Niffy busied herself drawing her horse, Ginger, over and over again, Min and Gina had tried to get to grips with the physics homework.
Gina had watched Min do solution after elegant solution. She’d listened, she’d copied, she’d hesitantly tried to do the examples herself as Min watched. Then she thought she’d finally got it.
Now, as Mr Perfect called her up to his desk, she wasn’t so sure.
‘Great homework,’ he told her as he flicked through the pages she’d worked on with Min. ‘Such a dramatic improvement. You’re suddenly on a par with Asimina.’
Uh-oh. Gina thought she’d detected a worrying hint of playfulness in that comment.
‘Would you talk me through this one please?’ Mr Perfect asked, pointing at one of the pages of her homework.
Gina tried; well . . . she began, she stumbled on, she cleared her throat, she meandered . . . Everything Min 116
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had told her seemed to have evaporated from her head.
Finally, sensing the giggles rising from the class, not to mention the heat from Gina’s cheeks, Mr Perfect told her to go and sit
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