Free Girl, Going on 16: Pants on Fire by Sue Limb Page A

noticed!
    ‘Miss Thorn!’ said Jess, trying to sound as if she was in control of the situation and delighted to see her favourite teacher. Flora whirled round and kind of froze solid. ‘I’m sorry we’re late. I just – felt a bit . . . a bit sick.’ Jess stuffed the letter into her bag and scrambled to her feet.
    Miss Thorn walked slowly forward and held out her hand.
    ‘I believe that letter is for me?’ she said, in a voice as sweet as sulphuric acid.
    Jess got it out and dumbly handed it over. There was absolutely no point in trying to say anything perky and attractive. She had to admit she was so NOT in control of the situation.
    Miss Thorn perused the letter, then looked up. Lightning flashed from her eyes. Thunder rolled around the craggy heights of her hostility. Jess did notice a tiny speck of dandruff on Miss Thorn’s immaculate shoulder. But it wasn’t much comfort.
    ‘Flora, you can go and wait for me in the classroom,’ she said.
    Flora flinched and sort of lurched off, looking both guilty and relieved.
    ‘Now, I’ve had about enough hassle from you,’ said Miss Thorn. Her use of the word ‘hassle’ wasn’t lovable – somehow it made her seem even more like a gangster. And her failure to use Jess’s name was especially chilling.
    ‘Late on day one, writing rubbish instead of your essay, absent on day two without any note, and now I find you forging one.’ Her cold steely eyes slid over Jess with contempt. ‘You can go and explain yourself to Mr Powell,’ she said, tearing up Jess’s letter with a contemptuous flourish and handing the pieces back to Jess.
    Jess’s legs went cold and started to shake. She turned and walked off towards the admin centre, where the heads of year had their various offices. She was so terrified, the slightest thing could set off a horrendous bout of projectile vomiting. She was sure if Mr Powell shouted at her, she might just vom straight in his face.
    Mr Powell was immensely tall and had big chubby cheeks and curly fair hair. However, despite his curls and dimples he was not heavenly or jolly. He strode about with a frown, looking rather like an angel who has had a row with God. And when he lost his temper he went bright red and shouted so loud you could hear him all over the school. And everybody who heard him reacted with synchronised cringing.
    Jess arrived at his door and knocked very timidly. There was no reply. Jess waited. She listened. She couldn’t hear anybody moving inside. She looked up and down the corridor. There was nobody about. She felt, in all conscience, she ought to knock once more, properly: loudly. She knocked again, but somehow it turned out even softer, like a fairy wearing velvet gloves knocking on the door of a dormouse who might possibly be asleep. Jess waited. There was no reply.
    Suddenly, the bell rang for the start of lessons. Jess bounded swiftly away. There was always the chance that Mr Powell had been meditating, or sucking a throat sweet or something, and she didn’t want him to come barging out and find her loitering. But she would have to go and see him later. At lunchtime. Perhaps. In case Miss Thorn checked up on her.
    Jess headed for the languages department, where she must now endure French. Turning a corner slightly too fast, she bumped straight into Miss Thorn. Jess blushed.
    ‘What did he say?’ demanded Miss Thorn.
    ‘He said he was very disappointed in me,’ said Jess, so flustered that the disastrous lies came spilling out of her mouth almost before she could think. Wait, that didn’t sound much like Mr Powell. Mr Powell had never been disappointed in his life. Only incandescent with rage. ‘He said it was a diabolical start to the term and if I was sent to him again he’d make me regret I’d ever been born,’ added Jess, trying to make it sound more Mr Powellish.
    Miss Thorn nodded approvingly. ‘As far as I’m concerned, you’re on a warning,’ she said. ‘Just one more problem and you’ll be