Free The Bone Dragon by Alexia Casale Page B

wrong and I grin.
    ‘Contumely,’ Ms Winters corrects. ‘Well, that’s part of the picture, but I was thinking more about the lead into the line you gave me, rather than the bit that follows on. “For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,” then, on the next line, “The oppressor’s wrong”. And by this he means “ or the oppressor’s wrong” because he’s listing these with a whole raft of other things – including that bit about “the proud man’s contumely”,’ she adds, nodding in Sonny Rawlins’s direction. He glowers and slouches lower in his seat, turning his gaze to the window. ‘In other words, who would just sit there if someone’s doing you wrong: being mean to you? And how about the end of the next line: “the law’s delay”? What is Hamlet referring to here?’
    Something wet splats across my cheek, and I miss what Ms Winters says next as I turn to glare at Sonny Rawlins and Fred just in time to see Fred launch the spit-ball that hits Lynne. She shrieks.
    ‘Are you all right, Lynne?’ Ms Winters asks. I see her eyes flick in Sonny Rawlins’s direction. They’ve tucked their ‘weapons’ away for now and are trying to smile innocently, pretending that they’re both enthralled by the lesson. Ms Winters gives them an arch look. ‘Perhaps it’s the draught. Sonny, why don’t you go and sit in that empty desk by the window. You’re a big, tough lad: I expect you won’t mind blocking some of that nasty breeze for the girls.’
    Sonny kicks Phee’s chair as he passes.
    ‘Watch your feet with all those bags around,’ Ms Winters orders. ‘We don’t want you falling on anyone, do we? Now, as we were saying, the answer is in the last bit of that speech. Phee, why don’t you read that for us? From “And thus the native hue . . .”’
    ‘“Of resolution is . . . is sickled”?’ she hazards, turning it into a question and glancing over at me.
    ‘Sicklied,’ I whisper.
    ‘“. . . Sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought”. What does sicklied mean?’ she asks Ms Winters.
    Something about the line nags me. I read it over, then over again, not even hearing Phee stumble through the rest of the speech until her voice goes up on, ‘“. . . turn awry”.’
    ‘“And lose the name of action,”’ she finishes triumphantly.
    Something about the words has them echoing in my head, tugging my thoughts and attention away from the lesson. I read on, hoping to recognise what it is that is making these words feel so familiar. I’m pretty sure I haven’t read this scene yet, but I did flick through the play at one point, reading odd little bits.
    I’d been whining about how much I hated Hamlet and how I couldn’t bear to do the essay Ms Winters had set on it, GCSE or no GCSE, so Amy showed me a painting to try to get me interested: it was of Ophelia in an ornate silver gown, hands just lifting up out of the water of a narrow, weed-choked stream. The idea worked to the extent that I was curious enough to trawl through the rest of the play trying to figure out how she had ended up in the river. But Amy and I still had a huge argument over the essay.
    I decided that, instead of writing about Hamlet , I’d just come up with my own essay question about The Tempest , then Amy could write me a note explaining. Only Amy refused to write the note or, indeed, to condone the alternative essay at all. First we argued about the fact that Amy was sure I couldn’t really be upset over an essay so there must be something else bothering me that we needed to talk about. By the time I convinced her that Hamlet really was the problem, we were both so fed up that we had one of our rare almost-shouting matches. Amy even threatened to withhold my allowance. And then Paul had to come weighing in, backing her up . . .
    I did the essay: got it over with in one go between glaring at the book, at the table, at Paul when he interrupted to bring me a drink, which I would have fetched for