Free Lucky Break by Esther Freud Page A

about Tess and Mikita? And Susie? What if they throw Susie out?’ Susie was a vegan, moved to tears by the sight of the sausages for sale in the canteen at first break.
    Nell turned away. Maybe it wasn’t true. Maybe Charlie had made the whole thing up. But why would she? She imagined attending a debate on the likely reasons. Voices were raised. Outrage expressed. Sheer, unparalleled disbelief. ‘We’re talking about Charlie Adedayo-Martin,’ Nell cut through the rabble. ‘She’d do it – why? Because she can.’
    Nell’s soup was cold, her bowl of salad wilted, but she set about eating it all the same.
    â€˜Sweetheart,’ it was Samantha again, tapping her on the shoulder, a sympathetic tap, she was sure of it, a tap that told her she was number 5. ‘I’m going to walk down to Woolworths to get more glitter. Do you need anything?’
    Nell smiled mildly at her. ‘No. Thank you. I’m fine.’
    That afternoon was the dress rehearsal for Grease . Everywhere girls ran back and forth, assembling costumes, practising dance moves, taking photos, marvelling at their transformations, not the inner transformation they’d been trained to produce, using Silvio’s series of instructions, but the revelation of a high pony tail, of hair smoothed back behind a lemon-yellow hair band, of bare brown legs in bobby socks and a tightly belted waist. Nell was playing Sandy – well, some of Sandy, the part was divided between her, Charlie and Marvella, and she had the first song, a duet. ‘Summer lovin’, had me a blast,’ she sang between mouthfuls of salad, ‘Summer lovin’, happened so fast.’ It was the first time in her two years here Nell had been given a chance to play a lead. It was a good sign, she’d imagined, but now, of course, she wasn’t so sure. And then a thought occurred to her: maybe they hadn’t decided. Perhaps this production was the final test. Nell felt the truth of this ring through her. ‘Summer days, drifting away,’ she forced herself on, ‘bu-ut oh, those summer nights.’
    By three o’clock everyone was dressed. Their director, a diminutive Australian, hired by the school for one term, was giving them a last high-octane talk. ‘OK guys. This is it! Do you hear me? I want focus. Got it? I want energy. Yes?’ He clicked his fingers. ‘And I want to see you having some fun. Yes. Fun!’ And his muscles bulged in his neat arms as he shimmied his shoulders and boxed the air. What he didn’t know was that Patrick Bowery had opened the far door and was approaching from behind. ‘And what I want . . .’ Patrick’s voice was cruel with amusement. ‘Is a quick word.’
    The Australian blushed and, half bowing, moved to one side. Patrick took his place. Come on then, Nell thought, let’s hear it, but Patrick remained silent. Instead, he surveyed them from on high, raising his eyebrows at the slicked quiffs of the boys, finally handsome in white T-shirts and jeans, the girls, in pastel cardigans done up with one button, their bras pushing their blouses out in peaks.
    â€˜So,’ Patrick began, quietly, ominous. ‘There’s been an awful lot of talk recently about people being Thrown Out, and I would like to assure you, before this goes any further, that no one is being Thrown Out.’ There was an audible sigh of relief. Jemma clutched hold of Dan’s arm, Samantha spun around and stared triumphantly at Nell. ‘But I would like to remind you of the contents of the prospectus, which I’m sure all of you read before choosing to enrol at Drama Arts. In the prospectus it clearly states that not everyone will be suited to the rigours of the third year, and that some of you, for various reasons, will be more suited to setting off on different paths.’ Twenty-two pairs of eyes dropped to the floor. ‘And it has come to our attention