Sequel: Saving Sloane Winters ›
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Finding Sloane Winters Crazy
T W O
Sloane Erin Mallory Winters
HOLY SHIT
What do I feel?
Cold hands, the gravel of the ground beneath my school shoes, Sarah’s shaking head nuzzling into my blazer, the heat of something burning.
What do I smell?
Bess’ new Flora by Gucci perfume for her sixteenth birthday, sweat, the deodorant I had put on after we played a game of netball.
What do I hear?
Screaming, people yelling out their friend’s names, bricks collapsing, something blazing, Sarah finding laughter in the terror and agony of everyone else, the pattering of hurrying feet, the sound of water being splashed, crying, someone yelling to me, ‘God dammit Sloane! Move your bloody arse!’, and the familiar voice of my homeroom teacher, screeching ‘Roll call! Year Eleven girls! Get over here!”
What do I see?
Grey, orange, red, yellow, a red brick building, people in yellow suits, red plaid skirts, frightened looking people, black leather loafers, fire. There are fire-fighters, teachers, students, parents running around, elbowing, kicking and nearly bashing my head in as they tried to rush past.
Glastonbury College for Girls is on fire.
My school is on fire.
How horribly clichéd, you may say. You can go on believing that a fire hasn’t happened, you know. But your ignorance will be your downfall!
Bess is dragging me towards our homeroom teacher, Ms Daylesford. Her white blonde hair, which was usual styled into a tight bun was now falling down her shoulders, and her black pencil skirt was torn, she touches all of our cheeks in relief, and then ticks our names off, she then looks back up again, confused, “Where’s Kayla?” She says, referring to the other quarter of our foursome (yes, I know how rude and suggestive that sounds).
Bess’ hand is already hauling Sarah and I into her Mum’s car, she calls over her shoulder, “In Queensland!”
Ms Daylesford doesn’t know if Bess is joking or not, so she just says, “We’ll send contact, email, mail, phone call to every VCE student about your arrangements,” she turns to another parent. “I’m sorry miss, but we haven’t had the time to discuss where they'll go or anything. I’m afraid the Junior building is not equipped for most of their studies and neither the Middle School building, and most of their textbooks have been perished in the fire. I assume we’ll have to go to another school with more than enough space and facilities.”
Bess’ mum frowns, her blue eyes glossed and reflecting the blazing red and soot. “That is not something you see everyday.”
Sarah’s peals of laughter haven’t stopped. “’Course not! Who would’ve thought that this’d happen at Glastonbury?!”
“No one,” Bess shrugs, being a straight A student apparently meant that you didn’t understand if a question was rhetorical or not.
“Well I suppose you won’t be going to school for the rest of the week,” said Bess’ mum.
I am just so excited.
I might pee in my pants.
Or skirt rather.
Whichever one works.
swinters.blogspot.com
Oh, my goodness.
This truly does suck balls.
Why did I ever agree to this, Doc? I reckon it’s stupid. Why put it on the web? Not like anybody will ever read it anyway.
Am I supposed to do MSN talk, lyk dis?
Kk. Well 2dae, my skool’s VCE buildin got burned down afta sum rly bad experiment in da science lab. Dey wer unsupervised so a teacha wasn’t der 2 stop em, lololol. So funny, rite?
I don’t know. It’s the second week of school, and I’ve only had two weeks of spending my lunchtimes in the VCE common room.
IT WAS GLORIOUS.
Who gives a fuq about meh education when we get FREE HOT CHOCOLATES IN WINTAH, EH? EH!
But there is still the pending question:
Where the hell will we go?
2 comments
Anonymous: Why must you type like this, Swinters?
Sloane: I no dats u, Bess.
HOLY SHIT
What do I feel?
Cold hands, the gravel of the ground beneath my school shoes, Sarah’s shaking head nuzzling into my blazer, the heat of something burning.
What do I smell?
Bess’ new Flora by Gucci perfume for her sixteenth birthday, sweat, the deodorant I had put on after we played a game of netball.
What do I hear?
Screaming, people yelling out their friend’s names, bricks collapsing, something blazing, Sarah finding laughter in the terror and agony of everyone else, the pattering of hurrying feet, the sound of water being splashed, crying, someone yelling to me, ‘God dammit Sloane! Move your bloody arse!’, and the familiar voice of my homeroom teacher, screeching ‘Roll call! Year Eleven girls! Get over here!”
What do I see?
Grey, orange, red, yellow, a red brick building, people in yellow suits, red plaid skirts, frightened looking people, black leather loafers, fire. There are fire-fighters, teachers, students, parents running around, elbowing, kicking and nearly bashing my head in as they tried to rush past.
Glastonbury College for Girls is on fire.
My school is on fire.
How horribly clichéd, you may say. You can go on believing that a fire hasn’t happened, you know. But your ignorance will be your downfall!
Bess is dragging me towards our homeroom teacher, Ms Daylesford. Her white blonde hair, which was usual styled into a tight bun was now falling down her shoulders, and her black pencil skirt was torn, she touches all of our cheeks in relief, and then ticks our names off, she then looks back up again, confused, “Where’s Kayla?” She says, referring to the other quarter of our foursome (yes, I know how rude and suggestive that sounds).
Bess’ hand is already hauling Sarah and I into her Mum’s car, she calls over her shoulder, “In Queensland!”
Ms Daylesford doesn’t know if Bess is joking or not, so she just says, “We’ll send contact, email, mail, phone call to every VCE student about your arrangements,” she turns to another parent. “I’m sorry miss, but we haven’t had the time to discuss where they'll go or anything. I’m afraid the Junior building is not equipped for most of their studies and neither the Middle School building, and most of their textbooks have been perished in the fire. I assume we’ll have to go to another school with more than enough space and facilities.”
Bess’ mum frowns, her blue eyes glossed and reflecting the blazing red and soot. “That is not something you see everyday.”
Sarah’s peals of laughter haven’t stopped. “’Course not! Who would’ve thought that this’d happen at Glastonbury?!”
“No one,” Bess shrugs, being a straight A student apparently meant that you didn’t understand if a question was rhetorical or not.
“Well I suppose you won’t be going to school for the rest of the week,” said Bess’ mum.
I am just so excited.
I might pee in my pants.
Or skirt rather.
Whichever one works.
swinters.blogspot.com
Oh, my goodness.
This truly does suck balls.
Why did I ever agree to this, Doc? I reckon it’s stupid. Why put it on the web? Not like anybody will ever read it anyway.
Am I supposed to do MSN talk, lyk dis?
Kk. Well 2dae, my skool’s VCE buildin got burned down afta sum rly bad experiment in da science lab. Dey wer unsupervised so a teacha wasn’t der 2 stop em, lololol. So funny, rite?
I don’t know. It’s the second week of school, and I’ve only had two weeks of spending my lunchtimes in the VCE common room.
IT WAS GLORIOUS.
Who gives a fuq about meh education when we get FREE HOT CHOCOLATES IN WINTAH, EH? EH!
But there is still the pending question:
Where the hell will we go?
2 comments
Anonymous: Why must you type like this, Swinters?
Sloane: I no dats u, Bess.
♠ ♠ ♠
OH THAT BOY'S A SLAG