Tractile Timetable

"So, Bex.... Nice shoes girl, must be a packet. You know what imma sayin' gal?"

"Yeah um.. Eleanor" I start "I don't mean to be rude but  I would really like to talk about this.... place"

"Ahh the school. What d'ya wanna know?"

I grit my teeth to stop my jaw hanging open. What do I want to know?! Is she blind or something? This is not a school. Chandeliers on the roof, Rihanna playing over speakers and not a desk in sight.

"I don't really know what schooling is like in North Carolina but.... Malibu is more...." Im totall lost for words.

"Homish?" Eleanor offers

"Na"

"Better"

"Boring was the word I was looking for."

"BORING?! What?! How do you mean?!" Eleanor demands looking poleaxed.

"Well for a start we all sit at desks, wear horrible polyester uniform, no cashmere in sight, no music, ipods, phones, lessons like english and algebra and generally just sitting at a desk listening and writing."

Eleanor turns to me and I can't decipher her expression. It looks like a mixture of disbelief, uncertainty and shock.

"So...." I say, thinking of a new topic, "Where's my timetable?"

"Oh.. um..." Eleanor ponders for a moment and then her red lips utter "What?"

"Timetable?"

"..."

"A thing that tells you what lessons and when?"

"Oh! No we don't use them here! We choose from the curriculum, whatever we feel like..... whenever."

"Whatever? Whenever?" I think she's kidding but oh no.

"Yeah as long as we don't abuse the system."

 

Thanks mummy :) xx

 

 

The End

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