“How wonderful. And have you come all the way from Ireland?”
“Yes, Kilkenny.” I rattle off my information and she fills it all in, chattering constantly.
“Brave girl.” She smiles. “Now, look at the camera annnnnd say cheese!”
I force a semblance of a smile and the little webcam clicks.
“Lovely.” She hums a little tune while the computer prints my ID card and then hands it over. It’s still warm. “Now you can borrow anything you’d like. Apart from the Special Collections, that is.”
“Special Collections?”
“Yes, the really rare stuff.” Her eyes twinkle behind silver-rimmed glasses. “We have some pages from an original Shakespeare folio and other bits and pieces you might be interested in, especially if you’re thinking of applying for the scholarship.”
My ears prick up.
“Scholarship? Oh, I’m only on the summer programme, I don’t think I could. . .”
“Oh, you certainly could. The librarian riffles through a pile of leaflets and extracts one before handing it over to me. “There are a few, but there is a specific one for the affiliated sixth form programme. You can win a place to study drama here for your final year. It should all be in your enrolment pack, there. I think the closing date is fairly soon, though.”
“Wow, thank you.” I feel a flutter of excitement despite the horrific start to my day. “I haven’t had a chance to read it yet, but I’ll definitely take a look.”
She winks at me. “Make sure you do. Now, make yourself at home. We don’t shut until eight, so you have plenty of time.”
“Thank you, er. . .”
“Ruth.”
“OK, thanks, Ruth.”
I settle at the large table and spread the course material in front of me, realize I still have two of everything and push it to one side. Instead I pick up the scholarship brochure and try my best to focus, to concentrate on what I’m reading. The full-time course looks wonderful, nothing like the workshops this morning. Real acting, time in the theatre, learning about its history. I glance at the requirements and see that part of it is an essay, some kind of research into London’s theatrical history. It sounds pretty cool. I try to carry on but I’m exhausted, last night’s lack of sleep finally catching up with me. The words start to blur, my eyelids heavy, and when I feel someone gently shaking my shoulder, I realize I must have dozed off.
“Sorry to wake you, lovey, but we’re closing soon.” My brain takes a second to catch up and I look at my watch. Ten to eight. I sit up in panic.
“My phone!” I blurt, jumping out of my chair. “Thanks a million, Ruth. Sorry for nodding off.”
She waves the comment away.
“Just don’t broadcast how cosy we are for a nap; we’ll be overrun. See you soon, I hope.”
“For sure.” I run to the door and belt down to the phone shop, where the owner is just about to pull the shutters. I manage to convince him to let me in, and in minutes my new, crack-free screen is in my hands.
I call home as I walk back to the new halls. I did promise, after all.
I get to class early the next morning, hoping to catch Tasha before workshops start. I spot a gaggle of people I vaguely recognize from yesterday gathered by one of the lecture halls and wander over. They are crowded around a list pinned on the wall.
Of course – our work placements. Each of us has to go out and use our acting skills in the community. We heard about some rubbish-sounding ones yesterday, but there were also some pretty cool ones, like working with vulnerable inner-city kids at council-funded drama camps. I was hoping for something like that, though knowing my luck I’d be spending two days a week at the zoo, peeling bananas with my feet.
Keeping my eye out for Tasha, I wander over and wait my turn as the crowd thins a little. I finally get to the front and squint down the list, picking my name out. I’m going to be at somewhere called the Victorian Street Museum. Hmmm. Not quite what I was hoping for, but it doesn’t sound as bad as the zoo. I look for Jasmine’s name and pray that one is all hers but no such luck – she, of course, got the one I was hankering after. Typical. I scan the list for Tasha too, hoping we might be placed together, but I don’t see her anywhere on the list. There are two long, black marker lines scored across the pages. One must be Sara’s name. She’d never get to do her placement now.
“Look who it is.” A familiar smell invades my nostrils, lemons and soap. I turn around to see Jasmine’s small frame pushing through the crowd. “The gypsy.”
“What are you on about now?” The cheek of this girl. I’ve had enough of her already, she’s clearly toxic.
“You put a curse on anyone who tries to be your friend. Isn’t that right, gypsy?”
I push away from her and head towards the library. I’m not getting caught up in her racist little attack.
“Yeah, you should leave. Where are you going? Off to play with your voodoo dolls? You’re not welcome here, Niamh. You’ve caused enough trouble.”
