Cecelia Ahern - Flawed

Mr. Browne objects again, but Mr. Hamilton interrupts him.

“We’ll get to that,” Mr. Hamilton goes on. “Using the other entrance is also an idea I suggested myself, but I have a document here from a”—he checks the cover letter—“Mary May, your Whistleblower, which informs me of what I can and cannot do in my own school.” He seems annoyed about this. “And, unfortunately, allowing Celestine to use another entrance to help ease her arrival and departure would be seen as aiding .”

“She is one of your students, goddammit!” Dad thumps the table in anger.

Mr. Hamilton allows a moment for Dad to calm himself. “And I agree. However, I have been instructed, and I can’t put my teachers, or my school, in any further turmoil.”

“We can’t drive and collect Celestine to and from school every day, Mr. Hamilton,” Dad says more calmly. “She is in an unusual position in that she can’t even take the bus herself. She’s too exposed if she cycles, and she doesn’t have her full driver’s license yet. I’m nervous about her traveling alone; the way these photographers drive is dangerous. Special dispensation must be made for her situation. It is dangerous for her.”

This shouldn’t be a surprise to me, but it is. To hear Dad say it makes my silent fears real.

“I understand. Believe me.” Mr. Hamilton looks at me nervously. “Perhaps we should discuss this further when Celestine has gone to class.”

“It’s about me. I want to hear,” I say simply. That’s not true. I don’t want to hear it, I need to hear it.

“Very well. I wanted to raise the issue of homeschooling.”

“What?” Dad asks, sounding disgusted.

“Celestine only has a few months left of school before final exams. It is not long. She is almost there. I am aware she is one of our top students, gradewise. I don’t want to see her results suffer. There has been a lot of talk with the Parents Association. Some, not all, are concerned that having a Flawed at the school will have a negative effect on the reputation of the school.”

“You can’t discriminate against my daughter because she is Flawed. She has a right to be in this school.”

“I know that. But already our enrollment numbers for September are down after this … outcome. Parents are worried. Students are worried that in bringing down the good name of the school, it will tarnish their reputations for college and job applications. I am just telling you what it is being discussed, Mr. North,” he says before Dad explodes again. “I have the reputation of the school to consider.”

“You have the goodwill of your students to consider.”

“The unfortunate thing is that a number of teachers, represented here by Mr. Browne, have said they are not in favor of teaching Celestine any longer. Though that is their decision, not mine, I still have to support my teachers and put the facts to you,” he says gruffly. “I’m sure you’ll agree that homeschooling is better than expulsion.”

This makes me feel sick, and I think about Carrick, not for the first time, but as I do every time I’m faced with the new reality of being a Flawed. I wonder how he is surviving. I don’t know if not hearing from him is a good sign for him or bad.

“Ms. Dockery, Celestine’s mathematics teacher, has kindly offered to homeschool her.”

She straightens up as the attention turns to her. I look at her, surprised. I don’t know whether to take it as a compliment or an insult. Either she doesn’t want me in the school and she’s helping to get rid of me, or she’s helping me. Tears prick my eyes, and I sink lower. Each time I don’t think that’s possible, it happens again.

“I think you should strongly consider Celestine’s being educated at home,” she says. “There will be no distractions for her; she can concentrate on keeping those grades up. The sooner she begins at home, the better it is for her, for everyone all round.”

The meeting is heated in parts and ends with an agreement to not agree. The situation will be assessed as it unfolds. Mr. Browne will not teach me, nor will my French and geography teachers, and so, until Mr. Hamilton can figure out what to do with me, I am to go to the library for those classes. The one thing that everyone does agree on is that the media will back off after a few days, when my story dies down, though everyone is surprised it hasn’t already. It seems to be as strong as it was at the beginning, as they continue to find new angles. I’m not aware of anything that is being reported. I haven’t been paying attention, and my parents haven’t shared it with me. In fact, they won’t let it into our home. My home is a cocoon, where the day-to-day of my reality is lived and dealt with, not of caring what other people think. I need it to be like this so I can survive, so I can deal with my own reality before hearing other people’s twisted perceptions. However, it has been a week and a half, and it hasn’t died down, which makes me, for the first time, intrigued to know what they’re saying about me.

Because the meeting ran over, I am late to English class. When I enter, all heads turn to stare. My classmates look at me as if they don’t know me, as if they’re seeing me for the first time. Art’s seat, beside mine, is empty. He still hasn’t returned from wherever he is hiding. Tears prick at my eyes, and I quickly brush them away as all eyes follow me. I sit alone in that class and every class that follows. Marlena takes me aside where she’s sure no one can see her talking to me to tearfully tell me how let down she feels, how she placed her neck on the line and I betrayed her. She tells me what has become of her life since she stepped up to the witness stand, how she finds each day unbearable, how she feels people are viewing her as though she aided a Flawed. She was followed by a photographer one day. She worries about her safety. She hopes she won’t be in trouble for giving a positive report on my character. I try to console her as much as I can for her loss. We part with the understanding that she would like to steer clear of me forever. Not once does she ask how I’m doing.

Next class, my biology teacher refuses to teach me. As soon as I sit down, she glares at me and leaves the classroom and doesn’t return until ten minutes later, flanked by Mr. Browne and an even more hassled-looking Principal Hamilton, who calls me out of the room.

“Celestine,” he says, wiping his chubby, clammy hands on the ends of his suit jacket. “I’m going to send you to gym for this hour.” He looks me in the eye. “Sorry.”

That apology means more to me than he could ever know.

“I thought I was going to the library.”

“You will be afterward. I can’t have you sitting in the library all day.”

Ah. So the teachers are dropping out like flies.

My eyes fill. “But I don’t have my gym clothes.”

“You can use the school gear. Don’t look at me like that. Contrary to popular opinion, they’ve been cleaned. Tell Susan to give you the key to the locker.”

Gym class consists of twenty minutes swimming and twenty minutes in the gymnasium. I will not put on my swimsuit. I haven’t brought mine with me, and I refuse to wear the standard-issue school swimsuit. It is not, this time, because I don’t like the cut of it, but because now in my real world, I do not want anybody to see my body at all. And I can’t stand the thought of water hitting my scars. It has been only a week and a half, and my scars are healing well, but I am careful about plunging into hot or cold water. Realistically, I can bear the pain of my wounds, I just do not want anyone to see my body. The only people who have seen it are those who branded me, the medical team, my family, and, of course, Carrick. I won’t allow any more to see me ever again, and I wonder about Art, if I will ever be able to let him see me and touch me.