Alana Oakley by Poppy Inkwell Page A

wondered aloud. Alana stifled a giggle.
    The strident call of the bell sounded, marking the passing of another hour – and the end of detention. There was a rush for the door.
    â€œNot so fast, Dearies. You,” she said, pointing a long knitting needle at Colin Johnson, causing his ears to blossom a deep shade of red, “can leave the little drawings you’ve been working on, on my table.” Colin gulped. Alana hoped, for his sake, they weren’t the usual caricatures that were so cruelly accurate. “And you two,” she fixed her beady eyes on the seniors, “I shall see again tomorrow … in SEPARATE classrooms! And you,” she said, suddenly grabbing Chris Kruger by the collar, “should know better than to stick foreign objects up your nose.” With three hard taps of her Size 8 knitting needle against his nostril, the offending jelly bean fell to the floor with a plink ! “I have no doubt that I shall see both of you again,” Mrs Snell said meaningfully to Alana and Miller, who walked backwards, slowly and calmly, until they reached the door … and then ran full-speed up the stairs.
    As Alana neared the top of the landing, she could hear the strident wail of a siren. It was loud and piercing – almost human in its despair. A long, red fire-engine screamed past the school. A second one followed. Alana watched both trucks tilt on two wheels as they careened around a corner. The tall column of smoke caught her attention next. A line of dirty thumbprints on the city skyline.
    â€œI wonder what’s on fire?” Alana wondered aloud.
    A small boy from Year Seven scurried past. “Somebody said it’s St Bernadette’s College,” he yelped.
    One look at Miss Beatrice – formerly of the Benedictine Sisters and St Bernadette’s College itself – confirmed it. She was sobbing hard as Coach Kusmuk patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. Miss Beatrice clutched the edge of Coach Kusmuk’s tracksuit top to wipe her eyes and then blow her nose. She gave a loud honk .
    â€œThank you, my child,” she sniffed, releasing the sodden clothing. Coach Kusmuk stiffened.
    Alana backed away quickly before the coach could find another reason to put her on detention.

CHAPTER 17
    The sounds of music
    The autumn sky was grey and gloomy. Leaves that had deepened to the reds and oranges of the season were turning brown and crinkly at the edges. The sky matched Alana’s mood. It was the kind of mood that demanded loud guitar riffs, harsh chords, and a wicked, deep bass. Alana didn’t want to dwell on why she was feeling this way. She just needed to clear her head and play guitar.
    â€œâ€¦my fa-vourite things –” a voice warbled. Miss Beatrice, red-eyed and snotty, was strumming an acoustic guitar. Alana backed out of the Music rehearsal room as quietly as she could, but not quickly enough. “Oh, Alana,” Miss Beatrice’s face lit up, “do come in.”
    â€œSorry. Didn’t know anyone was in here,” Alana apologised.
    â€œThat’s okay,” Miss Beatrice gave a watery smile. It made her eyes look like the surface of a goldfish bowl. “I’m working through some … angst. I find music such a comfort, don’t you? Some people jog, others punch a bag, but I like to sing.”
    Alana smiled. “Yeah, me too. I often come here to blow off some steam. Guitar helps me think straight. Sometimes I like to write songs. What were you singing?” she asked.
    Miss Beatrice gave a little laugh and looked embarrassed. “Oh, just a little ditty about all my favourite things. It comes from a musical that was very popular a long time ago. A real classic. Back in those days people didn’t go around setting fire to, to, to,” she gulped and took a deep breath to wail, “schools!” Alana patted Miss Beatrice on the shoulder, taking care not to stand too close in case the teacher got