Paradise City by C.J. Duggan

name. I bit my lip, trying to think of something else before I lost it. Mr Fitzgibbons scribbled down something on his notepad before speaking.
    ‘Yep, twelve potato cakes, eight pieces of flake, two lamb souvlaki, five dollars worth of chips, and half a dozen dim sims.’ He crossed off his list.
    Was he for real?
    ‘Yep, great, how long will that be, Connie? Right, excellent! Thanks for that.’ He put down the phone, jotting another note on his list.
    He glanced up, pausing as if he had forgotten I was there.
    ‘Ah, Atkinson.’
    Was this how it was going to be now? My criminal activity would have the principal forever referring to me as Atkinson, just like all the other rule breakers. I had only ever heard Boon or Ballantine referred to by their last names, and they were the resident school delinquents.
    He followed my eyeline.
    ‘Oh, yeah, it’s a Special Lunch Day,’ he said sheepishly. ‘A few of the staff chip in and we lash out on some takeaway.’
    More images of the teachers charging out the doors of their classrooms, pushing students out of the way. No wonder Mr Branson had been so crabby in the corridor: he was thinking ‘Hurry up! Hurry up! It’s Special Lunch Day!’
    ‘So how did you go?’ he asked, reclining lazily in his chair.
    ‘Yeah, good. The yard’s clean.’ I nodded.
    ‘Hmm, for now it is,’ he said, glaring out the window at the screaming basketballers. I kind of wondered if Mr Fitzgibbons was really suited to working with teenagers.
    ‘Now, I have had a talk with some of the other teachers and I think we have all come to the same conclusion about you, Lexie, about the best way to deal with this situation.’
    ‘Oh?’ I said, feeling rather concerned that I was deemed a ‘situation’.
    ‘Yes, I’m afraid we believe there is only one way to deal with your actions.’
    Oh God, they’re going to tell my parents.
    I could feel my stomach churning, the seventies wood-panelled walls were closing in on me, heat flooding my cheeks as the deafening thrums of my heart made it difficult to concentrate.
    ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to send you to Siberia.’
    Wait, what?
    I blinked. ‘Sorry?’
    Mr Fitzgibbons’ face crinkled with confusion. ‘Oh, sorry,’ he said with a laugh. ‘Siberia is what we call detention. We are sending you to detention.’
    ‘Oh.’ I blew out the word in relief. Hang on a minute: detention? My relief was short-lived.
    Mr Fitzgibbons pulled a pink slip out of his top drawer. He scribbled his unreadable handwriting across it. ‘Hand this slip to Mr Anderson in room C3; I believe he is running Siberia today.’ He handed me the slip. ‘You are to present yourself every lunchtime for the rest of the week. I suggest you make full use of your time, Miss Atkinson.’ He reached for a manila folder in his in-tray. ‘Miss Smith asked me to give this to you – this was what was covered in today’s lesson.’
    ‘Thanks,’ I managed rather unenthusiastically.
    His cool grey eyes looked at me with no kindness, until they dipped to his wristwatch – then they lit up. ‘Anyway, best get going, I have things to do.’
    Pfft, yeah, wouldn’t want your fish ’n’ chips to get cold.
    •
    My lunchtime pass had gone from a forged note of freedom to a pink slip pass to Siberia.
    Life was wicked and cruel sometimes; my mind flashed to Amanda who was probably sitting on the beach watching Boon and Ballantine slicing up the waves. Ballantine’s bronzed skin, iridescent droplets of water cascading over his toned stomach as he wedged his board in the sand and towel dried his torso in slow motion. I blinked. . . . almost walking into a rubbish bin.
    ‘Wake up, Lexie!’ Mr Branson called. He was still standing in the hall barking orders at people, probably dreaming of his cold dim sims.
    Would every day be like this? How had I managed to stuff up so badly and it was only my second week? I was now going to be imprisoned in a classroom all