Mercy Read Online Free PDF Page B

I’ve forgotten about myself.
    Mr Masson continues doggedly beating time, while the local girls telegraph clearly that we’re all dead meat and the boys place lively bets among themselves about which of us will get laid the fastest. I shrink down further 43

    in my chair and keep turning the pages of my score a microsecond after Tiffany does.
    The music changes as I listen intently. I hear bells, flutes, horns, falls of plucked strings. There is a quiet sense of urgency, of building.
    ‘What’s wrong?’ mouths one of our teachers on the sidelines as Tiffany shoots me a surprised look before glancing sharply down at her own music then back at me.
    A shaky tenor seated somewhere in the chilly hall launches into a quavery solo and there is a smattering of laughter, like a reluctant studio audience being warmed up by the second-rate comedy guy. Moments later, Tiffany lifts her bell-like voice in counterpoint and I marvel afresh. When she sings, she sounds the opposite of the way she usually comes across, and that has to be a good thing.
    On opposite sides of our row, two St Joseph’s girls frown at me fiercely before hurriedly joining their voices to Tiffany’s. Two more male voices wobble gamely into the fray. Together, they sing:
    Imple superna gratia
    quae tu creasti pectora.
    44

    Fill with grace from on high
    the hearts which Thou didst create.
    The words fill me with an abrupt sadness I cannot name.
    It is several pages before I realise that the grey-haired, hatchet-faced teacher from the bus, who is pacing the sidelines and waggling her fists furiously, is trying to catch my eye. People all over the room have begun to notice her jerky, spider-like movements and they crane their necks to look. Chatter begins to build below the surface of the incredible music.
    ‘Carmen!’ the woman roars suddenly over the backing tape, unable to hold back her fury any longer.
    I realise with horror that I have missed some kind of cue, and that it can’t have been the first.
    I shake my head at the woman — Miss Fellows, I think her name is — and raise my hands in confusion.
    She responds like a cartoon character, jumping up and down on the spot and tearing at her short, grey hair so that it stands on end like the quills of some deadly animal.
    Mr Masson silences the pre-recorded orchestra. ‘Is there a problem?’ he says with raised eyebrows.
    The teachers from the other schools — a grim-faced, 45

    white-haired elderly man in a dusty black suit and a lean, handsome young man who doesn’t look old enough to be teaching yet — look my way interestedly. All the St Joseph’s girls are staring at me, too, and talking out of the sides of their mouths. It’s nothing new for Carmen, I suppose. Others in the room point and whisper. There she is, there’s the problem.
    I am once more the still point at the centre of a spinning world and Carmen’s face grows hot with sudden blood. I can’t help that. I hate making mistakes.
    ‘No, no problem,’ Miss Fellows barks. ‘Tiffany, you take Carmen’s part. Rachel, step in for Tiffany. Carmen!
    Sit this one out for now. Take it from the top of Figure 7.’
    Tiffany shoots me a look of immense satisfaction and takes flight after Mr Masson reanimates the orchestra.
    Frantically reading left to right from Figure 7, I realise belatedly that Tiffany must be one of the soloists.
    Shit , I think suddenly. I suppose Carmen must be, too.
    The freakin’ lead soloist. When she’s at home.
    46

Chapter 6
    I sit there mutely for what feels like forever before the bell rings for first period and students stampede gratefully for the doors. The other St Joseph’s girls are borne away on a wave of male admirers, which has to be something new for most of them. Miss Fellows and the other St Joseph’s teacher, Miss Dustin, steam over in righteous convoy and prevent me from leaving, from even rising out of my chair.
    ‘Not only did you embarrass yourself,’ spits Miss Fellows without preamble,