All Our Hidden Gifts (The Gifts)

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The story of how I ended up with The Chokey Card Tarot Consultancy can be told in four detentions, three notes sent home, two bad report cards, and one Tuesday afternoon that ended with me locked in a cupboard.
I'll give you the short version.
Miss Harris gave me an in-school suspension after I threw a shoe at Mr. Bernard. It was payback for him calling me stupid for not knowing my Italian verbs. To this, I responded that Italian was a ridiculous language to learn anyway and that we should all be learning Spanish, because globally, more people speak Spanish. Mr. Bernard then said that if I really thought I could learn Spanish quicker than I was currently learning Italian, I was deluded. He turned back to the whiteboard.
And then I threw my shoe.
I didn't hit him. I'd like to stress that. I merely hit the board next to him. But no one seems to care about that except me. Maybe if I had a best friend-or really any close friend at all-I'd have someone to vouch for me. To tell them that it was a joke and that I would never knowingly hurt a teacher. Someone who could explain how it is with me: that sometimes frustration and rage surge through me, sparking out in ways I can't predict or control.

But that friend doesn't exist, and I'm not sure I would deserve them if they did.
In-school suspension starts on Tuesday morning, and Miss Harris meets me at her office and then leads me to the basement.
In the four years I've been at St. Bernadette's, the sewage pipes have frozen and burst twice, not to mention the annual flood. As a result, the two tiny classrooms down here are covered in grass-green mold, and a damp, mildewy smell permeates everything. There's also no natural light, so one class period feels like an eternity. Teachers try to avoid scheduling classes down here as much as they can, so naturally the basement gets used a lot for detention, examinations, and storing extraneous junk that no one can be bothered to throw away.
The nucleus of this is The Chokey, a long, deep cupboard that makes everyone think of the Trunchbull's torture room in Matilda.
Miss Harris waves a dramatic arm at the cupboard. "Ta-da!"
"You want me to clean out The Chokey?" I gasp. "That's inhumane."
"More inhumane than throwing a shoe at someone, Maeve? Make sure to separate general waste from dry recyclables."
"It didn't hit him," I protest. "You can't leave me here to clean this out. Not by myself. Miss, there might be a dead rat in there."
She hands me a roll of black plastic bin bags.
"Well, that would fall under ‘general waste.' "
And she leaves me there. Alone. In the creepy basement.
It's impossible to know where to start. I pick at things, grumbling to myself that St. Bernadette's is like this. It's not like normal schools. It was a big Victorian town house for a very long time, until at some point during the 1960s, Sister Assumpta inherited it. Well. We say "Sister," but she's not really one. She was a novice, like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music, and dropped out of the nunnery, and started a school for "well-bred girls." It probably seemed like a good idea when the number of "well-bred" girls in the city was about a dozen. But there are about four hundred of us now, all bursting out of this crumbling house, rotating between classes in drafty prefabs and converted old attic bedrooms. It's obscene how expensive it is to go to school here. I have to be careful about how much I complain in front of Mum and Dad. My four siblings didn't have to go here, after all. They were bright enough to make it through free schools unaided, without the "extra attention" I so clearly require.
I can't even step into The Chokey at first because of all the broken old desks and chairs that are stacked up on top of each other. St. Bernadette's costs about two thousand euro a term, and wherever they spend that money, it's not on health and safety. A fresh waft of rot and dust hits my nose every time a piece of furniture comes free. I try to make a neat pile in the corner of the classroom, but when chair legs start coming loose in my hands, splintering my skin and smacking against my legs, it gets less orderly. I become angry and athletic about my tidying, throwing rubbish across the room like an Olympic javelin. It becomes cathartic after a while. I throw my school jumper off so I can move more easily. My tights start to run.
Once all the furniture is cleared out, I'm amazed to see how much space there i...