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  CHAPTER 6

  Gentle sun flooded through my curtains the next morning when I woke to my alarm – autumnal English sun. It was soothing. I didn’t want my first thought to be Elsie Gran, but it was. It was always the same when I went somewhere new, except Mount Norton wasn’t new. I rolled over to pick up my phone on the table beside me. No messages.

  I sent her a photo of the view out of my window. She’d like that. She wouldn’t be interested in the actual room itself. It was such luxury to have it all to myself after sharing for the previous two years, first in a room for four, and then last year with Lo.

  I checked what had been posted online about last night. Clemmie and Hugo had uploaded videos of Meribel falling into the sea. Bernard had posted a series of stills, including one of Meribel posing with her nipples showing through her wet T-shirt, and there were countless memes tagging her. There was nothing about me. I couldn’t even post a photo of myself as I didn’t have any from last night.

  Naturally, there were some lovely ones of Clemmie with the sea in the background, and standing on a rock with Hugo. There was a sickening caption about being besties and a row of pink double-hearts.

  I got out of bed and took a photo of my mildly sandy trainers. Later I’d think of a caption along the lines of Interesting times at the beach last night to remind people I was there. I showered and got dressed in school uniform: grey skirt, white shirt with school logo and dark-green V-neck jumper, with name tapes sewn in with poor stitching by Elsie Gran or neat stitching by me. We didn’t have to wear our grey blazers until we left the house. When the first breakfast bell went, I knocked on Meribel and Lo’s doors. “Are you two even out of bed?” I called.

  Meribel emerged coughing, saying the freezing seawater had made her ill, and we walked into Lo’s room together. She was on her bed, fully dressed, scrolling on her phone. “I’m ready,” she said. “Catching up on last night’s dramas.”

  “Yeah,” said Meribel. “I need to replace my phone and I don’t think my trainers can be saved.” She looked around. “Maybe I should have stayed behind and sorted my room instead. Yours is looking good, Lo.”

  Lo was on the edge of her bed now, crouched down, doing the laces on her black school shoes. “Thanks.”

  Meribel sprayed herself with the perfume on Lo’s chest of drawers, then sniffed her wrists. “Hm, I think you’ve had this too long. It goes off, you know.”

  Lo shrugged as she stood up. “It smells OK to me. We can’t all buy perfume whenever we want. Or new phones and trainers.”

  It rarely came between us, the scholarship thing, but when it did Meribel and I usually fell silent, embarrassed. I once told her I understood because of living with Elsie Gran so much of the year, and Lo had snapped, “Your parents have plenty of money. You don’t understand what it’s like to be at this school with no money.” Meribel sometimes tried to joke her way out of it, or I attempted to lighten the mood, like I did this time, by saying, “Well, we know what to get you for your birthday.”

  “That’s not the point,” Lo replied. She lifted her hair up and let it fall back over her shoulders. “But, you know, new perfume would be good. I’ve got this tester I was given in the summer – I’ll find it later. It smells soooo nice.”

  I bumped up against her on purpose, flicking her with my hip. The awkwardness was over. “Come on, you’re making us late.”

  As we turned the corner for the last flight of stairs, we saw a bottleneck of girls waiting to go past Calding’s uniform checkpoint.

  “Whaaat?” said Meribel. “This is a joke, right? First day of school, and this happens?”

  We unrolled our skirts. Calding appraised Lo intently then waved her through, Meribel was told to remove her nail varnish and her nose piercing by lesson time, and I was detained by Calding’s arm shooting out and forming a barrier as I attempted to step past. Surely she wasn’t going to make a fuss. I was House Prefect. I looked fine.

  “Skirt,” she said.

  I looked down at my skirt. It was maybe hitched up on one side where I hadn’t fully completed the unrolling process. I fiddled with it.

  “Happy?” I said.

  Calding’s skin appeared stretched over her delicate features, as if there might not be enough of it to allow for expansion into a smile.

  “You may go,” she said.

  “Thanks,” I said, as neutrally as I could. I wasn’t going to let anyone see her push me down.

  As we headed to the dining hall, I heard a fourth-former say Calding had sent Clemmie back to change and for the rest of the week she had to report to the office for a uniform check before breakfast. It made me think the uniform checkpoint hadn’t been such a terrible idea after all.

  The sky was pale blue that morning, and there was enough sunshine for us to wear sunglasses, because everyone looks better in sunglasses. We took off our blazers as soon as we were out of sight of Pankhurst, and walked in a row. Bel, me and Lo. Walking to school took a quarter of an hour if you went the most direct way, and five minutes of that was walking down the long driveway. The grounds were extensive, hidden by centuries-old brick walls in some parts, and newer fencing in others. Mount Norton was private in both senses of the word. The main building was mainly constructed from grey stone. It was part stately home, part cathedral and part modern extension. There were huge arched stained-glass windows in the assembly hall and stripped-back décor in the new part. From some of the classrooms on the first floor you could see the sea, and count the yachts heading towards the Isle of Wight.

  Mount Norton was known for its excellent art and music provision, and there was a dedicated arts wing in the extension. It was so dramatic it often made visitors gasp – it’s what made me agree to come here in the first place. The art rooms had been situated to make the most of natural light and the music rooms were soundproofed. It was possible to learn pretty much any instrument, and the music-tech kit was said to be on a level with professional studios. The art resources were seemingly infinite. We had our own pottery studio and dark room, and technicians who’d all been to art school.

  I would have spent all day in the art rooms if I could. I had got into ceramic sculpture last year, enjoying the way it totally absorbed me. I produced a series of dragon-like creatures, which reared up on hind legs, or curled up but still remained watchful. They had large wings and fierce expressions. I’d brought one of them home for Elsie Gran, who positioned it on the mantelpiece in the living room straightaway. The rest of them stayed at school on their own shelf in one of the display cabinets, and I liked the idea they watched over me in the art room.

  The initial assembly of the year was always particularly long and tedious, mitigated only by everybody eying each other up after the holidays. There were about a thousand of us in the assembly hall, and many things could happen over a long summer. Acne could clear up, breasts volumize, braces disappear and teeth whiten. A fabulous haircut could change everything.

  We sat in year groups. Bernard, who was two rows in front of us, winked when he looked round and we made eye contact.

  “Did he just wink at you?” murmured Meribel.

  I nodded, and she giggled, and Lo leaned over me to ask what was so funny, and Mr Robertson our form tutor glared at us.

  Monro, in the same row as Bernard, turned and mouthed, You OK? at Meribel. She nodded, then sneezed, and he jolted back, pretending the force of the sneeze had hit him. I laughed out loud, and he turned again. Was that a half-smile?

  I looked around for Hugo. He turned out to be further down my row, which was irritating. It meant I couldn’t observe him unless I leaned forward and made it really obvious.

  The theme of the assembly was about starting the year with a clean slate, or tabula rasa, as Miss Sneller kept saying in Latin. We got the picture. We certainly didn’t need it expanded over ten whole minutes and given the gravitas of a TED talk. I felt unpleasant pressure against my back, and spun round. Clemmie was motionless, looking intently at Miss Sneller, our headteac
her, the knee that had jammed into my back suspended in the air.

  “Stop,” I said.

  Mr Robertson moved swiftly and hissed at me. “Do you want me to send you out, Kate?”

  I shook my head, and sat on the edge of my seat, pushing my shoulder blades together, then stretching my arms, one then the other, just to give myself something to focus on, and with the added benefit of blocking Clemmie’s view, and giving her what might be construed as the middle finger. I was rotating a shoulder blade when Ms Calding came on to the stage and I realized the motivational speech was over.

  Calding was being officially introduced, along with other new members of staff. The others were smiling, but Calding was gazing round the hall, as if she’d never seen anything like it. It was awe-inspiring with the wooden panelling, stained glass and, behind a Perspex screen, a faded tapestry that dated back to the fourteenth century, depicting men on horseback with swords and a fat angel resting on the clouds above them. Calding was asked to talk about her role but I’d heard it all before and switched off, admiring the ornate carved-wood ceiling instead.

  When the spotlight had moved to the new maths teacher, who wore a patchwork waistcoat so awful it was genius, Calding’s eyes darted about among the crowd, no doubt checking for misbehaving Pankhurst students.

  “That woman is looking right at me. She’s deranged,” I heard Clemmie mutter behind me. For once I agreed with her, but it didn’t stop me pushing my chair back with sudden force when I stood up as soon as assembly was over, right into her kneecaps.

  CHAPTER 7

  Fittingly, the history department was in the old part of the school. My classroom had stone flooring, a large oak door with a shiny brass handle, and heavily scented flowers in a jug in an alcove. The flowers were a typical Nortonian touch, and were changed daily unless someone with violent hayfever complained, in which case they were replaced by a sculpture.

  Seating plans were the bane of my life, although they occasionally meant I heard school gossip that I might otherwise have missed. No such luck with Tessa Malone, who I’d been assigned to sit next to for the second year running. She only liked to talk about reality TV stars, a few of whom she’d met because her dad was big in film finance. Some of them followed her on Instagram and she’d been to a few parties in secret locations, i.e. warehouses. Big deal. She was also bad at history, which made sitting next to her even more pointless. She was, however, popular at Mount Norton because she seemed to be able to persuade her parents to order anything and have it delivered via courier, and only take a small commission on it.

  Tessa was doodling on the inside cover of her planner when I sat down in the chair next to her. She stopped immediately.

  “Hi, Kate,” she said. “How was your summer? How’s Pankhurst?”

  I told her I’d been in Italy, and she nodded, as if Italy was the most fascinating place she’d ever heard of. I didn’t give her any details. I’d learned being guarded was a way to keep people interested.

  “How about you?” I asked, out of politeness.

  She told me about her belly-button piercing, and untucked her shirt to show me.

  “That’s a real diamond,” Tessa said, tugging at it to give me what she thought was a better view even though our history teacher was coming round with sheets on Stalinism. “Just got to keep it covered for a while as it heals. I don’t want anyone seeing it and making me take it out.”

  “Watch out for Ms Calding then,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah, her,” said Tessa. “She reminds me of someone… I think from a Netflix series. Probably at that party my dad got me a VIP pass for in—”

  “She reminds me of a weasel or a ferret,” I interjected. Tessa’s name-dropping got out of control if she wasn’t stopped in time. “I miss Wibbz.”

  “The Wibbster was a legend,” said Tessa. Even people who weren’t in Pankhurst knew Wibbz because she had taught food tech classes, and everyone knew the anecdotes. “Remember when that girl in your house found the bone on the beach and Wibbz phoned the police and said a human leg had washed up, and it turned out to be from a cow?”

  “That was a classic,” I said. “She said there were no cows near Mount Norton and she was sure it was human and the police were covering something up.” I thought of old Wibbz with her feet up on a chair, an ice-pack over each one, and a glass of wine by her side – or gin if it was the weekend – singing old campfire songs from her days as a guide leader.

  As the class was told to pick up the first photocopied sheet, Tess whispered to me, “Made any plans for the Pankhurst party? Your house is first up, right? Where are you thinking of having it?”

  “I have a mind-blowing spot in mind,” I said.

  Tessa’s mouth made an “O” shape. “Where?”

  I give her a regretful look. “I can’t say yet.”

  “You’ll definitely invite me, won’t you?” she said. “I’m your history partner.”

  I tilted my head slightly. “We’re partners because of a seating plan.”

  “Yeah, but … please?”

  I nodded, and she gave a gratifying little squeal.

  In art, we chose our tables for the year. We each had one to ourselves. I picked the one nearest to the cabinet in which my ceramic dragons resided. Bernard, who was also in my class, took the table behind me. It was unavoidable as the class was small and he got to it first.

  The term’s topic was the human form. Bernard threw a small scrunched-up piece of paper at my head as I was attempting to draw my own hand. It ricocheted off and landed on my desk. I chucked it over my shoulder without looking at it.

  “Want to see what I’ve done?” he called.

  I swivelled round and sighed. This was bound to be predictable. “A nude?”

  “Got it in one. It’s you.” He turned his sketchbook towards me. On the page was a figure that did look a little like me. I placed my hand over it. “Get rid of it.”

  Bernard was biting down on his pencil, grinning. “I’ve got an idea. I’ll change it.” He took the pencil and drew a Chinese-looking symbol tattoo on the leg and added a moustache. “Hang on,” he said, and squiggled in some long ringletty curls. “There. Adorable.”

  I gave him what I hoped was a pitying look, and turned back to the picture of my hand, which looked amateur now I saw it afresh.

  At the end of the day, I walked back with Meribel and Lo – we took the long route to confuse a couple of first-formers behind us. They meekly followed. We agreed it wasn’t cruel – we were giving them more exercise.

  Fruit and home-made cookies were waiting for us in the dining room. Squirrel told me I had post, and although I knew who it would be from, I went racing back into the hall to the pigeonholes and picked up the yellow envelope with the typed address label. My mother had an account with an online card company that sent me a card at the start of every term. I tucked my finger under the flap and pulled it open. On the front there was a cartoon penguin holding up a banner saying Happy New Term, Kate! Inside the message was All the best, darling, Mama.

  I’d had the same card and the same message last term. Had she picked it out again or had the card company made an error? I put it back inside the envelope and buried it in the recycling bin, then told Meribel and Lo it was just junk mail when I returned to the dining room.

  “Let’s go to the other common room,” said Meribel. “We’ll hang out there for a bit before doing any homework. Maybe even” – she tilted her head with faux-mischievousness – “sit on the corner sofa. Can’t have Clemmie thinking it’s hers.”

  There were only two other people in Davison common room – sixth-form girls. They were at one of the tables in deep discussion, and glared at us when we ran towards the corner sofa, laughing. But just before we reached it, Lo stopped and said, “What’s happened to Veronica’s collage?”

  A piece of green paper had been attached with a drawing pin to the red silk in the middle of the artwork. It was a prescription. Lo reached it first.

  “I
t’s Zeta’s,” she said. “Why would someone have put it there?”

  “Like it’s a noticeboard,” said Meribel.

  I stood behind them. I sounded out the name of the medicine in my head. It was like a character in a sci-fi movie.

  The door to the common room opened and a crowd of people streamed in, as if an event we hadn’t known about had finished. Clemmie’s voice was a dramatic cry. “Who put that on Vee’s collage?”

  “It was up there when we came in,” Lo said.

  “Really?” said Clemmie as if she didn’t believe us. She prised off the drawing pin and took down the prescription. She held it up. “Someone’s taking the piss out of your artwork, Vee.”

  Oh, my God, Veronica was here. I stepped back to let her through, and disassociate myself from this disaster. There was a small rip in the red silk where the drawing pin had been stuck in – surely Clemmie could have removed it more carefully? The room went silent.

  Veronica touched the hole in the fabric that the drawing pin had made and frowned. “Anyone know who did this?”

  There was a faint ripple of “no”s.

  “Maybe Zeta dropped it, and a cleaner put it up there by mistake?” I said. I scanned the crowd for Zeta. Fortunately she wasn’t there.

  “A cleaner wouldn’t do that. It’s obviously artwork,” said Veronica’s friend Flo. “I mean there’s a little sign next to it.”

  “What’s the prescription for?” asked Paige.

  Hugo took it from Clemmie, and read it out loud. “Look it up on your phone.”

  Someone laughed, and mentioned acne treatment. There was more laughter.

  Monro snatched the paper from Hugo, and said, “That’s not fair.” He folded it in half and said, “This needs to go back to her.” He handed it to me. “You take it.”

  I was flattered he’d trusted me, but then he added. “You’re House Prefect, aren’t you?” and I guessed that was why he’d given it to me. I placed it in the pocket of my school skirt.

  “What about your artwork, Vee?” said Flo. “It’s so disrespectful that someone would have done this.”