School Monitor Read online

  “Yes,” Spencer agrees. “And you know who’d make a great Fleur-de-Lys?”

  “NO!” I put a stop to that straight away.

  “I don’t mean you,” he retorts. “Your sister — she’s exactly how I imagined Fleur to look.”

  Much to Spencer’s annoyance, Chrissie fails to give him any kind of meaningful reaction.

  “Okay, we’ll do The Hunchback of Notre Dame,” I say, and even though they only want to do this to spend time with the girls, I’m excited about the prospect of starting a new movie. This school may suck big time, but there’s no denying it’s a great location.

  Caught up in the excitement of brainstorming ideas with Jones and Poppy, I don’t even notice Hermit sitting alone on the far table until it is time to leave.

  “Don’t feel sorry for him,” Finny says, as if reading my mind. “He brought it on himself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Spencer smuggled in a portable TV so we could watch the World Cup,” Baxter explains, keeping his voice low. “And Hermit grassed him up.”

  Spencer nods. “He said he didn’t, tried to make out they caught me on the security footage.”

  I look towards Jones, but he looks like he’s going to hurl. There’s something more going on here. Just like The Code, this is another subplot waiting to unfold, but for now I have bigger things to worry about — namely Chrissie.

  “What’s up?” After forgiving her for making a laughingstock of me, I didn’t expect more of the silent treatment.

  “You know what!” she snaps as I walk her slowly back to the stairwell that leads to the girls’ dorms. “You’re making plans without me.”

  “What?”

  “Notre Dame!”

  “What else was I supposed to say?” I protest. “Anyway, you can help.”

  “You know what I mean, Rich.”

  I don’t, but I’m too tired for any more arguments.

  “Meet you for breakfast?”

  I nod.

  “Promise?”

  I nod again and give her a quick hug. “Just remember to act like Beth showed you, and chill out.”

  Chapter 9

  I fell asleep reading the stupid rulebook. No talking after lights out, no food outside the dining room, no late homework, no fraternisation with the opposite sex… the list goes on and on, and when my alarm goes off at 4:45 a.m. and I spend the next hour being crushed, tackled, and shouted at by guys all bigger than me, I wonder if I’m still asleep and just having a bad nightmare.

  “Not bad!” says Parker, pulling my arm out of its socket as he hauls me to my feet after the scrum collapsed.

  Every breath I take feels like Freddy Krueger’s slashed my lungs, but somehow I manage to morph my face into a grin, even though I’d rather be a banker like Dad than play one more minute of rugby right now.

  “Same time tomorrow, then?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes, we train every day,” he tells me with a big beaming smile, as if getting up in the middle of the night is some kind of reward. “But you’re going to have to bulk up to hold your own with the likes of Litchfield.”

  “Litchfield?”

  “We’re playing them for a friendly on Saturday. Congratulations, you made the team!”

  I have a cold shower, because everyone else has used all the hot water having theirs, and when I finally get to breakfast, there’s no more eggs and bacon, just porridge, and tipping half a jar of strawberry jam into it because I hate porridge, I only get to eat half of it before the bell rings for assembly.

  In chapel, I join Spencer and Jones on the back pew just as Mr Granger, the music teacher, starts to play “Rock of Ages” on the piano, which turns out to be the school hymn, something we have to sing at the start and end of every school term.

  I can’t see Chrissie anywhere. I keep searching the backs of heads for small, thin, blond girls every time we stand up, but I’m already in Wilson’s bad books, and not wanting to get on the wrong side of him again, I clap when the new prefects are announced, clap hard when Spencer collects his badge for Class Captain, and when we’re all dismissed, I hang back. Chrissie eventually comes out on her own, still looking the part, except for her eyes, which have glazed over.

  “Everything all right?” I ask.

  “No,” she snaps, hugging her bag. “You were supposed to meet me for breakfast, remember?”

  “Yes, sorry. Rugby practice went on longer than I thought.”

  “You’re on the rugby team now?”

  “Unfortunately,” I say, her shoulder even colder than the shower I’ve just taken. “We’ve got practice every morning.”

  “And what about me?”

  “What can I do? I can hardly tell the rugby coach to get stuffed.” I look at her again. She’s losing it, not big time, but it’s happening, and it’s up to me to stop it. “Were the other girls all right to you?”

  She nods as we follow Jones and the others up the stairs to the second-floor landing.

  “What did you talk about?” I ask in an effort to stop her retreating even further into herself.

  “You.”

  “Me?”

  “Of course you,” she snarls. “The only time anyone talks to me is to find out about you!”

  I don’t often feel anything from Chrissie, but I’d have to be deaf and blind not to feel that slap, and it hurts even more than being buried under half a ton of the St. Bart’s rugby team.

  “Rich, I’m sorry,” she apologises immediately after I walk off. “I didn’t mean it to come out like that.”

  “Didn’t you?” I ask, conscious some of the other guys are staring at us.

  “You know I didn’t,” she whines, grabbing my arm. “I was just mad at you. You don’t know how much I needed to see you, and when you didn’t show I got scared, and I kept thinking about Goldmeads and…”

  I let out a sigh, the guilt every time I hear that word smothering out any hurt and anger. “I would have been there if I could.”

  “I know,” she concedes. “Want to have lunch together instead?”

  I nod and take my seat next to her in the third row of the dismal classroom for our first lesson of the day.

  “I don’t like it here, Rich; something isn’t right.”

  I can’t disagree, but there’s no point telling her what she already knows.

  “I feel like everyone’s talking about me behind my back,” she continues, scratching at her arms. “This is how it started at Goldmeads.”

  I shiver as once again I’m dragged back to the worst night of my life when I woke up to find her unconscious at the foot of my bed. “Chrissie, everything’s going to be okay.”

  “No, it’s not!” she cries, tears glistening in her eyes. “You don’t know what they did. They used to spit in my lunch!”

  “I’m not going to let anyone spit in your food,” I tell her, pulling her hand away to stop her from messing up her arms even more. “And don’t do that; you’ll freak people out.”

  English drags by, and so does history. I manage to redeem myself with Mr Wilson because we’ve already studied the Battle of the Somme, and then there’s a brief reprieve for maths, which is my second-favourite subject, before the bell rings for lunch. Trouble is, I can’t sit with Chrissie because we’ve been assigned tables, and I find myself sitting with Parker and the rest of the rugby team, which isn’t all bad, because it guarantees us extra portions of everything.

  I talk to Finny and Baxter. Walker’s all right, a bit rugby obsessed, but the sort of guy you can be yourself with, and at least he doesn’t keep asking me to do impressions of Harry Potter.

  “What’s wrong with your sister?” asks Baxter when he catches me checking on Chrissie again. “She one of those anorexics?”

  “No, she just isn’t feeling well,” I reply, watching her move her food around her plate while all the other girls talk around her as if she isn’t there.

  “She looks pretty skinny to me.”

  “
You’d make a sumo wrestler look skinny!” I tell him, starting on my second helping of rhubarb crumble.

  He laughs, slaps me on the back, and pours himself another glass of milk. “You’re right there!”

  Situation defused, I return to the task of trying to shovel as much food into me as I can before the bell; we’ve got double sports this afternoon, and I still hurt from being knocked about this morning.

  I don’t see Chrissie for the rest of the afternoon since we have different classes. After scoring a try and finding out I can sign up for fencing, shooting, and some other really cool sports, things don’t seem that bad, especially when I find a letter from Beth waiting for me in my pigeonhole.

  Opening up the pink envelope with her big swirly writing, I smile even more when I find two photos of Beth and the gang, and leaning back against the wall, I start to read, somehow managing to hear her voice in my head as if we were talking for real.

  “Anything for me?”

  I look up to see Chrissie. Her pigeonhole’s empty because I don’t suppose Mum’s got round to writing to us yet. “No, sorry.”

  “Figures,” she says with a huff. “Have you found your badminton racket?”

  “Er?”

  “Badminton,” she says. “You said we’d have a game tonight — I got a court booked for after study hall.”

  All the happiness at getting a letter from Beth drains out of me.

  “What?” she demands, and I know by the way that she looks at me she can see how guilty I feel inside.

  “Can’t,” I mumble. “I’ve got to meet my drama teacher.”

  “Great!”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, though I don’t know why I have to feel sorry about something that’s completely out of my control. “They only told me an hour ago. We’ll play tomorrow. Promise. Tomorrow night, I’m all yours.”

  “Don’t bother!” she snaps. “I don’t need charity, Rich.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “No?” she cries. “You don’t want to spend time with me. I get it.”

  “Chrissie.” I try to talk some sense into her, but she’s having none of it and pushes me away.

  “Just remember,” she tells me, her face red and hot. “If it was the other way round, I’d be there for you. Just remember that if you ever find yourself like me!”

  Chapter 10

  We have to do our homework in a huge old-fashioned classroom, supervised by Bollinger, who still manages to look far too cool to be at school, even in uniform.

  Walking down the lines of identical wooden desks and chairs, I take the desk next to Chrissie, but she immediately gets up and takes a seat in the front row. Conscious of everyone staring at me, I try to read the first three acts of The Merchant of Venice, but it would have been hard enough to take any of it in without the aid of music or TV.

  In the end, I give up on Shakespeare and write a long letter to Beth, telling her how I feel like I’m trapped in a black-and-white horror movie, and how I seem to be getting everything wrong trying to help Chrissie. At this point, something sharp stings the back of my neck, and twisting round, I see Finny flicking paperclips with the aid of a ruler.

  “Sorry,” he apologises. “I was aiming for Hermit.”

  Groaning, I return to my letter and shake out the ache in my hand, because I’m not used to writing so much, until 5:25 p.m. when I stuff everything into my backpack and head off to meet Miss Bell, my new drama tutor.

  “Done your homework, Jarvis?” asks Bollinger, not even looking up from his book of Greek poetry.

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s have a look,” he says, holding out his hand.

  It takes me a while to realise he’s serious, and groaning, I fish out my textbook.

  “Who’s the letter to?” he demands, peering out from beneath his fringe.

  “Girlfriend,” I say, looking him right in the eye.

  “I’m supposed to check it.”

  I try not to flinch as I hand it to him; something tells me he isn’t the sort of bloke you want to piss off, because unlike Jones his green eyes aren’t nearly as friendly.

  “You written anything slagging off the school?” he asks, saying the words like a teacher but sounding bored and sarcastic.

  “No,” I reply, hoping he isn’t going to open it up and ridicule me for writing a bunch of mushy stuff to Beth, or even worse, read the bits about me moaning about Chrissie.

  “Doesn’t bother me if you do,” he tells me, handing everything back without even looking at it. “Rupert says you’re all right — Oi, Hermit!”

  I turn round to see Hermit trying to slip out the door unnoticed, clutching his homework to his chest.

  “You’re not trying to run off without permission?”

  Hermit does this kind of pathetic jump and, shrinking in on himself, wobbles up to Bollinger.

  “Hand it all over, Hermit!” Bollinger changes from cool dude you want to be to sadistic bully, and snatching Hermit’s letter, he tears it open.

  I look at Hermit, unsure what’s happening, but he’s looking at his feet, his cheeks already the colour of blood; he knows the drill.

  “God, your punctuation really is atrocious,” says Bollinger, speaking to the whole study hall. “And what is loosing the battle?”

  If I were Hermit, there’s no way I would take this, but he’s too spineless to say anything; he just stands there like a right wimp, looking at the floor as everyone laughs at him.

  “You shouldn’t use a capital M for mother unless you’re referring to an individual,” Bollinger continues, taking out a big black marker from his inside pocket. “But quite frankly, you shouldn’t write this at all unless you’re a fag. Are you a fag, Hermit?”

  I look around to see if anyone else is going to put a stop to this, but those who aren’t enjoying the show like Spencer, Finny, and Baxter are hiding in their books and essays.

  Jones is the first to walk out, followed by a couple of the girls. Me, I stand there like a right dork, waiting for a teacher to come and put a stop to it; if I try to do anything, there’s no way Chrissie and I will get through this term hassle free.

  “Well?” Bollinger continues, eyes sparkling with malice. “Are you a fag, Hermit?”

  A huge missile consisting of blue-tack, paperclips, and staples comes hurtling through the air and strikes Hermit in the face, knocking off his glasses. He yelps. I leave because, even though I’m just an innocent bystander, I’m centre screen on the ominous security camera bolted above the whiteboard.

  This is exactly what Chrissie went through. Insides twisting from the discomfort of not doing anything for her then, I go straight to the post room and write the longest apology letter I can in three minutes, promising to spend every spare minute with her. If I’m freaked by what happened, she’s going to be a million times worse. I’ve just finished when Jones walks in.

  “You all right?” asks Jones, slipping a couple of letters into the oblong post box secured to the wall.

  “Why do the teachers let it happen?” I demand, my voice shaking with anger I can’t contain.

  He knows what I’m talking about, because he won’t look me in the eye.

  “What’s the point of all the cameras if they don’t do anything?” I’m not going to let this drop. “Aren’t they supposed to be there for our protection?”

  He shuffles and scratches the back of his neck. “They don’t work,” he says, keeping his voice low. “Spencer’s father made the Head turn them off when they used the security footage to prove he’d smuggled in the TV.”

  “So why leave them up there?”

  “Because everyone thinks they do!” he hisses in an urgent whisper. “And you better not say anything. If Spencer knew I’d told you, he’d go crazy!”

  “I take it Baxter, Finny, and your brother know?”

  He nods.

  “Now promise me you’ll not tell anyone, not even your sister.”

  Even if Jones hadn’t made me promise to keep quie
t about the cameras, I would never tell anyone. If Spencer has that much power and he takes a dislike to me and Chrissie… I shudder. I know I’ll be okay; it’s Chrissie I’ve got to look after, and if she knows those cameras aren’t working, she’ll be scared all the time.

  “I’m going to work on the Quasi posters tonight,” he says. “Remember, we’re holding auditions tomorrow.”

  I silently swear under my breath. “Can’t we do it another night?”

  “No, I’ve got the hall booked and everything,” he says, now sounding really excited. “It’ll be a blast.”

  I nod, write a quick PS at the bottom of Chrissie’s note to say I can’t make badminton tomorrow, then run off to meet Miss Bell, hoping I’m not going to get a detention for being mega-late.

  Chapter 11

  I really thought she was going to be some mad old crow with wild grey hair and black-rimmed glasses who knows as much about modern editing techniques as I know about polo, but the only person in there was a seriously fit babe dressed in skinny jeans and oversized beige jumper and with blond hair so long she could have auditioned as Rapunzel.

  “You must be Richard,” she says, jumping down from the stage and walking over to me. “Or do you prefer Rich?”

  “Rich, miss,” I reply, shaking her hand.

  “Please, none of this miss stuff. Call me Laura.”

  “Thanks, Laura,” I say, liking her immediately.

  “Well, you’ve got to be the first aspiring film director I’ve taught,” she says, pulling up a couple of chairs and sitting down in one of them. “Most of my students want to be the other side of the camera.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “No, not at all. I got into filmmaking because I loved scuba diving and I wanted my friends and family to share in my experience,” she explains. “I really liked it, so after doing a degree in Marine Biology, I went on to do an MA in Filmmaking and was fortunate enough to make a number of documentaries for National Geographic.”

  I sit up, seriously impressed. “Really?”

  “Yes, if it wasn’t for a perforated eardrum, I’d still be doing it.”

  “I got picked to play Oliver in a BBC production,” I tell her. “But I got hit by a car just after filming started, so the director let me spend a day with him as a kind of sorry when they had to replace me.”

  “So you discovered you liked being the other side of the camera more?”

  I nod. “I was an addict the moment I sat with him in the mixing studios, reviewing all the rushes.”