by Mia James
April instantly felt bad for thinking that. Why was she so down on Gabriel all of a sudden? Okay, so he hadn’t called like he’d promised, but he had turned up eventually - for that perfect midnight moment - and while he was still maddeningly vague about what was going on, he had respected her enough to tell her there were things he couldn’t explain. At least Gabriel wasn’t pretending to be something he wasn’t. It wasn’t his fault her father had dragged her down to this horrid soggy place to play Indiana-bloody-Jones. She gave a short ironic laugh as she walked on, her shoes squelching on the grass, suddenly aware that she was cold, she was wet and there was snot dripping from the end of her nose.
‘Right, bugger this,’ she said, and turned back towards the school.
By the time she had dried her hair under the hand-driers in the Ladies toilet and sponged most of the mud from her shoes with wadded-up paper towels, Philosophy was over and it was far too late to go to her English lesson, so April walked down to the library instead. At least there she would get a little peace to gather her thoughts and do some reading; cutting class didn’t come naturally to April and she felt she ought to make up for missing lessons. Plus she didn’t want to look like a complete idiot, again, in Miss Holden’s class that afternoon.
April was surprised to find the library completely deserted. ‘Duh, everyone’s in lessons, aren’t they?’ she whispered to herself, actually pleased that she wouldn’t have to speak to anyone. She dumped her wet coat on a chair and wandered over to the History section.
Right, the Renaissance, she thought to herself as she read the titles. Dates versus culture and all that.
She picked out a few books and leafed through them, but they were either dry or difficult to read or both. Why can’t they do a ‘Modern History For Dummies’? she wondered, before spotting a stack of magazines piled up at the end of a shelf.
‘Ah, now magazines I can understand,’ she said, picking one up. It was a dusty academic journal called Modern History. She flicked through the pages without interest. Stuff about the Iron Age, stuff about Roman baths, stuff about the Russian revolution. But then she stopped, as a few words - or rather, a name - caught her eye. In the introduction to a feature on bodies preserved in peat bogs, the author’s name jumped out at her: Professor Annabel Holden. It was Miss Holden, her teacher - she had written the article! April quickly scanned the text, but was disappointed to find it was a dreary piece about the preservative qualities of mud. Not much use for her next lesson.
Hmm, I wonder... thought April, taking the whole stack of magazines back to a table. Flipping through them, she swiftly discovered that her hunch had been right; Miss Holden was in there quite a lot. She had either written a lot of rather boring features for the magazine or had been interviewed for one. Nothing, however, was of much interest, until April began to read a piece in the second to last magazine on the pile.
Wow, this is fantastic. It was an essay entitled ‘The Past Will Eat Itself’. The introduction read:New academic research is turning the way we think about history upside down, changing the focus from rigid timelines and dates to contemporary sources. It’s an exciting new approach that may even force us to reconsider some of our most dearly held assumptions about the past.
It went on to debate the pros and cons of approaching history as a living organism rather than a series of events or decisions made by kings and politicians. It was exactly what Miss Holden had been talking about in their last lesson! Even better, April’s teacher was actually quoted in the piece:As Professor Annabel Holden, of Harvard University, says: ‘People in the eighteenth century didn’t think of themselves as a historical fact, they thought of themselves as cutting-edge technologically advanced intellectuals. They had sailed the seven seas, discovered new lands and mapped the heavens, they had worked out how to power the railways, they were God’s chosen people. So if we view them as museum pieces or historical curiosities in funny hats, we miss so much. We need to reverse the whole polarity of history and think of them as the living, breathing people they were. In many ways the kings, queens and politicians of history were the pop stars of their day.’
April heard someone approaching from behind her and she turned, expecting to see Mrs Townley the librarian. Her shoulders tensed as she saw that it was Layla. She was dressed in a short pleated skirt and a tight roll-neck top, a fixed smile on her face, and she slid into the seat opposite April.
April glanced around nervously. The library was still empty and the clock said a quarter to twelve.
Layla followed her eyes. ‘Free period,’ she said with a smirk. ‘Anyway, I’m glad I’ve caught you when there’s no one else around. I’ve wanted to have a quiet word with you since the party.’
‘What about?’ asked April uneasily.
‘Oh, just wanted to ask how you’re fitting in, see if there’s anything I can do to help?’
April was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Layla had never been particularly friendly to her; in fact, almost everything she’d ever said had been loaded with a cruel subtext or bitchiness.
‘I’m fine. Everyone’s been really nice, really welcoming,’ she said. April wasn’t going to talk about the dead fox, those evil party rumours or Marcus Brent. Not with Layla, anyway.
‘Yes, I saw that,’ said Layla. There was an edge to her voice that worried April. ‘Lots of people seem to be very interested in you, don’t they? I wonder why that is?’
April shrugged. ‘Because I’m the new girl here, I suppose.’
‘Mmm,’ said Layla, her head tilting to one side in a sympathetic way. ‘I should think you’ve been working quite hard to fit in, haven’t you?’
‘Well, as I say, most people have been kind. Davina especially. It was nice to be invited to the party.’
Layla’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, although I hear you had a terrible time there,’ she said in a way that suggested quite the opposite. ‘But you shouldn’t read too much into it, especially if you think about why you were invited in the first place.’
April frowned. ‘I’m sorry? What do you mean?’
Layla glanced around and lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Stop playing dumb, you stupid little cow,’ she hissed. ‘Davina didn’t want you at the party because you’re friends, did she? Even you must have realised that?’
‘Uh, no. I didn’t think—’
Layla reached out and grabbed April’s hand, squeezing hard. ‘Well, think about it, new girl. And while you’re at it, think about the way you’re making moon-eyes at all the boys in school. They all seem to be fascinated by you, don’t they? Even poor Marcus Brent can barely keep his hands off you.’
‘Don’t you—’ began April angrily, but Layla cut her off.
‘Why is that?’ she said nastily. ‘It can’t be because of your looks, can it?’
‘I ... I don’t understand—Oww!’
Layla dug her manicured nails into the back of April’s hand. ‘I’ll make this as clear as possible,’ she spat. ‘Stop throwing yourself at my boyfriend. He’s taken, do you understand? I won’t tell you again.’
April’s stomach turned over and she suddenly felt terribly cold. Is that true? She had been so sure everything Gabriel had said last night was sincere and from the heart, but suddenly his words rang hollow and cheap. She felt like melting into the floor. First her dad, now this. Can’t anything go right? Her whole life was crumbling around her ears. With a last haughty look, Layla stood up, her chair scraping across the wooden floor.
‘Don’t let’s have this conversation again, hmm? You obviously don’t know how things work at Ravenwood and we wouldn’t want you to get hurt, now would we? Oh, and do something about your hair,’ she said with a cruel smile. ‘You look like a tramp.’
Caro was all for throwing soup in Layla’s lap. Or poisoning her Diet Coke.
‘Violence is the only language that lot understand,’ she said in a low, determined voice, as she stared across the refectory. The Faces were sitting at their usual table, preening and pick
ing at their tiny salads. ‘A nice bowl of hot tomato soup would be a good look on that skirt.’
‘Now, now,’ said Simon. ‘We don’t want to sink to her level.’
‘Oh, but I do,’ said Caro. ‘Look at the talon marks she’s left in April’s hand.’
‘I’m okay,’ said April, touching the scrapes Layla had left on her skin. Physically she was fine, but emotionally she was stung. She didn’t want to believe Layla was seeing Gabriel, but then she was right - April was just the new girl and Layla had been at Ravenwood for years. What did she really know about Gabriel or how they did things here? Not even Caro and Simon knew much about him outside of the school, and they could usually be relied on to have the most up-to-date gossip.
‘So do you think she’s really Gabriel’s girlfriend?’
‘I’ve made some discreet enquiries—’ began Simon, before being interrupted by Caro’s snort.
‘Sorry.’ She giggled. ‘It’s just that the idea of you being discreet about anything makes me laugh.’
‘Play nice, children,’ said April. ‘Focus on my problem, okay?’
‘Yes, well,’ huffed Simon. ‘My enquiries drew a blank about Gabriel specifically, but Layla definitely has a boyfriend. Apparently they’ve been keeping it very low-key, which certainly isn’t like her, but ...’ He looked at April sadly and she nodded.
‘But it does sound like Gabriel,’ she finished for him. ‘He is the sort of boy who keeps secrets isn’t he?’
‘I’m sorry, honey,’ said Caro, touching April’s hand. ‘But he’s not exactly been giving the impression that you’re an exclusive thing, has he?’
‘But he called it a date,’ said April. ‘It was midnight. There were doughnuts.’
Simon sighed. ‘That’s men for you, darling. We’re ruled by our urges, I’m afraid. And look at her.’
Layla was whispering something to Davina and then they both laughed.
‘Layla’s the sort of girl who helps men with those sorts of urges. Usually in the toilets.’
‘Simon!’ said Caro, slapping him on the leg and raising her eyebrows towards April. ‘Too much information!’
‘Sorry.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe you had a point about the discreet thing. Anyway, what are we going to do?’
April looked at him blankly. ‘What do you mean, do?’
‘Well, we can’t let Little Miss Fingernails win, can we?’
April looked at the scrapes on the back of her hand, then at Layla again. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, we can’t.’
Thanks to her time in the library, April had managed to get through her History lesson unscathed. As she had expected, Miss Holden had singled her out and asked her a difficult question about the role of politics in medieval society. April had used the ‘kings and queens were just like pop stars’ line, arguing that they were simply reacting to the mood of the time in order to keep or to gain popularity. That spiteful girl Chessy from the Faces crowd had stolen her thunder by smugly saying, ‘But isn’t that just a lazy definition of politics?’, but April could see that Miss Holden had taken note of her answer. Not impressed, necessarily - after all, April had stolen her own theory - but satisfied that April wasn’t a complete idiot. She had also managed to slip out of class when the bell rang without getting another lecture, which April counted as a bonus. She was heading for the school gates where she was due to meet Caro for a post-Layla powwow when she suddenly stopped and ducked behind a pillar. Gabriel was waiting by the entrance, stamping his feet against the cold. Was he waiting for her? Had he heard about the confrontation in the library with Layla? Did he want to explain? She held her breath; from this angle she could watch him but he couldn’t see her. He seemed to be scanning faces as the students filed out onto the road, looking for someone. Finally he gave up and, with a scowl, strode off out of sight. April exhaled, relieved. She didn’t want to see him right now, not so soon, not before she had a chance to work it all out in her own head. She stepped out from her hiding place and immediately heard her name called. She turned to see Mr Sheldon standing by his car at the main entrance and her heart sank.
‘A word, Miss Dunne, if you would be so good,’ he said, beckoning her over, his strange eyes boring into her as he indicated that she should get inside. It was some sort of swish sports car, like something James Bond might drive, and April opened the door carefully. She didn’t want to scratch anything.
‘Now, let’s get straight to the heart of it, shall we?’ he said once she had gently closed the door. ‘You didn’t attend my lesson this morning and I’d like to know why.’
April was actually shocked by his direct approach. She was used to teachers pussyfooting around, asking if ‘things were okay at home’ and so on.
‘I’ve had some personal problems.’
‘I see. And what sort of personal problems would these be?’
Again, April found herself on the back foot. No teacher at St Geoffrey’s would have dared to probe into her - or anyone else’s - ‘personal problems’ for fear of having to listen to tales about bad periods or abusive parents.
‘I had an argument with my dad.’
‘Indeed? And this was enough to keep you from discussing the works of John Wyndham with the rest of the class?’
‘Yes.’
Mr Sheldon nodded, seeming to mull this over for a moment. ‘You are, of course, aware that Ravenwood is a school for gifted pupils?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said April.
‘Well, as you’ll imagine, Ravenwood gets some of the most spectacular results of any school in the country and, consequently, children are lining up to attend. Now, some strings were pulled to get you into this school.’
April made to object, but Mr Sheldon held up a hand. ‘There is, of course, nothing inherently wrong with that. Plenty of pupils have paid their way into the school or have parents with influence. Your family has - shall we say - more influence than most.’
April looked up in surprise, but Mr Sheldon was ploughing on.
‘We do, however, have a reputation to uphold and if a pupil isn’t meeting our exacting standards, please believe that, however influential their relatives, we will ask them to leave. Is all of this clear?’
‘Yes,’ said April quietly.
‘Splendid, then we understand one another,’ he said, putting his key into the ignition.
April opened the door and climbed out. As she walked around the car, the driver’s side window buzzed down. ‘One last thing, April,’ said Mr Sheldon, beckoning her back over. ‘You’ll be aware that it is standard teacher practice to conclude one of these little talks with something along the lines of “if you’re having any difficulties or want to talk about anything, my door is always open”.’
April looked at him and was discomfited to see that his intense eyes were even more powerful up close. She was reminded of a science experiment in middle school where they had explored the attraction and repelling properties of magnets. For some reason, his eyes reminded her of the small, powerful magnets they had used that day.
‘Personally, I couldn’t think of anything worse than having an office full of teenagers snivelling about how their boyfriend has run off with someone else,’ said Mr Sheldon. ‘But in your case, April, I do feel I have a certain responsibility to you.’
April shook her head. ‘Why? Because of what happened with Marcus?’
For a moment, Mr Sheldon looked at her as if he had no idea what she was talking about. ‘No, not because of that - although you can rest assured that that particular issue has been dealt with in the strongest terms. The strongest possible terms. I won’t allow that sort of behaviour in my school. However it is perhaps an object lesson in the dangers of spreading malicious rumours, whatever the provocation.’
April gaped at him, a slow blush spreading across her face. How the hell does he know about that?
‘The thing to do would be to take it to a teacher, don’t you think? We don’t encourage vigilantism at Ravenwood.’
‘Bu
t I don’t see ...’ she began falteringly. ‘If it’s not that, then why do you feel you have to look after me?’