by Sue Wallman
We have a new headmistress. Ms Sneller was asked to leave by the governors. There were things she handled badly, including not properly investigating what happened between Bernard and me. I told Elsie Gran about Bernard when she drove me back to Mount Norton. I asked her to turn off the audiobook and listen, and not say anything.
She had plenty to say of course, but she mostly said it to the school. The police were involved, and Bernard ended up moving schools. I was told his new school is aware of his record in case anything else happens. I hope he’s faced up to what he did.
Monro stumbles on a pebble and I grip his hand tightly, and we both stay upright. He’s on new drugs, and the stumbles hardly ever happen any more.
“Nice try,” I say. “You nearly had me on the ground then. Pick a more comfortable landing next time.”
He laughs, and double squeezes my hand, then lets go and runs towards the water’s edge. He prances around the edge of the water, playing a game of chicken with the tiny waves. I take photos of him. I’ll time-lapse it later. At the end of this term, after my exams, I’ll be leaving, and I want to have some of these escapades with Monro recorded. To remember the happy times.
I pull him away before the inevitable happens. I don’t want him moaning about soggy feet and ruined trainers. We cuddle up for the walk past the spot where Clemmie’s body was found. There are flowers on the rocks, as there are from time to time, placed there by Paige and the rest of their crowd. The week I came back to Mount Norton, I placed some there myself. I was going to add a note, but I didn’t in the end. What I wanted to say was too complicated, and too private. I knew other people would read it, like I read other people’s notes. We would always have been enemies, me and Clemmie, but it was shocking to think that she’d never experience the rest of her life.
“I like how the flowers dry out and the wind scatters them,” I say to Monro when we’re past the site.
“It’s not like she’ll be forgotten,” says Monro. “There’s the stained-glass window, for starters.”
I can’t help giggling, and Monro raises his eyes at me, “Is that an appropriate response to a serious memorial, Miss Kate Jordan-Ferreira?” The stained glass window in the assembly hall is monstrous in size and design, depicting with various green geometric shapes the countryside where Clemmie was apparently happiest. An amazing amount of money has been raised in Clemmie’s name, a lot of it funded quietly by the school according to Squirrel, who’s now got a job in the main school kitchen. The best memorial is the Clementine Hillard scholarship, which was awarded to Zeta so she can stay on into the sixth form. I love the sweet irony of that.
We carry on, past the area of blackened stones where Hugo had a barbecue a couple of nights ago for the Churchill party. We heard it wasn’t a success. Local residents complained to the police, and it got shut down before it had got properly going. Monro and I didn’t go. Fire scares me now, and I’m so done with boosting Hugo’s ego.
“Don’t make me run up the steps,” says Monro. “I don’t want anything to happen to my bag.”
I don’t know what is in there for sure, but I know he was on the coach to Ryemouth the day before yesterday, and I decide to play safe. At the top, we turn right. I glance back at the beach house, glad we aren’t going to walk past it. It looks dark, presumably unoccupied.
“Come on,” says Monro, tugging my hand. “Onwards to the horrible, rotting bench.”
“You know the best places,” I say. I’m actually not joking. The bench has become one of our favourite spots. There is a mound of weed-covered earth behind it, and if we place Monro’s old grey rug on it and use the back of the bench as a footrest, there is a fantastic view of the sea and the Isle of Wight. We sometimes somersault backwards into the soft landing of the bracken behind it.
Monro lays out a squashed chocolate fudge cake from the bakery in Ryemouth, proper plates and a knife pinched from Churchill dining hall, and some napkins snaffled from Pret A Manger.
“Before you say anything, these have LED batteries,” says Monro, bringing out a few tea lights. He switches them on at the base, and they give out a yellow glow from their fake flame. After more rummaging some miniature bottles of rum appear, then a can of Coke and some plastic glasses. “Or if you prefer,” says Monro, “Voila!” He pulls out his thermos with a flourish, as if it’s a bottle of champagne.
He says I have to eat some cake before I open his present, which is a tiny package wrapped in navy blue tissue paper and tied with a silver ribbon bow.
“Why?” I ask.
“So you still feel happy in case you don’t like what I’ve bought you.”
I smile. Whatever he’s bought will be perfect because he was thinking of me at the time. I slice the cake, eat a huge mouthful, and then undo the bow. There’s a box beneath the tissue paper, and nestled inside is a silver necklace with a bright blue crystal attached. “It represents trust and faith,” he says, laughing awkwardly. “I mean, who knows if that’s really true. It’s what the woman in the shop told me, and I thought you’d like the colour, and the trust/faith thing is kind of appropriate with you leaving Mount Norton in June…” He’s gone red.
I nod and hold the necklace up, thanking him. Even in this dimming light, it reflects and shines back many variations of blue. “It’s beautiful,” I say. I open the clasp and put it on. “Look!” I say, and stand up on the bench to pose. The rotten wood shifts suddenly and I squeal and launch myself back on the earth pile, and Monro catches me, and draws me close. I touch his face with my burn-scarred hands. My face is still beautiful and I’m grateful. There’s no shame in that.
We lean in to kiss.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Over the course of writing this book I learned a lot about kindness, something which is in short supply at my fictional boarding school. My biggest thanks go to the Nossiter family, especially Fiona, David and my goddaughter Morgan. Also to the Johnson family, especially Jen, Adam and Billy. So many people have helped me far more than they realise, including Laura Steinberger, Andrew Goodwillie, Cath Howe, Juliet Hartridge, and the Munster Road Mafia, and I hope I can pay it forward.
Thanks, as always, to my agent Becky Bagnell for being so helpful, and to my editors Linas Alsenas and Eishar Brar for helping to shape this story. Thank you to Liam Drane for a clever cover design, Pete Matthews for razor-sharp copy-editing, Harriet Dunlea for publicity, and the rest of the hard-working team at Scholastic UK.
Thank you to Ashley Postans for answering my dodgy questions about electric shocks.
A big hello to Esher High School students (especially the fabulous library monitors), my Hub colleagues Mrs Smith and Mrs Fairey, the homework club crew Ms McCartney and Mrs Dallamore and the Inclusion Support Base squad Mrs Power, Miss Emerton and Mr Highman (not forgetting Teddy, everyone’s favourite cavapoo).
Heartfelt hugs to my family: Mum, Dad, Clare, Dave, James, Tom, Nick, Esther, Niamh, Phoebe, Maia and Sophie.
Finally, thank you to everyone who has championed my books, and encouraged me along the writing path. I have very much appreciated it.
Scholastic Children’s Books
An imprint of Scholastic Ltd
Euston House, 24 Eversholt Street
London, NW1 1DB, UK
Registered office: Westfield Road, Southam, Warwickshire, CV47 0RA
SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
First published in the UK by Scholastic Ltd, 2019
This electronic edition published by Scholastic Ltd, 2019
Text copyright © Sue Wallman, 2019
The right of Sue Wallman to be identified as the
author of this work has been asserted.
eISBN 978 1407 19468 4
A CIP catalogue record for this work is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-t
ransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Scholastic Limited.
Produced in India by Newgen
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
www.scholastic.co.uk
*