Boarding School Girls

by Helen Eve

  So I stand once again before my erstwhile form group as Mrs Denbigh, sturdier and bushier and more eager than ever for us all to be friends, or at least not kill each other while she’s on duty, reintroduces me to the girls who hoped they’d never see me again and the boys who never gave me a second glance.

  Why don’t they notice you? Siena complained when we were fourteen and she was tired of me encroaching on her time with Jack. I’d warned her that finding me a boyfriend would be an impossible task, and she’d finally started to believe me. You’re a Starlet, for crying out loud.

  I frowned in embarrassment into her ever-present mirror as she pulled my hair out of my face. I don’t care whether boys notice me or not.

  You must care, she said. What else is there to live for?

  She ran her fingers up and down my back until I twisted away from her. What are you looking for?

  Your re-set switch. It must be here somewhere.

  ‘I expect Romy can teach us all a thing or two about Parisian fashions,’ Mrs Denbigh suggests now.

  She’s trying to help me, but her suggestion elicits nothing but eye-rolling from the back row and a giggle from Phoebe as she whispers something to Madison, hand over her mouth so she can’t be lip-read, as she’s done ever since we were Shells and they spoke in their own language – devised by Libby and complete with past tenses and prepositions and five synonyms for the concept of cankles – as back-up security.

  I know better than to reply, and an all-too-familiar lethargy takes me over as I trudge to an empty seat in the second row. I try to make eye contact with several students whom I once believed friends, but under the Starlets’ gaze they stare furiously at their desks as if I’m not even there. Allowing myself one backward glance, just to see which guise Siena is wearing today, I’m blindsided and paralysed and jettisoned in the second it takes to do so.

  Because Siena at seventeen is more breathtaking than Siena at sixteen, or fifteen, or all the other ages at which her beauty grew in inverse proportion to her niceness, and she’s entirely aware of her brilliance. Her eyes are bluer, and larger, and more intense. Her golden hair is still piled up in jewels and leaves and flowers, but I sense that it’s grown longer, as if she can’t find a stylist worthy of touching it. She’s thinner, her cheeks pale and hollow, and she’s lounging in her seat, her gazelle limbs carelessly sprung as if at any moment she might uncoil and escape from captivity.

  She’s smiling at something Libby has said, and I catch the tail end of that smile as she meets my gaze. I can’t look away: I’m frozen as she scrawls on her notebook and holds up the page as soon as Mrs Denbigh has turned towards the whiteboard.

  She’s pierced the paper with earrings shaped like stars, displaying them as if they’re in a jeweller’s. They wink and dazzle and laugh at me as I read the words beneath them.

  Clock tower.

  Midnight.

  Formal dress.

  Feel lucky.

  This particular invitation, or threat, or Mayday, depending on your outlook, is directed squarely at me, and, as Mrs Denbigh begins her register at exactly nine o’clock, the ancient clock in the tower strikes like a death knell.

  Chapter Three

  Siena

  Registration, always inconsequential, is especially so today, and Mrs Denbigh’s vain attempts to restore peace give us time to evaluate this new incarnation of Romy. Phoebe and Madison giggle, while Libby narrows her eyes and Cassidy shivers like a startled mouse.

  We assess the back of her head as she sits down a few rows in front of us.

  ‘She’s different,’ observes Phoebe after a moment. ‘What’s happened to her?’

  ‘Her hair has grown back in now she’s got rid of those awful purple streaks,’ says Madison. ‘I can’t think why we let her get away with them.’

  Romy’s long hair, dark brown with auburn lights and a swish that she never uses to her advantage, was almost pretty enough to accommodate those heinous streaks, but is considerably improved now. I might even be envious if I weren’t blessed with naturally blonde hair, an achievement that can never be surpassed.

  ‘Her clothes are better too.’ Madison gives Romy’s blue Pilotto dress a grudging once-over. ‘That ensemble is quite presentable. At least she’s ditched that leather jacket with the peace signs painted on the back.’

  ‘She had to ditch that,’ Phoebe says. ‘Not even an emo like Romy would tolerate it covered in Libby’s blood stains. And no amount of dry cleaning could cleanse those memories.’

  Madison winces. ‘Do you remember her Doc Martens with the multi-coloured laces? Never mind contravening dress code; I’m surprised they were even legal. Maybe she got stopped at Customs and had to rethink her life choices before she was allowed to enter the Champs-Élysées.’

  Phoebe sniffs indignantly. ‘It goes to show that you should always trust your instincts. We should never have let her near the Starlet brand.’

  Romy is rigid, as if she’s listening. This is encouraging: last year one would have thought that our critiques weren’t even relevant to her, let alone that she was taking them on board. And she needs to listen, because today we have a special message to impart.

  ‘Let’s hope she’s had time to rethink her loyalties,’ I say loudly. ‘We might be broad-minded, but we don’t have an endless supply of chances.’

  ‘You sound as if you’re considering readmitting her,’ Phoebe frowns. ‘I assume that’s just your signature tolerance speaking?’

  ‘Naturally,’ I say. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, the Starlets have evolved seamlessly into a five-piece. All that remains of Romy’s legacy is her table engraving, and I think we should leave it there, like a lest we forget.’

  As Romy flips her hair over her shoulder, her shiny manicure and burnished highlights flame in the sunlight, and from this angle she could be any one of us. She turns awkwardly, as if she’s forcing herself to do so, but when she meets my eyes I know she’s daring me to engage with her. She makes no sound, but I still hear her voice as plainly as if it were yesterday. It’s distorted by choking and sobbing and shock, and it’s so much effort for her to force out the words that it’s obvious how fervently she means them.

  Even if she’s completely wrong, not to mention delusional.

  Can’t you see what’s happening? You think she’s your friend, and you let her do this?

  I stare her out with my blandest expression. It’s not as if we’re sharing the same memory, after all; she doesn’t even know I remember that moment. I offer up the diamond bait when I have her full attention, but her reaction is impossible to decipher.

  Our eye contact is severed by chair-scraping as the bell rings and we start to get up.

  ‘Romy, stay behind,’ calls Mrs Denbigh.

  ‘What’s that about?’ asks Libby under her breath.

  Madison giggles. ‘Romy’s starting as she means to go on: in trouble from her very first lesson. Do you think Mrs Denbigh is giving her community service?’

  I’m cheered by this. ‘I hope it’s something terrible, like cleaning the Stripes’ kits after their summer matches, or dragging the swimming pool for frogs, or missing the Valentine’s social with Radley.’

  ‘She should be made to join the Geology Society,’ Phoebe adds bitterly. She once had to take minutes at their AGM as a punishment for using their rarest specimen as a pumice stone. ‘She’d never survive that.’

  ‘Have you forgotten that she was a member of something far worse?’ Libby reminds us. ‘G Soc is positively colourful and gregarious next to Student Council.’

  A shudder passes right through me at the mention of the Student Council, who meet in an office underneath the back stairs to discuss the library décor and weekend prep sessions and other issues too grey even to contemplate. Members so drab and dismal that they appear to have mouldered from within are seen in public only when they swoop into assembly wearing bat-like scholar’s gowns, their skin sallow and their noses beaky, their hair colourless and lank. The
culmination of their mediocre membership comes when two of them assume the positions of Head Girl and Boy following an ancient nomination system that no outsiders care to understand or participate in.

  ‘There’s no excuse for it,’ Libby murmurs each time one of them takes to the microphone with a reedy reminder for us to return our library books on time so we don’t deprive others; to keep silent after curfew; and to donate to the bake sale or the art gallery or whichever other unedifying and entirely unaspirational project they’re plugging.

  ‘How’s it possible to be so unsightly?’ Madison comments now with a sense of wonder. ‘Are they even mortal?’

  ‘There is something of the netherworld about them,’ Libby agrees. ‘I worry that if one of them comes too close, their greyness might contaminate me like spores.’

  ‘None of them would dare,’ says Phoebe. ‘They usually sort of flap away when they see us.’

  ‘That’s because the celestial light we emanate might turn them to dust,’ explains Libby. ‘But who knows: with any luck, one day we might make them disintegrate altogether.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why Romy was permitted to be a Council member,’ Phoebe complains. ‘What came over us?’

  ‘She duped us,’ says Madison. ‘We trusted her.’

  Libby flips back her hair sadly, showing her silvery scar. ‘And look how she repaid us for our trust.’

  Chapter Four

  Romy

  I’m surrounded by Starlets before I can pick up my bag. I know better than to ask for clarification of their note, but their derisive expressions show me that, whatever the purpose of their invitation, it wasn’t an overture of friendship.

  ‘How was reform school, Romy?’ Phoebe asks, her kittenish appearance always so at odds with her acerbic put-downs. ‘I heard that’s where you spent last year.’

  ‘How’s remedial class, Phoebe?’ I ask. ‘I expect that’s where you spent yours.’

  Phoebe mutters something about remedial class and Home Economics class being two different concepts, and I take advantage of the distraction to head for the safety of Mrs Denbigh’s desk. I’ve almost made it when she calls out again.

  ‘Siena, I want you to stay behind as well.’

  I groan inwardly, turning around as Siena halts so suddenly that Phoebe almost walks into her. ‘Excuse me?’ she says blankly.

  Libby is immediately by her side, skimming through her day planner and shaking her head regretfully. ‘Siena has a packed schedule today, Mrs Denbigh. She doesn’t have a window until late this afternoon. Could we perhaps pencil something in during prep?’

  ‘No.’ Mrs Denbigh is irritated. ‘Whatever Siena’s doing, it’s less important than this.’

  Libby is insulted. ‘You aren’t suggesting that charity work should take a back seat…’

  She lets the sentence dangle in the air, and Siena smiles ruefully as she leaves Libby to firm up a more convenient appointment. But Mrs Denbigh, instead of negotiating, sets two chairs in front of her desk and motions me into one.

  ‘Can I find you a stand-in?’ Libby offers. ‘I could have a less busy student with you in three minutes.’

  Mrs Denbigh ignores Libby entirely. ‘Now, Siena,’ she barks.

  Libby looks startled but quickly regroups. ‘I’ll handle the schedule, Siena,’ she reassures her. ‘I can cover for you in this morning’s debate, for a start. What is it again? This House believes … that crocodile-skin bags can be totally ethical?’

  She departs before Siena can reply, talking on her phone at high speed. ‘I need to postpone Siena’s dress fitting. Something’s come up. I know … it’s inopportune. Can we get her in this afternoon? Prep time is fine; I’ll finish her English essay and Madison can sit tomorrow’s French test for her…’

  ‘Ethical crocodile-skin bags?’ I mutter when she’s gone. ‘Is she for real?’

  ‘I was the opposition,’ Siena says without looking at me. ‘It’s called a debate.’

  ‘Libby can’t replace you as the opposition. How can she support animal protection? Skinning giant reptiles must be one of her more humane pastimes.’

  I don’t expect her to elaborate, but she smiles triumphantly. ‘If you must know, the prize is a crocodile-skin tote no matter who wins. Libby, as my best friend, will be on the side she’s required to represent. As always, that means mine.’

  I shrug at her best friend jibe. ‘It’s lucky that you’re so replaceable, then. It’s lucky that I am, too.’

  A memory flashes into my head of me and Siena as bored Fifth Formers, escaping from a tedious, Libby-led, review of the Starlet Statutes, via Siena’s balcony. Siena followed me down the trellis, wincing as Libby noticed our absence and yelled at us over the ledge: Siena, you ripped your tights.

  Siena looked fearful, as if this actually mattered, so I pulled at the hole, laddering the tights from ankle to thigh. Guttersnipe, screamed Libby. Siena has a dinner tonight!

  Oh God, Siena groaned. She’s right. My mother is expecting me in an hour.

  Her hair was pulled sideways and I released the pins so that curls fluttered around her face. Anyone would think you didn’t want me to attend this dinner, she said, trying not to smile. Don’t you know that it’s a state occasion? I’m wearing Prada.

  I shrugged. I’m going riding tonight. Have fun at your dinner.

  I hadn’t made it across the paddock before she was beside me, her hair secured in the tights that I’d wrecked beyond repair. I’m in so much trouble, she shouted as she took the lead. You’re the worst influence ever.

  Now she checks her flawless reflection before turning her attention to Mrs Denbigh. ‘So how can I help?’ she asks with a conciliatory smile. ‘Is this about what happened between Jack and me in the cafeteria? I’ve told him to take a cold shower before breakfast, but…’

  I pull a face. ‘Please spare us the disgusting details.’

  Mrs Denbigh ignores me. ‘It’s not about that, Siena, although I do live for the day when you and Jack learn to … control yourselves.’

  Siena pats her already pristine dress. ‘I’m in complete control. The boys around me are a different matter: it’s unfortunate that their hormones sometimes run away with them.’

  ‘Mrs Denbigh,’ I cut in, ‘I’m well aware that we’re all just bit players in The Siena Show, but I haven’t finished unpacking yet, and I hoped…’

  Mrs Denbigh clasps her hands as she looks at us. ‘I want to make it clear that last year’s events are not forgotten. We may not have resolved them, but, if either of you puts a foot out of line with regard to each other, I assure you that we’ll reinvestigate.’

  Siena frowns. ‘The incident in question involved Libby and Romy. It had nothing to do with me.’

  I expect Mrs Denbigh to take her side, but she hardly reacts. ‘In my experience, Siena, everything has something to do with you.’

  Siena smiles graciously at this perceived compliment. ‘I’m willing to forgive Romy, and I’d like nothing more than for us to move on as friends.’

  I shake my head. ‘Forget it, Siena. You’ve made it clear that you were never truly my friend.’

  ‘It’s a shame you couldn’t find Romy a lycée with a finishing school attached,’ she tells Mrs Denbigh sympathetically. ‘Such wasted potential.’

  Mrs Denbigh starts directing comments to Siena about Temperley High being a home from home; too small a family to form factions that exclude others. Evidently considering this irrelevant to her, Siena searches her bag for face powder. Libby usually holds her mirror for her and she looks momentarily unequal to the task.

  ‘I completely agree,’ she says, contemplating the compact as if it’s a demanding puzzle. ‘After all, there’s nothing more important than family.’

  Chapter Five

  Siena

  I leave the classroom at speed, but stop short as I almost collide with Jack. He’s leaning against a row of lockers and smiling as he always does when he knows I’m keeping a secret.

  ‘What w
as that about?’ he asks. ‘Are you in trouble, or was Mrs Denbigh begging you to be Head Girl next year?’

  We laugh at the absurdity of this concept, because, aside from being a cadaverous Council clone, our Head Girl is always a scholarship case. Accepting the position is practically a public poverty announcement, like inviting one’s contemporaries to throw pennies at them in the corridor. The more uncouth Stripes have been known to anoint the victor thus, but none of the Starlets would ever dream of doing so. There’s nothing worse for pulling one’s purse out of shape than carrying coins in it.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask him. ‘Shouldn’t you be in Maths by now?’

  ‘Yes, and this is making me late.’ He takes my hand and leads me around the corner. ‘But I need to see you on your own, and that’s not as easy as it sounds.’

  He’s so earnest – as if we can only meet by formal appointment – that I almost smile. He should know that, availability allowing, Libby frequently lets him jump the queue.

  ‘What did you need to see me about?’ I ask, looking at my watch. If he’s quick, I’ll only miss the debate’s opening arguments.

  ‘I wanted to check you’re still on for dinner tonight,’ he says. ‘You haven’t forgotten?’

  I maintain a neutral countenance. ‘Dinner,’ I say reflectively. ‘Tonight.’

  ‘My mother’s fortieth?’ he says. ‘You know how emotional she gets around birthdays, and this is a big one. I need the support.’

  Libby has standing appointments in my diary for unavoidable commitments such as this, but it’s understandable that it’s taken second place to the more pressing event we’re planning tonight.

  I consider the best approach. Jack looks a little upset, so I take his hand and pull him the length of the corridor. Although he looks as if he might resist, he falls into step with me as we cross the courtyard and climb the stairs to his bedroom in Riverside.