by Helen Eve
‘How is she, when my rabbit is more politically aware than she is?’
‘For a start, I’m Siena’s campaign manager,’ Libby explains. ‘I’ll add professionalism to proceedings.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ I say. ‘She doesn’t need a campaign manager!’
‘Of course she does,’ Libby argues. ‘Do you expect her to print her own posters?’
‘Schedule her own interviews?’ says Phoebe.
‘Style herself?’ Madison flicks through a Vogue feature on First Lady Fashions. ‘She needs a campaign manager and a glam squad.’
‘The glam squad won’t include you, Mads,’ Libby mutters with a gimlet stare.
I raise my voice. ‘The Council nominates the Head Girl, and they nominated me.’
‘We think that’s very undemocratic,’ says Libby. ‘Why should the Council choose? What did they do that no one else did? What qualifies them for the job?’
‘What did they do?’ I ask furiously. ‘How about sitting in this fusty room for hours on end, year after year, working on budgets and petitions and student rights, just to make your lives better?’
‘Apart from that, what did they do?’ asks Phoebe placidly.
‘The position is under-utilized,’ Libby explains. ‘The Head Girl should be making crucial decisions that affect us all, like school uniform design and party plans, and how many free afternoons we’re allowed, and curfew time. Then people would care enough to vote, and the election would be exciting and relevant to us all, like a royal wedding.’
‘How dare you pretend to care about democracy?’ I ask. ‘The Starlets are the least democratic institution imaginable. You’re elitist, malicious, superficial … you’re a force only for evil.’
‘That’s untrue. We’re literally the opposite of that.’ Cassidy holds up a poster of Siena dressed as an angel. ‘See?’
‘What’s in it for you?’ I ask. ‘Don’t tell me you’re doing this out of the goodness of your hearts. You don’t even have hearts; just pulsating selfishness.’
Phoebe smiles. ‘We’re going to be Prefects, of course. These will be our seats.’
‘Do you even know what that involves?’ I ask.
‘Not exactly,’ she says vaguely. ‘I expect Mrs Denbigh will explain it to us.’
‘You have to attend meetings with Dr Tringle and the governors, and vote on school policies, and manage a budget, and one of you will have to write minutes, which will be difficult, as none of you knows how to write…’
‘We could get these matching outfits to meet the governors!’ Cassidy jabs excitedly at a picture of the Kennedys.
‘I can’t believe we never considered a political career before,’ says Phoebe, examining it closely. ‘Now we finally have a good excuse to buy pink Chanel suits.’
‘You’re a genius,’ Cassidy tells Siena as they all nod. ‘I already can’t imagine life without this campaign.’
Siena smiles helplessly at me. ‘What can I do? They love me unconditionally.’
‘I don’t know why we’re even having this discussion,’ I mutter. ‘You don’t have the power to change the School Rules, no matter how many copies you destroy. The Council chose me as their candidate, and only they can alter that decision.’
Libby stops crayoning Siena’s halo. ‘It’s funny you should mention that. You see…’
She gazes at the end of the table, where Avery and Ambrose are blushing furiously.
‘No way,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘You wouldn’t.’
‘The Council stands for democracy and choice,’ falters Avery. ‘It’s better for everyone if there’s more than one candidate.’
‘We’re also a little concerned about your commitment,’ says Ambrose. ‘We took you back as Head Girl-elect on the proviso that you’d make up for your lost year. But instead of convincing us that you’d grown during your time away, you organized a very expensive ball.’
Avery nods. ‘We lost a great deal of money that night, Romy. Lots of the hired materials were broken. We need a way to recoup our losses, and a high-profile election campaign sounds like a good method. The Starlets bring publicity wherever they go.’
‘I’m sorry about the ball,’ I say. ‘Even though it wasn’t my fault. But haven’t I done enough to convince you of my sound character? Aside from one incident, for which I was soundly punished, I’ve always displayed good morals.’
Libby whips out her phone, and everyone receives a meme featuring an image of Siena that blurs and melts into an image of me. Siena is angelic in her pink Cinderella dress, her hair pale and glimmering beneath a golden halo. Beside her, an injured student casts off his crutch as she watches benignly. I’m in bed with Jack, wearing a screwed-up T-shirt and superimposed devil horns. Elisabeth has been transformed into a spitting serpent, and the wall behind me is papered with the Devil Tarot card. Good Morals, Bad Morals, is the swirly headline.
‘Don’t you see what you’ve done?’ I ask Avery. ‘You’ve let the Starlets take over the one thing in this school they didn’t already dominate.’
‘Siena seems very serious about it,’ Bethany says. ‘Look at the effort she’s making.’
We turn to see her don a sugar-paper crown.
‘It’s been non-stop work for us all,’ agrees Phoebe. ‘Look at my cuticles. You’d think I’d been washing dishes. With my hands.’
‘Siena should definitely have a crown,’ murmurs Libby. ‘I’ll have Tristan design one.’
‘Why are you so angry about this?’ Bethany asks me. ‘You’re still allowed to compete, and, if you’re the best candidate, you’ll win.’
‘Siena’s only doing it so Jack will think she’s marriageable,’ I say exasperatedly
‘And why are you doing it?’
‘For all the right reasons!’ I say. ‘Honour, and integrity, and…’
‘Jack?’ prompts Avery.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Siena
‘Where is Jack, anyway?’ Phoebe asks. ‘Shouldn’t he be here?’
‘He doesn’t need to be,’ Libby explains. ‘He’s the only candidate. Actually, we should probably call him consort. I don’t think we’ve explained to Romy the change in protocol this year. Like the fact that from now on, all candidates will run in teams of four. Head Girl, Head Boy, and two campaign managers.’
‘That’s not fair!’ argues Romy. ‘What if candidates can’t find a team?’
Libby looks unsympathetic. ‘We can’t be held responsible for people so clueless that they can’t find even three friends. We’ve been propping up inadequates for far too long.’
‘Jack and Siena weren’t even on speaking terms the last time I checked,’ Romy says. ‘What makes you think Jack will want to be her teammate?’
‘Jack wants to be a success,’ shrugs Libby. ‘It’s time the students had a real role model.’
I’m half listening and half concentrating on my hair. ‘That’s right,’ I say as Phoebe touches up my mascara. ‘A real role model.’
Romy sighs and turns her attention to the campaign posters. ‘There’s something funny about these. Why are you wearing a wedding dress in all the pictures?’
‘It’s not a wedding dress,’ I say. ‘It’s a white dress suitable for a variety of occasions, including an election.’
‘Why are you and Jack standing at an altar?’
‘It’s not an altar,’ I say. ‘It’s a lectern suitable for any kind of ceremony, including Elevation.’
‘Why’s Jack putting a wedding ring on your finger?’
‘Who says it’s a wedding ring?’ I ask. ‘It’s a generic prototype symbol of victory.’
‘Why is Libby dressed as a vicar, marrying you?’
‘Clergywear is huge for autumn.’ I lick my index finger as I turn the pages of Vanity Fair. ‘Libby is always ahead of the curve.’
‘Siena, why don’t you just admit it?’ she snaps.
I turn the pages at speed until I reach the end of the magazine, at which point I star
t again; she snatches it from my hands, throwing it against the wall.
‘Admit what?’ I say, devoid of distractions. ‘You’ve given me a paper cut.’
‘Admit that this so-called campaign is bogus. All you’ve done is swap bride for Head Girl, and engagement for Elevation. Everyone’s going to see through you and…’
‘What are they going to do? As far as I can see, everyone’s very happy about their lives actually being glamorous for once.’
‘You’re wrong,’ she says. ‘Everyone has more sense.’
She realizes her error as I gesture around the room. It’s typical of her to be so unobservant, but her eyes widen as she takes in the Council members’ glossy hair; their stylish outfits; their cutting-edge make-up (girls) and shapely eyebrows (boys). We’re all proud, because taking on such unprepossessing subjects was something of a reputational risk.
‘You’ve given the Council a makeover?’ she gasps. ‘What were you thinking?’
‘We were thinking,’ I explain with dignity, ‘that we couldn’t be expected to spend time in a room with so much body hair. It could make us asthmatic.’
‘You’re a disgrace,’ I tell the room at large.
‘You have no idea of the strings we had to pull,’ boasts Phoebe. ‘Who knew Miu Miu even made clothes in these sizes?’
‘You don’t condone this?’ Romy appeals to Avery. ‘You see that it’s madness?’
Avery smoothes her highlighted hair and blushes beneath a layer of La Prairie foundation. ‘We have to be presentable, Romy. We’re the public face of the school.’
‘Ambrose?’ she says desperately.
Ambrose pushes his new D&G glasses up his nose and taps his YSL loafer. ‘We’ve lived in the shadows for too long. We’ll be publicizing the election as much as possible, starting with a Speech Day where each candidate will present their manifesto to the school.’
‘Those things are just propaganda,’ she says. ‘They pressure people to make promises they won’t keep, and undermine the integrity of the whole system.’
I’m not keen on a Speech Day either, to say the least, but I’m pleased to have found a weak spot in her. ‘What a wonderful idea,’ I say warmly. ‘I have an unrivalled stage presence, as I’m sure you know.’
‘Siena is a five-time winner of the Best Actress TEMPA,’ confirms Libby, producing a photograph of me accepting my statuette at the last ceremony. ‘I can play you her showreel. The Tribune described her Juliet as ‘breathtakingly moving, and—’
‘It’s not supposed to be acting,’ Romy says. ‘You’re supposed to give a cerebral speech about what you can offer the school.’
‘Whatever Siena does on Speech Day, she’ll win,’ says Libby. ‘We’re throwing everything we have at this campaign, and our straw poll proved that Siena’s fans want to see her in Head Girl chic. We’ve even abandoned our bikini car wash in aid of the white rhino.’
‘You had no more interest in the white rhino than you do in politics,’ Romy says.
‘I had much interest in it,’ I correct her. ‘White is very easy to accessorize.’
‘White rhinos aren’t white, you moron!’ she explodes. ‘What do you think they look like?’
‘Do they have a horn?’ I ask Libby, who nods. ‘A bit like unicorns, I suppose. Next year we should support unicorns instead. Unicorns are definitely white, aren’t they?’
I look to Romy for confirmation, but, instead of replying, she slumps into her chair as if she can no longer hold herself up. Libby high-fives me, and then Phoebe on her other side, and I smile at Romy as we await her inevitable resignation.
Chapter Forty
Romy
Siena might be the most talented in our Art class, but she takes pains to share her disdain for the department. Even today, when she’s supposed to be soliciting support from potential voters ahead of tomorrow’s Speech Day, she wrinkles her nose as she flounces to her desk. ‘Motley crew,’ she mutters to the room at large.
‘We’re in an art studio,’ I say. ‘Do you expect people to wear Prada?’
‘Yes. Whereas no doubt you consider a messy room an excuse for everyone to go to sartorial hell in … in some kind of backpack.’
She glances conceitedly at her pink pencil skirt and white jacket before wincing at my pebble-dashed overalls. She’s showcasing an even higher-octane wardrobe this term, and she seems to go out of her way to look perfect in here, as if she wants the rest of us to benefit from her example.
‘Mr Kidd,’ she pleads, raising her hand. ‘I’d like a new partner. Romy’s outfit is inhumanely ugly, and could even be a carrier of infection.’
Mr Kidd is bearded and grandfatherly; he usually, like all men, lets Siena have her way, and I prepare to gather my belongings and move seats.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he says blandly. ‘But it’s too late. You should already be well under way with your project, and today I’m asking some of you to present your work to the class. As you don’t like sitting so close to Romy, why don’t you start us off?’
She opens her mouth incredulously, but he’s already introducing her.
Siena hasn’t the slightest interest in discovering my inspirations, and has spent every lesson so far staring into space and using art tools as beauty products. ‘I expect you haven’t even started, have you?’ I ask.
She bats her eyelashes at Mr Kidd, and I’m looking forward to her ridiculous excuse for having nothing to exhibit when she moves to stand in front of my dust-sheet-covered painting.
‘I’m flattered to be asked to present first,’ she says sincerely. ‘But I’d like to share some of the limelight with someone who lives mostly in gloom. Romy, please come up and tell us all about your wonderful work!’
She removes the dust sheet with a flourish and starts an applause that the other students half-heartedly continue.
‘I really, really hate you,’ I mutter as I take her place at the front of the room, wondering where to start and wishing I’d listened harder when Siena explained her inspiration in such detail that there should be no excuse for getting it wrong.
‘Our brief is Inspiration,’ I say laconically as I gesture at my giant portrait of Siena wearing a white dress. ‘As you can see, Siena’s inspiration is Siena.’
Siena whips her head around as someone sniggers. I’m surprised at this overt rebellion, but then the Art crowd are a law unto themselves. They’ve never fitted into any circle of popularity, and tend to ignore Siena in a way most students would never dare. Her attitude certainly doesn’t stand up against their own inspirations, which include Frida Kahlo, Harriet Tubman and a decorated war veteran.
‘Does anyone have any questions for Romy?’ asks Mr Kidd. ‘Remember that her job is to convince you of the worth of her project.’
Christopher raises his hand. His face is serious but his lip twitches as if he’s holding back a smile. ‘How does Siena inspire people?’
‘She invented the Starlets, of course,’ I explain, remembering her briefing notes. ‘Everyone wants to be a Starlet.’
‘I don’t want to be a Starlet,’ Christopher says. As more students laugh, I remember Libby encouraging everyone to make fun of his goatee beard until he shaved it off.
‘Me neither,’ says Christopher’s partner Angus. I remember that Phoebe once tripped him up into a wet ochre canvas, and that he didn’t get a new blazer for almost a year. ‘What else?’
I muster the strength to continue, quoting directly from her brief. ‘Everyone copies Siena’s hair, her clothes and her attitude. Everyone wants to look like her. Everyone wants to be her. She’s Temperley High’s ultimate brand.’
‘When’s the last time Siena helped anyone?’ puts in Annabelle, an erstwhile Starlet wannabe. Libby told her she headed a waiting list that didn’t exist, encouraging her to trail them ever more desperately until my conscience pricked me enough to tell her the truth.
Seconds tick by before Siena prompts me by pointing at her feet. ‘She helped Phoebe choose her s
hoes this morning. Phoebe thought she wanted to wear nude pumps, but it turned out that pink courts better complement her calf muscles.’
Annabelle has also noticed Siena’s shoes. ‘So it wasn’t because Siena wanted to wear Phoebe’s nude pumps today?’
Siena stands up in annoyance. ‘This is slander.’
‘I’ve only given answers from our interview,’ I protest. ‘How can it be slander when I’m quoting you directly?’
‘You’re quoting me selectively,’ she says. ‘You’ve completely disregarded my charitable work.’
I sigh. ‘Classmates, Siena spent last term preparing to strip to a bikini in order to protect the unicorn from extinction.’
Christopher laughs and raises his hand again, addressing Siena directly. ‘What will people say about you when you’re dead?’
‘People will say the nicest things,’ she says. ‘And my influence will ensure that the mourners at my funeral are appropriately stylish.’
Mr Kidd clears his throat. ‘Perhaps we could stop planning funerals and return to the lesson. Siena, give us your opinion on Romy’s interpretation.’
‘Romy hasn’t fulfilled the brief,’ she says. ‘It’s unimaginative. You told us to find out details about each other, like the best and worst moments of our lives, so that we could render Inspiration in a new and interesting way.’
Mr Kidd nods encouragingly. ‘Tell us, then. What was the worst day of your life?’
‘The day my baby sister was born,’ she says, and then blushes furiously.
‘You see?’ I appeal. ‘My painting shows her in a better light than she deserves. And at least I’m trying! When’s she going to give some thought to my Inspiration?’
‘You’re a photographer,’ she says. ‘That’s not even art. Anyone with opposable thumbs could do it, so I only need to allow myself five minutes to rustle something up.’
Mr Kidd has lost patience. ‘We’ll revisit this next lesson. I hope you’re taking it more seriously than you appear to be, Siena.’