High Jinx

by Sara Lawrence

  Sofia insisted their baby be named Liberty, after the country she’d been born in, but also in the hope that she would be as free to make her own decisions in life as the girls she knew in America.

  When the time came for Amir to take his soulmate home to meet his family in Saudi, however, his parents were visibly appalled by his choice of wife and insisted he either divorce Sofia immediately and send her home, or be disinherited for ever. Brave Amir had, sobbing all the while apparently, packed his wife and young daughter on to the next plane out of there.

  Liberty didn’t see him again until, when she was eight years old, he sent a particularly brutal henchman to kidnap her away from her beloved mother and take her to him in Saudi. She had never met her father, didn’t speak the language, and had to contend with the focused hatred of a stepmother who was reminded, every time she looked at the beautiful Liberty, that although she was the first-choice wife of Amir’s family, she was very much the second choice for him.

  Jinx was jolted out of her reverie as Liberty ran towards the water in her matching lacy pale-green Elle MacPherson boy shorts and bra, squealing and jumping when the sharp stones bit into the bottom of beautifully pedicured feet.

  If Liberty had her way she’d be teetering on the edge for hours – she never could just jump straight in. Sadly for her though, Jinx had other ideas. Jinx struggled maniacally to get her extra tight jeans off. Liberty was going in, straight in. The jeans were off.

  As Jinx performed The Ultimate Waterside Rugby Tackle, taught to her with great precision in Mykonos that summer by her brother George, Liberty’s piercing shriek must have been heard all the way to the Marina.

  They emerged coughing, giggling and splashing a few feet from the shore, neither able to touch the bottom, and rolled on to their backs, kicking gently to keep themselves afloat, delirious at the sheer brilliance of a midnight swim in the Christmas term.

  Jinx stretched her neck back and felt the familiar waves of ecstasy-induced euphoria rolling over her. She grabbed Liberty’s hand and the pair floated beneath the stars, nattering about how much they’d missed each other over the summer and loving the feeling of the salty sea against their skin.

  A wrecked and emotional Liberty spluttered from beneath a breaker that had rolled gently over her sky-turned face, ‘Jinx, I’ve never had a friend like you. I missed you so much over the summer, I can’t imagine what life would be like without you in it.’

  Jinx squeezed Liberty’s hand. ‘I’m the same, Lib, and you know it. I’ve got loads of friends, but no one like you. You make boring things seem exciting, and exciting things, well – brilliant!

  ‘And anyway,’ Jinx squirmed underwater, even under the influence of what was turning out to be a particularly good E she preferred to be a great friend rather than endlessly discuss it, ‘I think we should head in. I urgently need to be dancing right about now.’

  They sat on the shingle, shivering in the night air and pulling on their clothes. Liberty flung her arms around Jinx and squeezed her tight. ‘I. Love. You. So. Much.’ She didn’t let go the whole way up the beach, past the fish and chip shops and carousel under the promenade, and up the steps in front of the Royal Crescent.

  Pausing to slip her shoes on, apply some emergency mascara – she’d once read a piece in the Style magazine saying the only sin with mascara was not to wear any, and had never knowingly been seen out without it since – and wring out her wet hair, Jinx jumped as if she’d been shot when she heard someone call her name. Yes, she and Liberty were devil-may-care in the face of rules, but the absolute last result they wanted from an illicit night out was a load of tricky questions and the series of dull gatings that would inevitably ensue.

  Both of them bent low behind a handy phone box. Liberty swore softly when one of Jinx’s golden heels ground the soft brown leather of her Roxanne bag into the grimy pavement. ‘Shut up,’ hissed Jinx, ‘in case you hadn’t noticed, we’re supposed to be keeping a low profile here so quit your moaning!’

  ‘Oh, my God, if it isn’t Stagmount’s very own dumb and dumber.’ A beaming Chastity, clutching handyman Paul’s hand tight in her own, ran across the road, oblivious to the volley of beeping horns and muffled curses as cars swerved to avoid them, narrowly escaping a nasty accident. ‘Have you been swimming? You’re fucking mad, both of you. It’s September for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘Thank God it’s you!’ exclaimed Jinx, teetering on one foot as she laced up her other shoe, ‘we pissed Gunn off earlier, and it wouldn’t surprise me if the old witch was on the warpath. Not that she’s been seen to leave the Stagmount boundary for the last, ooo, at least three years.’

  ‘Yeah,’ sniffed Chastity, flicking her long blonde hair. She’d been in a different lower-school house to the others, had never had an altercation with Gunn, and was consequently nowhere near as obsessive about her as them. ‘Anyway, what are you guys up to? One of Paul’s mates is DJ-ing at The Church, and we’d love you two to come with us, wouldn’t we?’

  ‘Course we would,’ said Paul, who was only a year older than them and spent a lot of time hanging out with Chastity’s friends. He liked the girls a great deal. ‘More the merrier.’

  Liberty linked arms with Paul, Jinx linked arms with Chastity, and the foursome bounded up Ship Street away from the seafront, delighted by the turn of events, happy as Labradors. If they’d had tails they’d have been wagging them like mad.

  Unfortunately, the bouncer at the head of the snaking queue had a very different take on how their evening would pan out. He waved Chastity and Paul through with barely a second glance, but grimaced menacingly when Liberty wobbled in front of him. Clocking her glazed eyes and damp hair the balding man-mountain turned to glare at Jinx. She gave him a jaunty wink, but he was having none of it.

  ‘You two, no way.’ He enunciated his strictly one-syllable sentence slowly.

  ‘Oh, please let us in,’ Liberty begged, ‘it’s our best friend’s birthday party, and we absolutely promise to be on our very best behaviour.’ Stagmount girls were famed the world over for playing their impeccable manners alongside a mild flirtation – with man, woman or beast – to get what they wanted in any situation, no matter how drunk, wrecked or cross they might be. She was batting her eyelashes as fast as she could when he relented.

  ‘All right, girls, I’m going to do you a favour but this only works one way – and that’s my way.’ He paused, clearly pleased with such incontrovertible evidence of his power and status, and determined to enjoy every second of it. ‘You two go to McDonald’s, have yourselves a happy meal, and make damn sure I don’t see you again for at least half an hour.’

  ‘Fine.’ Jinx smiled amicably. ‘Thanks a lot. See you in half an hour then.’

  ‘I’m not hungry at all,’ moaned Liberty as they headed back towards the seafront, ‘and I hate fucking McDonald’s anyway. And if I was going to go there, I’d have six chicken nuggets and an apple pie.’

  Jinx shook her head; sometimes Liberty was so basic it was painful. ‘Shut up, Lib. All we’ve got to do is amuse ourselves for half an hour and McRon’s – obviously – is not going to feature.

  ‘In fact,’ said Jinx, stopping abruptly and gesturing towards a deep-purple door set back from the pavement, ‘this is where we’re going to wait it out. Perfect.’

  This bar was so cool it didn’t have a name, only the purple door signifying its existence to Brighton’s great and good; or drunk and drugged more like. Either way, propping up the bar with a large tumbler filled with rather more bright-blue absinthe than tonic in one hand and a flaming sambuca in the other, Jinx reflected that the sixth form was getting off to an excellent start.

  The first thing she saw when she turned back towards their seats, however, was Liberty, face-down on the small round table. Jinx was confused. Where had that bright yellow ring around her head come from? Was it a hat? An oversized scrunchy? What?

  Mumbling about lightweights and ruined evenings, Jinx put their drinks on the table and unce
remoniously yanked her friend’s head back. Liberty, coughing and spluttering, opened her eyes. Jinx, who was also having trouble focusing by now, peered intently at her pal, marvelling at how bright the whites of Liberty’s eyes were. They looked so bling-tastic, albeit a bit bleary and kind of rolled back, she couldn’t believe it had taken her three years to notice how white they were.

  It was only when a cigarette butt fell out of Liberty’s feathered fringe that Jinx realised what the yellow circle was. A huge, filthy ashtray, that’s what. No wonder, given the dirty great load of fag ash blacking up her face, Liberty’s eyes looked so luminous.

  Jinx released her grip on the ponytail, dipped a napkin thoughtlessly into her lurid blue drink and handed it to Liberty. Without the support Liberty’s head lolled, and her outstretched hand brushed the side of the low table before coming to rest, monkey-like, on the floor. And, as if in slow motion, her face planted right back into the middle of the ashtray with a resounding thwack.

  ‘Christ,’ muttered Jinx, swooping their mobiles, fags and wallets into her oversized brown bag with a white-leather Pegasus stitched on the side whilst staggering to her feet, one sad eye on the fit barman she’d been hoping to chat up later. ‘Most people wouldn’t put up with this. You’re a fucking disaster area, Latiffe. Let’s get you home.’

  Since Liberty was completely incapable of standing unsupported, Jinx propped her against a whitewashed wall outside and rang for a cab.

  After an arduous evening spent filing parental letters in what she, hilariously she thought, referred to as her ‘circular file’– the waste-paper bin in her study – and scoffing bourbon creams, Mrs Gunn was enjoying her customary midnight snooze in front of the telly before bed.

  Lying on her back on the sofa, cushions plumped behind her huge head, mouth open wide, and a cup of lukewarm tea perched precariously between her vast thighs, Mrs Gunn was also in the midst of the best sex dream she’d ever had.

  ‘Oh … oh … oooooh … Susan,’ she moaned, somewhat incoherently, gnashing and grinding her stumpy teeth, ‘don’t wait another second, take me now, I beg you, the pleasure is almost too intense …’ Mrs Gunn began writhing around, such as she could, and a desperate smile lit her sleeping face as the tea appeared in danger of slopping about all over her lap.

  ‘Dick, Dick, Dick, Dick,’muttered Mrs Gunn in staccato, gurning impressively as she threw her head back in a paroxysm of ecstasy. Sleeping beauty she was not.

  Mrs Gunn was close to dream-induced climax – the only kind she was ever likely to get these days – when she was suddenly, rudely, awoken by a muffled yell followed by a lot of giggling coming from the open corner window that looked over the drive and the tuck shop.

  ‘Argh!’ she screamed, sexually frustrated and furious, as she jumped up.

  ‘ARGH!’ she screamed again, as cold tea disported itself gaily about her lower person as if it was all part of a personal vendetta.

  She rubbed ineffectually at the great expanse of her lap, cursed vehemently, and peered out the window. She frowned so hard at what she saw that she gave herself an instantaneous migraine. Clutching her throbbing head in her fat hands, she drew back as if shot and gingerly lay back down on the damp sofa.

  Mrs Gunn screwed her piggy eyes tight closed. She felt so thoroughly done over in so many ways, she worried she might actually break down and weep and wail right there.

  But no, thoughts of potential vengeance put her back on an even keel, and she made up her mind to deal with the miscreants here and now, once and for all. As she slammed the door to the small flat closed behind her, Mrs Gunn reached into her pocket and withdrew her aviator sunglasses. The lenses were scratched and the frames twisted as she never bothered with a case, but she always wore them when on one of her many detective missions – even in the middle of the night.

  She fancied they lent her the girlish air of Nancy Drew, her favourite literary detective. Nancy, that attractive young super-sleuth, could solve any mystery in eighty pages; braving white-water rapids in a sinking canoe on one page, she was whipping up a gourmet meal for fifteen on the next. She was wealthy, yes, but not afraid to get her hands dirty. Why were none of the Stagmount girls like her? In truth, the silly glasses made Mrs Gunn look even stupider than normal.

  She rammed them over her eyes and shouted for Myrtle, the rake-thin ancient whippet that had been left, orphaned and homeless, at Wollstonecraft House when her predecessor had finally kicked the bucket, and followed her everywhere.

  Half-blind and short of breath – caused, or so the girls insisted anyway, by Mrs Gunn sitting on the poor beast by mistake during a particularly racy episode of the six o’clock news one day – Myrtle slunk along the outside wall and fell into her customary step, three paces behind her adoptive mistress.

  They made a queer sight, the overfed mistress and her skinny dog shuffling through the dark night, but Stagmountians were used to Gunn and her odd practices.

  Gunn, the migraine refusing to go away and pounding in her head like a million angry wasps smoked out of their nest, stomped her way across the verdant quadrangle with no regard for the ‘Keep Off the Grass’ signs she had campaigned so officiously for.

  Slater and Latiffe, Slater and Latiffe. The words hammered into her brain with every flat-footed step she took. She’d looked out of the window just in time to see Latiffe careering off the side of one of those wooden benches by the tuck shop, and was under no illusion whatsoever that those two were drunk as skunks. Pah. That dark one probably couldn’t even walk a straight line sober.

  Those little bitches were going to get it this time, make no mistake. They’d made a fool of her once too often, and – she did an impromptu jig at the thought of this, but immediately regretted it as the unscheduled movement rocketed the unceasing migraine up a step – this time they were going to regret it. Oh yes.

  How many times had Slater been suspended already? At least three. Bah. She remembered Mrs Slater – Gunn was furiously jealous of most of the parents, and especially the mothers, but Caroline Slater’s easy grace, fabulous wardrobe, loving husband and convertible silver Porsche Boxter Turbo drove her even wilder than usual – actually laughing the last time she’d phoned to inform her of the suspension, before saying, ‘Oh how wonderful, Mrs G. The weather’s lovely – she can ride her pony and come skiing with Martin and I.’ Gunn had slammed the received down in disgust and bitterly regretted not making the spawn of the devil sign her special gating register in her study every fifteen minutes during all her free time for the next two weeks instead.

  Gunn knew the girls would have to reach the safety of Tanner House via the circuitous games pitches route, whereas she could stride down the drive with impunity. So by her reckoning, even though she was no Kelly Holmes, she’d reach the front door and Brian Morris before they’d have a chance to walk all that way and climb in whichever window they’d hijacked for their evil purposes. The despicable slugs!

  Gunn arrived at Mr Morris’s door in record time and out of breath. She leaned on the buzzer, and was gratified to see his tired face at the window almost immediately.

  ‘Wass up?’ the poor man groaned at the huge bulky outline blocking out his porch light. ‘Patricia? Is everything OK?’

  ‘I am sorry,’ intoned Gunn pompously, ‘to wake you, Mr Morris, but I have a very serious matter to discuss with you, and it absolutely cannot wait.’

  ‘Right,’ mumbled a shattered Mr Morris, who was never tip-top on first awaking, ‘let’s have it then. What’s the problem?’

  ‘The problem, my dear man, is that two of your girls are not in their rooms. I was woken – in the middle of a most excellent dream I might add – by yelling on the drive, looked out my window, and saw the reprobates staggering about. Clearly,’ here she stuck her huge nose even higher in the air than seemed possible, ‘inebriated.’

  Mr Morris shook his head and sighed, but was too tired to do anything but lead the way to the lower corridor. He made a big show of switching on the lights, kic
king the wall as if by mistake, and coughing loudly as he did so. He, frankly, didn’t give two hoots if the girls had been out or not, but he was damned if he was going to be shown up in front of this terrible woman.

  They stopped outside Jinx’s room, but before Mr Morris had a chance to knock, Gunn burst in like a fat stoat released from a hunter’s trap.

  The room was in darkness, but the teachers could clearly make out a few blonde curls on the pillow, and a decidedly Jinx-shaped hump under the duvet. As she emitted a tiny perfect snore and rolled over, Mr Morris spied a wet, mud-splattered golden heel peeping out from under the end of the bed. He smiled to himself as he quietly pulled the door closed and turned to Mrs Gunn.

  ‘Well, Patricia.’ Mr Morris drew himself up to his full five feet seven inches and pulled his pale-blue towelling robe tight at the waist. For a somewhat diminutive and wrinkly man, he cut an imposing figure standing there in the middle of the night in the shadowy lower corridor. ‘I trust this will be the end of the day’s accusations.’ Mrs Gunn, champing at the bit to interrupt, was dumbstruck when Mr Morris raised an authoritative hand to stop her.

  ‘It’s late, and I for one am going back to bed. I am sorry, Mrs Gunn, but you must leave immediately. I won’t hear another word against those girls.’ He raised his hand again and was sure he heard a muffled snort of laughter, quickly turned into an elaborate coughing fit, from the other side of Jinx’s door. ‘Nope. I’m not listening. If you feel you must discuss this matter any further – although I sincerely hope you will not – you’ll find me in the staffroom tomorrow.’

  Chastened and appalled, Mrs Gunn trudged down the drive, slowly, furiously. If it’s war they want, she thought whilst grinding her teeth impressively loudly once again, but for a much less happy reason, it’s war they’re going to get. ‘And,’ she whispered to a very frightened looking Myrtle, summing up, ‘there’s only going to be one winner.’