High Jinx

by Sara Lawrence

  ‘Slater, Maxwell, Latiffe! How marvellous of you to join us,’ Mrs Susan Dickinson, aka the Dick – the second most hated teacher in the school after Mrs Gunn – growled at the girls as they slunk in through the back door of the cavernous, wood-panelled assembly hall. ‘It’s always the back door with you three. You’ll never make anything of yourselves with that attitude. For goodness sake, hurry up and take your seats …’ She paused, her beady bird’s eyes scanning the room. ‘Over there – back row but one to the right. And look sharp – Mrs Bennett is waiting to address the school.’

  ‘Yes, Miss,’ mumbled Jinx, before whispering to Chastity, ‘I bet she always takes it in the back door. Who’d want to look her in the eye for any sustained period?’

  Chastity snorted, earning them all a furious glare from the Dick, but Jinx’s fuzzy head was pounding and she was beginning to feel distinctly sketchy and shady and could really do without any more of the Dick’s feeble sarcasm, ‘Sorry, Miss.’

  The Dick raised a thinning ginger eyebrow and turned her back. She was head of Stagmount’s excellent, world-renowned modern languages department, and had bright-orange hair that contrasted horribly with her incredibly pasty skin. She’d worn the same terrible Prince of Wales check green and brown skirt every day for the last five years and stank of awful body odour. She would tolerate no talking in her lessons, no laughing, no loo stops, no questions – unless asked in perfect French, or whatever other language she was ruining for ever for the girls – no late arrivals, no gags, no lip-gloss, no mobile phones, no chewing gum, no fun. She did, however, speak French, German, Urdu and Mandarin Chinese like a native, which was presumably how she got the job in the first place.

  The Dick also had a son, Brendan, regularly held up to her classes as a god amongst men, the perfect son and student who managed to combine astonishing levels of religious fervour in one so young with studying for a Classics degree at Oxford, in which he would – naturally – graduate at the top of his year. Brendan’s very existence was, of course, a source of constant fascination to the girls, who found it equally hilarious and horrifying that someone had had the temerity to impregnate the Dick in the first place. He was also the only subject on which the Dick could ever be drawn out on, and his many merits were therefore especially discussed on the dreaded vocabulary test days.

  The three sixth formers collapsed on to the end of one of the old oak pews that had been co-opted from the chapel at the end of last year due to some highly successful PR tours of Russia and the Middle East that had brought in some two hundred more girls.

  Whilst every girl was expected to attend the bi-weekly assemblies, not every girl could be forced to attend the daily chapel services in the Byzantine chapel with its beautiful marble floor and stunning stained-glass windows.

  Privately, Stagmount’s headmistress, Mrs Bennett, thought this was a shame. She couldn’t help but wonder why, exactly, these highly educated and affluent parents from all over the world bothered to send their daughters to Stagmount and then insist upon measures that would inevitably exclude them from main school life.

  Privately, Mrs Bennett thought a lot of things. The thought that popped into her head most often these days was that theory is not the same as practice. But she was always very careful to toe the politically correct line in public.

  Jinx wriggled out of her Duffer of St George hoodie. She was sitting between Chastity – who’d been up all night shagging Paul – and Liberty, and beginning to feel extremely hot and claustrophobic as her hangover set in. ‘For Christ’s sake, Lib, move up. I’m dying in here.’

  Liberty gave a theatrical shuffle that moved her arse about a centimetre further up. ‘I can’t. That’s as far as I can go or I’ll be on the fucking floor,’ she hissed. ‘You’re not the only one feeling shady – lighten up, for God’s sake.’

  Being told to ‘lighten up’ when teetering on the precipice of a potentially furious mood was always going to tip Jinx over the edge and Liberty knew it. She knew how to push all of Jinx’s buttons, although she rarely pressed the anger ones. Today though, she would have pushed nuclear destruct without a care in the world had it been in front of her. She hated Jinx’s bad moods. They were like a black storm coming out of a clear blue sky with no warning at all.

  Jinx ground her teeth, clenched her fists and stared determinedly at the back of the head in front of her, a furious scowl twisting her usually smiley features.

  Liberty threw all caution to the winds. ‘Temper, temper,’ she half whistled, in a merry singsong voice specially designed to drive Jinx up the wall and on to the ceiling.

  Jinx reached across and pinched Liberty’s thigh, hard. Liberty emitted a high-pitched squeal and stamped her spike-heeled Marc Jacobs slingback on to Jinx’s Ugg-boot-clad right foot. At the exact moment that Mrs Bennett took her place behind the eagle-shaped carved maple lectern, Jinx cursed loudly and jumped up.

  Mrs Bennett stopped shuffling her papers, lowered her reading glasses and fixed Jinx with a gimlet eye. ‘Everything all right at the back there?’ she enquired, a decidedly icy tinge to her usually warm voice. ‘Hmm. Jinx Slater, perhaps you would come and see me in my office at the end of school notices?’ This was a rhetorical question of course – come hell or high water the entire school knew Jinx would be there.

  ‘Oh God, Jin, I’m really sorry,’ Liberty whispered, immediately repentant. ‘That was so my fault – I’ll come with you and explain.’

  ‘No, don’t worry about it, Lib. I shouldn’t have pinched you, and, anyway, it’s not going to be as bad as last time, is it?’ They both grinned, remembering the when Jinx had been called to Mrs Bennett’s office and the resulting week-long suspension.

  Drunk as a lord, Hermione Dennis had nearly drowned swimming naked off Shoreham beach and, since the girls had been partying there to celebrate Jinx’s fifteenth birthday, she’d felt it was only fair that she take the flak. She hadn’t minded much, especially since her mum and dad had been in the Caribbean at the time and she’d spent the week in London having a riotous time under the care of her hilarious eldest brother, Damian.

  ‘No, you’re right. No one in hospital this time, eh?’ Liberty slung her arm around Jinx’s waist and the two sat in companionable silence as they waited to hear Mrs Bennett’s revelations.

  ‘Good morning, girls,’ Mrs Bennett’s voice echoed around the hall, an unmistakable air of authority and gravitas attached to it. ‘Firstly – and it does pain me to have to start the term on such a low note – I would like to remind you all that smoking is strictly forbidden. Quite apart from being a revolting habit, it poses a serious fire risk. Mrs Dickinson and Mrs Gunn tell me they have seen girls – senior girls they believe – smoking in the passages behind main school. This must stop. From now on, anyone caught smoking can expect a £20 fine to be donated to a cancer charity, and a weekend’s gating. Do I make myself clear?’

  Six hundred and fifty girls rolled their eyes and murmured their assent. The bursar, busy jotting down calculations on the back of an envelope, started as if shot at the mention of charitable donations. Bloody woman! It was only yesterday that he’d expounded at great length to her on the desperate state of the science-block roof.

  ‘Good, let’s hope that’s the last I shall have to say on the topic.’ Despite knowing exactly what she was going to say next, Mrs Bennett re-shuffled the sheaf of papers on the dais in front of her.

  ‘Secondly, as many of you know, I spent the last two weeks in the United States, attending the Global Association of Private Schools’ annual conference in New York.’ Here Mrs Bennett paused and looked around the room, thinking how excellently her keynote speech about the importance of multicultural integration in schools had been received.

  ‘It might please you to know that Stagmount’s reputation remains unsurpassed amongst both our domestic and international colleagues, and that we came top of the girls’ school league for the third year running.’

  As the girls began to clap and cheer, Mrs Benne
tt permitted herself a tiny smile of self-congratulation. They were good girls really, all of them. They seemed to get a lot of enjoyment out of life, and so they should. She couldn’t bear mopers and whingers. This lot were thoroughly nice girls, and certainly a lot more fun than the ones she’d left behind at Benenden.

  ‘However,’ she continued, ‘one area in which I feel we may be lagging somewhat behind our American cousins in particular is emotional development. To this end I have signed Stagmount up for a series of “empowerment programmes”. They start next term. Each year will be split into two groups – alphabetically decided, so no arguments please – and spend a day with a specially trained empowerment psychologist who will discuss everything from gossip and cliques to verbal and physical bullying.’

  Mrs Bennett thought this was both a waste of money and a load of old rubbish, but she had to pay lip service to all the newfangled schemes if she were to maintain Stagmount’s highly desirable top of the tree position.

  Jinx nudged Liberty at the same time as Chastity leaned across and said ‘Whaaaat?’ Like a cage full of spider monkeys, girls of all ages began chattering and cackling at the news.

  ‘Christ, America’s finally gone to her head,’ said Jinx, suddenly, miraculously feeling a whole lot better. ‘I knew it was only a matter of time. But shit, I mean, I know I always say a movie’s not worth watching unless it’s got a high school in it and everything, but that doesn’t mean I hold with all that psychobabble bullshit. Cliques? Gossip? Jesus! It’s hardly Mean Girls here is it?’ Jinx began doing jazz hands and doffing a pretend trilby hat towards the stage. ‘It’s goodbye to Stagmount’s scholarly, feminist traditions and a big hello to ersatz Americana.’

  Jinx slouched against the wall outside Mrs Bennett’s office, halfway down the main corridor. She was half-heartedly kicking her Ugg-booted heel against the skirting board, thinking about how much she actually liked and, you know, respected Mrs Bennett, and how it was thus really doubly unfair that she should be called to see her in her office like this in only the second week of term.

  Jo, Mrs Bennett’s Titian-haired secretary, looked up from the latest Heat magazine she was avidly devouring at her desk and smiled at Jinx. ‘Gosh, you’ve got a face like a wet weekend! Don’t fret love, Mrs B is a real pussycat underneath that tiger-like exterior, and anyway – she really likes you.’ Jo winked. ‘Won’t be long. She’s just on the phone to that Guardian journalist. He’s called at least four times this morning already, can’t seem to find his way here from the station.’ Jo sighed, shook her head theatrically from side to side, and began devouring Hot or Not.

  Jinx smiled, and stood up straighter. Jo was right – Mrs Bennett did like her, and she liked Mrs Bennett. She’d hardly done anything too bad anyway. What’s a kicking between friends? More interesting was the journalist. She wondered what he wanted. Mrs B did have a hefty media profile and was always to be found in the weekend broadsheets, having provided pithy copy for ‘I couldn’t have got where I am today without’, ‘a day in the life of’ and ‘best of times, worst of times’ et al., but the girls had read too many of them to be much interested.

  Just as Jinx’s wild imagination was running riot with a tall tale involving one of the very beautiful and very rich Russian fourth formers, the Mafia and a foiled kidnapping, the heavy door creaked open and Mrs Bennett popped her short dark-haired head through the gap.

  ‘Jinx? Ah good, nice to see you, do come in.’ Jinx grabbed her book bag and extra-long scarf off the floor, swept through the open door into her headmistress’s lair and seated herself in one of the red-velvet hard-backed chairs opposite the vast mahogany desk.

  Mrs Bennett’s office was a peaceful place, Jinx decided, as she gazed round the high-ceilinged room. A group of wicker chairs sat in front of the marble fireplace, and the varnished oak floor was mostly covered with a bright red, orange and yellow-patterned Bokhara rug. Three bronze sculpted racehorses stood on a low glass coffee table underneath the large picture window looking over the playing fields down to the sea, and a huge oil-painted portrait of Penelope Tanner, the eldest of the three sisters who’d founded the school, smiled down at interviewees and miscreants from the opposing wall.

  As Jinx leaned forward to dump her bag on the floor a ten-pack of Lucky Strikes fell out of her coat pocket. Fuck! Mrs Bennett was seated behind her huge desk by now, and couldn’t see the floor, but really – what shit luck Jinx was having at the moment. She twisted her neck as if stretching out a kink, at the same time as she pretended to touch her toes and rammed the offending fag packet deep to the bottom of her textbook-laden bag. ‘And bloody well stay there!’ she hissed, before sitting up and smiling winningly at Mrs B.

  Mrs Bennett cocked her head to one side, pursed her lips in a puzzled fashion and peered at Jinx through her black-framed Prada spectacles.

  ‘Is everything all right, Jinx? You seem to be having some – ah – physical problems today. Have you got a bad back? If so, you really must make an appointment with the physiotherapist – we need you fighting fit for all the lacrosse matches this term!’

  ‘No, no, Mrs B. Everything’s fine thanks – really!’ Jinx said in what she sincerely hoped was a breezy voice, as the absolute last thing she wanted was a session of torturous physio when there was nothing wrong with her. She also neglected to point out that she’d been kicked out of the lacrosse team halfway through her first term for smacking Daisy Finnegan round the head with a stick. She’d asked for it.

  ‘I think I slept a bit funny, that’s all. I’ll have a good stretch before bed tonight.’ Jinx made a big show of sitting up ramrod straight, crossed her ankles in imitation of Princess Diana, clasped her hands demurely in her lap and smiled reassuringly at Mrs Bennett. ‘How are you, Mrs Bennett?’

  ‘Ah,’ Mrs Bennett sighed, ‘in medias res, you know.’ Jinx stifled a giggle and thought it was A Good Thing Mrs B had the terribly pretentious habit of dropping Latin words and phrases into ordinary conversation, as otherwise Jinx would no doubt have the most almighty crush on her. And whichever way you think about it, a crush on the headmistress is never a good look.

  ‘Now, Jinx,’ Mrs Bennett continued, her usually serene face looking ever so slightly flustered, ‘you’re probably wondering why I called you in here.’ Jinx squinted and nodded in what she hoped was a scholarly fashion and leaned forward slightly. So she wasn’t going to be told off for her breach of the peace in assembly? Bloody teachers. Of course she was wondering what she was doing here.

  ‘Well, the thing is … most irregular at this stage of course,’ Mrs Bennett paused, looking uncharacteristically perplexed, ‘we’ve got a new girl starting tomorrow, in the lower sixth, and I thought you would be an excellent person to take her under your wing a bit. You know, show her the ropes and where everything is.’

  Jinx sat up straight for real. A new girl? Two weeks into the term? Wowser, this was great gossip for sure!

  ‘Naturally, Mrs B,’ Jinx simpered. ‘I’d be delighted to help her – and you – out. What’s her name?’ Of course, Jinx didn’t give two figs what the new girl’s name was, especially when there were about a million other more important questions she wanted answered, but experience had taught her it was best to start off innocuously with teachers, especially where sharp old Mrs B was concerned.

  ‘Her name is Stella Fox.’ Mrs Bennett leaned her elbows on the desk and linked her fingers, her forearms making a pyramid shape.

  ‘She’s coming here from Bedales.’ Jinx raised an eyebrow. ‘She’s been at Bedales since the third form, so may find Stagmount’s ways a little – erm – tougher than she’s been used to.’

  Mrs Bennett hesitated, pondered Jinx’s ‘helpful’ face in front of her and brightened considerably, ‘But, thanks to your very kind offer of help, Jinx, I am sure she’ll settle down in no time at all. You really are a very warm-hearted girl, and I am counting on you to make Stella feel right at home.’

  ‘Of course, Mrs B, Stella will be fine with us – we
’re a very friendly lot in the lower sixth you know.’ Jinx winked, then blushed when she registered Mrs B’s surprise. Inappropriate facial expressions were like a disability with Jinx – she despaired of ever mastering the poker face.

  Mrs Bennett smiled and leaned back in her chair, thinking that really, whatever Patricia Gunn had to say about it – and there was plenty – Jinx Slater was a thoroughly nice girl and turning into a real Stagmount success story.

  Jinx meanwhile, was thinking about the two girls she’d known at prep school who’d gone to Bedales and what absolute slags they’d turned into. Clever academically yes, but stupid beyond belief when it came to boys. Yuck, just thinking about the positively whorish Jennifer and Josephine who’d had such rectitudinal attitudes towards sex until they’d been targeted by the Bedales brainwashing stun gun, made her feel sick.

  She shuddered as she recalled Jennifer earnestly trying to explain to her during one Easter holiday that, actually, it was empowering to sleep around, and that the three guys she’d shagged at the same party had, like, respected her for it. Ha! She wishes. Why not have some respect for yourself, Jennifer, and just not do it in the first place, thought Jinx then and now. She’d not seen her since.

  Mrs Bennett stood up and opened the door. As Jinx prepared to stride purposefully gossip-wards through it Mrs B patted her shoulder and said, ‘Jinx, I want you to know that I’m really proud of you and the lovely young woman you are becoming. You are a real credit to this school, don’t forget that.’

  ‘Aw, thanks, Mrs B,’ Jinx said and blushed again, pleased this time, and smiled her way out, kowtowing for all she was worth like a real live Buddhist monk, pulling the door closed behind her.