by Amy Wilson
‘Sorry,’ I say, taking a step back. We don’t shop here. I shouldn’t have stopped. I shouldn’t be here at all. I should go home now. Feed the chickens, because Peg will probably forget, and curl up with a book by the fire. Why would anyone want anything else?
‘Hang on,’ says the tall fair-haired woman. ‘What did you fancy, lovely?’
‘Oh, nothing . . . I, um. It smelt good.’ I force a smile. ‘I’m just . . . heading for school. It’s my first day.’ I clench my fists in my pockets. It is my first day. I am doing this.
‘Ah,’ she says. ‘A bit of nerves, then. I thought you looked worried. You’ll be fine. They get all sorts at that school – some real characters . . . You don’t need to worry.’
‘Thank you,’ I manage. ‘I should go.’
‘Wait a minute,’ she says, drawing my eyes up. There’s a sparkle in her blue eyes that makes me wonder, just for a second, if she has a little magic. Some people do. A bit of fae blood, passed through generations, or an affinity with the words in books of magic. The closer you are to fae, the more you open your eyes to it and the more you can do. That’s what Nan says, anyway. ‘You can have a teacake, if you’d like.’
‘Oh, but I didn’t bring any money,’ I stammer.
‘That’s why I didn’t say buy, my dear,’ she says, shaking her head. She reaches out and plucks one of the buns from the top of the pile on the counter. ‘Call it a first-day treat; you look like you could use one. Horrible out there today, and that forest was fair howling last night.’ She shivers. ‘I think I’ll have one too, come to that. I’ll toast it for you. Butter?’
‘Um. Yes, please.’
She cuts two of the buns in half and slides the pieces into a gleaming toaster. Then she thrusts her hands into massive oven mitts and turns to rearrange the trays of pastries in the oven on the back wall. I watch her, shuffling my feet and hoping it won’t make me late. When the toaster pops, I jump half out of my skin. She shakes her head at me with a little smile, removing the mitts and buttering the teacakes with a practised hand.
‘Here,’ she says, putting mine into a paper bag and handing it to me. Her eyes sparkle again as she takes a bite of her own. ‘That’ll get you warmed up. Have a good day, lovely.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, past a little lump in my throat.
She nods, and I back out of the shop, clutching the bag between my cold hands. I hold it like that for a couple of streets, and only when the school looms into view do I take my first bite. I can’t believe I’m actually here. The teacake tastes as good as it looks, and it soothes me while I loiter on the edge of the pavement, getting up the courage to make the next move.
The school is a rambling collection of redbrick buildings that rears up on the east of the village, behind a complicated road junction of traffic lights and underground tunnels. The River Bat, which starts in the mountains behind our house, has grown wide here, and it rushes past, caught behind the concrete wall that leads to a squat bridge.
It took me a while to cross the road – I didn’t know which way to go, and the pedestrian tunnel was dark and damp. It’s a relief to be out of it now and in the right place, staring up at the sprawling jagged skyline and the huge old brass bell that swings in the tower over the main school building. I shiver as the sun disappears behind it.
BROADMERE ACADEMY reads the shining green sign on the metal gate. There are points on the ends of all the letters, like spearheads. I smooth down my good dress – a faded dusky-blue one that Nan made for me to grow into – and retie my boots. It’s suddenly quiet, all the noise of the town behind me, and I have no idea what I’m about to get myself into. From out here, I can’t see anybody. No students on the steps; no movement in the windows. Nobody loitering out here like me.
I take a big breath, push open the gate, and head up the steps.
The wide glass doors open automatically as I loiter outside them, looking at my own reflection. My heart is tripping; my fingertips numb. I take a breath and step into a small lobby. There’s a silver box on the wall and a button that says PRESS FOR ATTENTION, so I swallow hard and press it.
There’s a long silence. I stare at the silver box, wondering whether to press the button again, and then there’s a buzzing noise and a woman’s voice breaks out, making me jump.
‘Yes?’ it demands.
‘Uh, my name is Stella Brigg. I called yesterday . . .’
‘Come in,’ says the voice.
There’s another buzz, and the door opens out into a bright reception area with a ridged navy carpet and a long, pale wooden counter. A tiny woman with short curly hair and a sharp chin sits behind it on a stool, peering at me.
‘So you’re our trial student,’ she says with a thin smile. ‘Welcome to Broadmere. I am Mrs Edge.’
‘Hi.’ I manage a smile, sidling up to the counter. On the ledge behind it is a computer, a phone, a tray of papers and a huge silver spike.
‘What papers do you have?’ Mrs Edge asks.
‘Uh, none. Sorry . . .’
‘Ah, one of those,’ she says, tilting her head with a small frown. ‘And you’re all alone in the world? No parents?’
‘They, um . . . They died when I was small. But I do have my nan.’ I don’t mention that she’s a ghost. ‘She’s . . . housebound.’
‘I see. Well, I’m sure you’ll find yourself in good company here. Sign here.’ Mrs Edge thrusts a clipboard at me, tapping at the bottom of a heavily typed page, where there’s a dotted line. ‘I take it you’re from the forest. You can write?’
‘Yes.’
The reference to the forest unsettles me, and I don’t quite know what she means by one of those, but it doesn’t matter, because I can hardly concentrate on anything she’s saying. I try to read the page before me, but my heart is thumping so hard, it’s difficult to see straight. I catch the words behaviour and discipline but not much else.
This isn’t how I thought a school would be. It doesn’t seem like the ones in books, where there are corridors full of kids, and fish fingers for lunch, and kindly librarians. Maybe there will be once I’m through this bit, I reassure myself. There’s a pen caught in the clip at the top of the page. My hand shakes, and the snap as I pull it out makes me jump.
I wanted to come to school, I remind myself. This is the school, and I’m here now. I take a deep breath and finish the signature, handing the clipboard back to Mrs Edge. Her eyes flick from me to the page, and then she whips the paper off the board and thrusts it on to the gleaming silver spike. I flinch.
‘Wait over there,’ she says, indicating a row of plastic chairs along the wall next to a wide door with little green wire hexagons in the glass. ‘I’ll get somebody to show you to your first class.’
‘I didn’t see anybody outside,’ I venture. ‘Are the other students already here?’
‘The school day begins at 8.40 a.m. sharp,’ she says. ‘So they are already in their classes. There will be plenty of bustle to come, don’t worry about that!’
‘OK.’
I settle back into the chair, clutching my bag on my lap. My calf muscles twitch with the urge to run out of here, so I shift in the seat, screwing myself more firmly into it. Mrs Edge gets a brass call bell out of the top drawer, sets it on to the counter, and then slams her hand down on to it twice, two clear notes sounding out. She returns the bell to the drawer and folds her hands upon the counter, staring at the door.
Who would have heard that, through the door and the whitewashed walls?
Just a moment later, though, a slender boy with longish chestnut hair opens the door.
‘Yanny,’ she says, looking him up and down.
He is a bit scruffy. And a bit . . . something. He catches me staring and gives me a glittering smile.
‘This is Stella. She is here with us for a trial period, while we sort out paperwork. Could you take her up to your form room and introduce her to Miss Olive, please?’
‘Yes, Mrs Edge.’
Yanny stares at me
while I unpeel myself from the plastic seat, picking up my bag with numb fingers. He indicates for me to go before him, and the door slams behind us, the sound echoing through a wide hallway with a polished wood floor. There’s a staircase leading down on the left, and another leading up past a row of windows on the right. The sun blazes in over a green sports field, where a group of kids are playing what looks like hockey.
I stare at them. I didn’t bring any sports clothes with me – I’m not sure I even own any. There’s so much I have never thought of. So much I’d never imagined, even with all the books on schools I’ve read. My stomach is churning with nerves, and my head thuds with the beat of my heart, but there’s also a little glow wickering deep within me, because I really did it – I got this far.
Let the adventures begin, says a little voice inside my head, and I hold on to it, even as Yanny leads me through a maze of white-walled corridors.
This is school. This is normal. This is what I wanted.
I don’t know about normal schools, but I don’t think this is one.
Here, there is a great staircase that shimmers like a trick and leads up to an old, ornate wooden door. Silver charms hang from the sweeping curved banister that remind me very much of the ones I set at home.
How can that be? Am I imagining it? Is it the berry Peg warned me about yesterday, making me see things? I train my eyes on Yanny and ignore the staircase, focusing on everything else that’s going on around us. So much buzz and noise and heat and tripping down steps and through corridor after corridor, it’s a relief when finally we stop in the doorway to a classroom where the sun streams through wide glass windows, and bags and coats are flung about like autumn leaves.
What was that staircase? Did I really see it?
‘What do those stairs lead to?’ I ask in a whisper as I follow Yanny into the room, trying to sort of hide behind him. The room is warm, and my coat itches, and there are at least two dozen other kids in here, most of whom are chatting in low tones while a woman with grey-streaked hair glowers at a computer screen.
‘What?’
‘That weird staircase, with all the charms.’
‘Charms?’ He frowns. ‘I’m not sure which staircase you mean. Probably just more classrooms.’
But now he’s staring at me, and his eyes are just a little too wild. That staircase is definitely hiding something. Can there be magic here, at the school? This nice, ordinary school, which I came to because I wanted to know what it was like to be truly human, in a truly human world? Nan’s told me that some humans have an affinity for magic, but surely not to the extent that they’d hang charms? Why would they even need them? Unless there are fae here?
Why would there be fae in school? The very idea is laughable.
Yanny lifts his brows. ‘You OK?’
‘Yep. Sorry. Fine!’
‘Miss Olive, this is the new girl, Stella.’
His voice seems to boom, and all of the easy conversation stops as everyone looks at us. At me.
‘Good morning, Stella.’ The teacher looks up from her screen and smiles, standing. ‘8E! This is Stella . . . ?’ She looks over at me.
‘Brigg,’ I whisper, my skin prickling as I look around at all the curious faces.
‘Stella Brigg,’ she announces. ‘I’m sure you all remember your first day, so I expect you to be welcoming!’ She turns back to me. ‘Take a seat with Yanny; he’ll see you through. I’ll print out your timetable now, once I can get the thing working . . .’
‘Thank you,’ I whisper, darting with Yanny to a table at the back of the room, my face burning under all the intense stares.
‘Sure you’re OK?’ Yanny asks, staring even harder while I try to get my coat off. It’s become some sort of woolly mammoth and wants to smother me entirely.
‘Yes,’ I say, finally yanking it off my arms and letting it fall in a heap on the floor behind me. Some of the kids are still looking. I take a deep breath and hook my ankles around the chair legs, fixing my eyes on the table. Slowly the room settles, until it’s just Yanny peering at me.
‘I’m fine,’ I say.
He’s still staring.
‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘Nothing at all. Welcome to Broadmere.’
His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but my heart lifts a little anyway because here I am, in my first ever classroom.
After a while, Miss Olive hands me a timetable, which is a grid that seems to have been written in code, and then a bell starts clanging, and everyone rushes out.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask Yanny.
‘Lessons!’ he says. ‘Let me see . . .’ He looks at my timetable. ‘You’re with me for science – come on.’
I follow him gratefully, through the clatter of bodies that yesterday I craved so much. I had no idea how loud they would be, or how close. I get jostled and bumped and nearly go flying down the stairs, but somehow, keeping Yanny in sight, I make it in one piece to science.
The teacher, Mr Hocking, hands me a thin blue-covered book and barks my name to the class, before starting his lesson on force and trajectories. I clutch the book and squeeze in next to Yanny, barely noticing anything else about the class in my rush to get rid of my coat and find my pencil.
It’s a heads-down kind of lesson. Mr Hocking has sharp blue eyes and an even sharper tongue, so there’s no talking. I look over at what Yanny’s doing, and he indicates the massive text book between us.
‘That one,’ he whispers, pointing to a triangular diagram.
I have no clue what any of the writing means, but I copy it all down anyway, and then Mr Hocking draws a simplified version up on the big board and begins to go through it all.
It’s a huge relief when the lesson is over, I’m not sure I like Mr Hocking, but when I turn to Yanny to find out where we’re going next, he looks hassled.
‘Uh, right,’ he says, glancing at my timetable. ‘I’m going in the other direction. You have maths . . . Zara, don’t you have maths next too?’ He turns to the girl next to him, who nods.
‘Mr Goodenough?’
I look down at the timetable. The piece of paper is crumpled already, and I don’t even know which bit to look at.
‘Here,’ she says, tracing her finger down one of the columns. ‘M8, Mr G. You’re with me. Come on.’
I look up to thank Yanny, but he’s already gone.
‘Oh, he does that,’ Zara says. ‘He’s nice enough, but not what you’d call steadfast. He’s gone off to have one of his special lessons . . .’
‘Special lessons?’
Does she mean magic lessons? Is he going up that weird, magical-looking staircase? I squint after him, but he’s disappeared already.
It can’t be that.
‘Honour-student thing,’ she says. ‘No such luck for us.’
I’m a little bit in awe of Zara. She fills the space with her words and just her general presence. She’s a head taller than me, her dark hair spools down to her waist, and her eyes are honey gold, narrowing as she gives me a quick, appraising glance.
‘So, where’ve you come from?’ she demands, swinging out into the corridor, scattering smaller kids and bowling through them.
I hurry after her, hunching my shoulders, making myself small. ‘Um. Just home.’
‘Home?’ She turns and arches one eyebrow. ‘What, like home-schooled? Wow. This must be a bit of a change for you, then.’
‘I wanted to come to school.’
‘Well, you chose a weird one,’ she says. ‘I only started last term myself, and there are lots of things going on that I haven’t worked out yet. Including Yanny and his secret lessons. Come on.’
She sweeps off into a classroom and sits at the back of the class, which is a relief, because it turns out being the new girl is a bit of a challenge when you’re used to being in your house alone with a very small imp and a ghost nan. There are just so many people. So many warm bodies, rushing and nudging and staring and whispering.
Za
ra has a lot of stationery. She pulls it out of a huge fluffy pencil case and lines it up on the table. Biros, highlighters, sparkling pencils, and a huge blue rubber that says For Big Mistakes, which makes me smile.
I get out my old striped pencil, scratched and scored after a run-in with Peg, and the folding wooden ruler I found in the study. Zara looks at them and then at me. And then with a tiny sigh, she carefully pushes all her stuff over so that it’s in the middle of the table.
‘Help yourself,’ she whispers, as a man with white hair in the shape of a candle flame walks in and perches on the edge of the table at the front of the class, pink socks winking between trousers and shoes.
‘Thank you,’ I whisper.
She smiles, as yellow exercise books are handed out from the box at the front of the class. The teacher looks at me with a frown.
‘You must be Stella.’
‘Yes.’
‘Welcome,’ he says, as the rest of the class stills to listen. His voice is round and shiny as a new conker. ‘I’m Mr Goodenough.’ A shiver of energy rushes through the room. He walks over to Zara and me, a yellow book in his hand. ‘Here you go.’ His eyes glint as he stares at me, handing over the exercise book before striding back to the board at the front of the class. ‘Division!’ he says, picking up a pen.
Zara copies a complicated sequence of numbers and symbols into her book with great care and a number of different pens, so I follow her lead.
The cafeteria is even busier than the rest of the school and full of noise. There’s a lot of laughter, and talk, and charging about with trays and bags and coats. I sit with Zara at a table beneath the window, and she gets out a plastic box with lots of different compartments. There are grapes, small wedges of flatbread called barbari, a little pot of yogurt-and-cucumber dip, a packet of very thin crackers, called crisps, and a wrapped chocolate biscuit.
I get out my pear and my old bit of sausage, feeling a bit embarrassed. Zara looks over and purses her lips.
‘Do you live in Winterspell Forest?’ she asks.
