by Mia James
‘I’ll be okay.’ Fiona sniffed. ‘I’m not sure it’s actually sunk in just yet. Do you think I’ll get away with wearing black today?’
April smiled to herself. She was right about her friend - she was genuinely shocked and upset, but she would also relish the opportunity for drama. The St Geoffrey’s uniform was a horrible battleship grey with burgundy trim and was strictly enforced. Heaven help the girl who dared to turn up in a skirt above the knee - she risked the wrath of their formidable headmistress Miss Batty. April had once been on the receiving end after wearing shoes that were deemed ‘inappropriately high’ and she still shivered at the memory.
‘Good luck with that,’ said April. ‘I can’t see Miss Batty letting you wear black if your whole family had dropped down dead, let alone ...’
She tailed off as Fiona began to sob. ‘Sorry, Fee, I didn’t mean ...’ April felt the miles between them stretching away into the distance. ‘Oh, honey, I wish I was there to help you through this.’
‘Well, if your dad can find out anything more about it, you know, details, I think that would help.’
‘Sure, I’ll ask him, but it is his first day at work.’
‘No, no,’ said Fiona, blowing her nose loudly. ‘Quite right, the show must go on, that’s what Alix would have wanted. Perhaps I can just wear a black hat to the school gates or something, some small gesture like that.’
‘That would be better.’
‘Anyway, that’s enough about me,’ said Fiona. ‘It’s your first day, you lucky thing.’
‘Lucky? I’m dreading it. All those freaky brainboxes and rich kids, it’s going to be a nightmare.’
‘No uniform, all those new boys, it’s going to be amazing!’ enthused Fiona, recovering herself. ‘Just imagine, loads of boys actually sitting next to you in class, talking to you in the corridor, holding doors open for you - it’ll be heaven.’
April smiled. It was amazing what five years of private education in an all-girls school could do for your imagination. Since her place at Ravenwood had been confirmed, Fiona had blown the school up into some sort of romantic Jane Austinera fantasy where elegant gentlemen cast furtive but earnest glances at you from beneath their top hats.
‘I’m not sure it’s going to be quite that exciting, Fee.’
‘Of course it is,’ insisted Fiona. ‘There will be boys with titles there - real-life lords.’
‘I don’t think ...’
But Fiona was still talking. ‘And I bet they all drive Range Rovers and call their mums and dads “mater and pater”. God, you must call me as soon as you get out of there, I need to hear everything!’
April didn’t think it was going to be exciting at all, in fact she was dreading setting foot inside the gates. Even worse, all Fiona’s talk of boys had immediately made her think of Neil. Her stomach turned over. The last thing she wanted to do was meet new boys who would waltz off with the first flirty blonde who fluttered her eyelashes in their direction.
Fiona was clearly on April’s wavelength.
‘Anyway, you don’t have to worry about Neil—’ she began.
‘Neil?’ said April quickly. ‘What about Neil?’
‘You’ll never believe this, but—sskkizzzzopp—aid Miranda wa—kkzzzunnngg—’
Dammit - her phone was breaking up! ‘Fee? What? Who said what about Miranda?’
Silence. April looked down at the screen of her phone. One bar! And she was only about two miles out of central London - how did that work?
‘Hello? Can you hear me? Fee?’
‘Listen, you’re cracking up a bit,’ said Fiona. ‘Give me a call at—’
Her last words were cut off. Damn, damn, damn. April looked down at her phone, then up at the street and sighed. ‘Cracking up is right,’ she muttered and set off down the hill.
Walking towards the Heath in the bright October morning sunlight, April actually found it hard to feel too gloomy. Red and golden leaves peppered the pavement under gracefully sagging autumnal trees and she had to grudgingly admit that the whole village looked rather lovely; the tall stone houses with their clipped gardens, the view of London in the distance all covered in a blanket of rust and red. They had never really had autumn in Scotland. In fact she and Fiona often joked how Edinburgh was under a weird spell of permanent winter. Sure, they had a few weeks of weak sunlight in high summer, but then it was straight back to bullet-hard rain being blown directly into your face. She looked down at her coat; it was stylish, but it was still heavy wool. April’s wardrobe consisted almost entirely of things made of wool; it was the only way to keep warm in Scotland. Secretly she actually enjoyed wrapping up in scarves, hats and thick jumpers as she didn’t particularly want anyone staring at her body, which she always felt was too lanky and boyish, a world away from Miranda Cooper’s sexy Kelly Brook curves. And April certainly didn’t want anyone looking at her today of all days. Even so, she had been up especially early that morning to choose an outfit, excited and nervous about her first day at a school without a uniform. She had discussed it with Fee for weeks, but it was impossible to second-guess what would be considered the ‘right look’ at Ravenwood, despite the fact that the school had sent through a forbidding-looking list of rules, including a dress code that specified height of shoes, length of skirts and so on. Even so it was liberating - not to say terrifying—to be able to choose ‘real clothes’ to wear to school. She had carefully picked out something stylish but still neutral and safe; the navy skirt and cream cowl-neck jumper hardly marked her out as a fashion pioneer. It was more like camouflage; her plan was to sink into the background as much as possible ... but until she got there she had no idea if this outfit would help her blend in or make her stand out.
She walked down Swain’s Lane, a steep road that followed the contour of the hill on which Highgate was built. It was clearly a very old road, with ancient stone walls on one side and old iron railings on the other, through which she could glimpse Highgate Cemetery. When April had researched the area - hoping, she supposed, to find a loophole that would let her stay in Scotland - she had been intrigued to discover the range of people spending eternity in the graveyard. Famous figures like Karl Marx rubbed shoulders with Radclyffe Hall, little-known author of a book called The Well of Loneliness. April looked around. Loneliness. That’s about right, she thought, then almost jumped backwards as something broke cover from the undergrowth and sprinted across the road. Her hand flew to her mouth, her heart pounding as she tried not to cry out.
‘A fox,’ she gasped, slightly embarrassed by her reaction. ‘Only a fox.’
She knew that foxes were a common sight in many cities, of course, but she’d never seen one in Edinburgh’s less forgiving granite landscape.
‘Stupid,’ she whispered, but she still looked nervously over her shoulder and increased her pace a little.
Ravenwood was impressive in the light of day. The sun wasn’t quite out, but the rain had made the slate roof glisten and the puddles in the quad in front of the grand pillared entrance reflected the brightness. As she turned into the wide gates she had to dodge around the line of cars stopping in front of the school.
April had to stifle an incredulous laugh. It looked like the Oscars - lines of limousines and black prestige vehicles dropping their A-list cargo onto an imaginary red carpet before purring away. In her direct line of vision she could see two grey Porsche Cayennes, three Bentleys and six black 4x4s of assorted sizes, all with tinted windows, all stopping briefly on Ravenwood’s wide gravel drive. April offered a little prayer of thanks that she had avoided the humiliation of letting her mother drop her off in their little hatchback. She could only see the backs of the students getting out of the cars but she recognised the red soles of the strictly non-regulation Christian Louboutain shoes, not to mention the assortment of Louis Vuitton and Mulberry totes masquerading as school bags. God, this is going to be hell, she thought. Taking a deep breath, April joined the stream of pupils walking into school, assuming they knew wher
e they were going. There were a few curious glances from younger pupils, but she guessed that, to them, a senior was a senior. She pulled a letter from her bag that said she had to register in room thirty-six at 9 a.m., wherever room thirty-six was. There was nothing for it - she’d have to ask. She tapped a girl walking past her on the shoulder. April pulled her hand back at the touch of the coat. Fur - real fur. The girl spun around and thick blonde hair bounced over her shoulders. Her face was exquisite, like a Russian czarina’s - wide-spaced pale blue eyes, pale skin like marble and a cool, haughty expression that matched her icy beauty perfectly. April opened her mouth to speak but no words came out; the girl stopped and gave April a curious look, as if she wasn’t entirely sure what she was seeing. Then she smoothed the arm of her silky-haired black coat and turned away, having clearly dismissed her from her thoughts.
April heard giggling behind her.
‘Heaven help she who touches the black rabbit.’
She spun round to see a short girl with a dark bob and a mischievous grin.
‘You look lost.’
‘I am.’ April nodded, blushing. She watched the fur-coat-wearing student disappear through double doors at the end of the corridor. ‘Was that coat really black rabbit?’ she asked in a hushed voice.
‘Disgusting, isn’t it?’ said the girl. ‘It was white mink last winter. She’s the only girl allowed to wear fur to school, for some reason. Then again, Davina’s father is practically the richest man in London so I guess normal rules don’t apply. I’m Caro Jackson, by the way. Who are you?’
‘April. April Dunne.’
She was distracted briefly by a gorgeous Indian boy walking into school, his suit so neatly pressed it looked as if it had sharp edges.
‘What are you in for?’
April turned back to Caro. ‘In for?’
‘Your gift.’ Caro grinned. ‘What got you locked up here? You know: maths, physics, telekinesis - what’s your speciality? You know Ravenwood caters specifically for the academically gifted.’
Her last word was dripping with sarcasm. April examined Caro again; she was the only person she’d seen who deviated from the model student of either sort, neither the type who looked like they digested algebra over breakfast nor strutted the catwalk over the school holidays. April noticed that Caro’s jumper was a little bobbly and that she had black nail polish - something April knew was strictly forbidden in the school rules.
‘Nothing special about me, sorry, but I’m joining the Lower Sixth. I think my dad pulled a few strings to get me in here and, I don’t know, they must have liked something about me as my GCSE results didn’t exactly mark me out as gifted.’ She shrugged. She had been quite pleased with two A stars, four As and three B grades, but knew they’d be laughed at by some of the brainboxes here. ‘Are you in the sixth form too?’
Caro nodded, then took an apple out of her bag and bit into it. ‘Miss Holden’s my form teacher.’
‘Great! Me too,’ said April, feeling a sense of relief. ‘I’ve got to find her in room thirty-six - could you tell me where it is?’
‘I know where thirty-six is,’ said Caro casually. ‘I’ve been here since I was thirteen. Come on. We need to go through the refectory.’
April obediently followed Caro down a corridor. A distant noise became louder and louder until Caro swung open a pair of double doors that led into a glass-roofed atrium. It was an impressively high open space, but when crowded with pupils laughing, yelling and calling out to each other, the acoustics were deafening. April tried to take it all in: a bank of drinks machines stood along one mahogany-panelled wall; along another was a long antique table on which pairs of pupils were playing backgammon. Gaggles of beautiful people lounged on the black leather sofas while younger pupils scurried through as if they had no business being there.
‘I can’t believe people are playing backgammon before school,’ whispered April.
‘So you’ve spotted the geeks.’ Caro smiled, nodding towards them. ‘Those are the eggheads, mostly pure maths, some quantum theorists. Don’t try to talk to them unless you know pi to twenty decimal points. A lot of international students, for some reason - in fact you’ll find Ravenwood is very multicultural. North London society is very rich, present company excepted.’
April frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Me. I’m the odd one out, as one of the scholarship kids here. Mum’s a hairdresser, Dad’s a window-cleaner, which makes me like a Martian or something.’
April nodded and smiled. She had only just met this girl, but it was nice being included in something, even if it was as an outsider. Now Caro indicated a group by the vending machine gathered around a handsome boy with floppy blond hair. They were all highly groomed and slightly regal-looking.
‘Who are they?’
‘Those are the rugby boys. Most of them are planning to read law or something equally serious at uni and they spend all their time studying philosophy and international affairs with a view to their inevitable political careers.’ Caro shot April a wink. ‘It goes without saying, don’t trust them.’ She followed April’s gaze and gave a wry smile. ‘And before you ask, the pretty boy with the blond hair is Benjamin Osbourne. You should trust him the least.’
Just then, the boy next to Benjamin turned around and looked straight at April. A lazy grin spread slowly across his face and he nodded at her. April almost gasped out loud. It was the dark-haired boy she had seen in the square the night before. She could feel her heart start beating faster.
‘Uh-oh,’ said Caro, taking April by the arm and turning her around. ‘Come away.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Gabriel Swift. You’re wasting your time with him,’ said Caro. ‘He’s one of those unattainable, too-good-for-us-regular-humans types. I think he must be dating older girls, because I’ve never seen him with anyone here.’
April glanced back and was disappointed to see that the boy was no longer looking at her.
‘And who are they in the middle?’ asked April, nodding towards the sofas in the centre of the room. Five or six drop-dead-beautiful girls were draped across them, pristine in their state-of-the-art designer wear.
‘We call them “the Faces”,’ said Caro with a grim smile. ‘The “popular” girls. That’s “Face” as in “two-faced”. Basically Ravenwood is split in two - either you’re academically brilliant or you’re from money. Those girls are the richest of the rich and they’re the scariest clique at Ravenwood. Although I’m guessing every school has something similar, right?’
April nodded. Even at St Geoffrey’s there had been a clique of snooty, pretty girls who dressed in the latest fashions and looked down on everyone else, casually spreading rumours and gossip about people for their own amusement. In Edinburgh, where such posturing had seemed ludicrous, April and Fee had been able to laugh at their pretentions, but the Ravenwood girls looked frightening and other-worldly with their beauty and casual confidence.
‘The net worth of those kids on the sofas is about forty billion quid,’ said Caro. ‘Family money, of course, but still.’
‘There’s the rabbit-coat girl,’ said April, recognising the mane of golden hair. As she watched, the tall blond boy moved over and sat next to her. ‘Wow. Is that her boyfriend? Lucky cow.’
‘Brother.’ Caro smiled. ‘Davina and Benjamin Osbourne. Their father Nicholas is one of those mega-rich Eastern Europeans, made a fortune in chemicals, all very shady. Funnily enough, though, Davina doesn’t tend to date other rich boys. She’s more into brains. See that guy to her left?’
April nodded. He was cute but not stunning and he was clearly ill at ease in such company.
‘That’s Jonathon, her latest geek-du-jour. I think she goes for the smart boys to make up for her own complete airheadedness.
April tried to absorb this information while she sized up her new companion. Caro didn’t fit into this picture, with her wry outlook, always watching, always searching faces. It made April feel a little b
etter; she wasn’t the only outsider at Ravenwood.
‘So what’s your speciality, Caro?’
‘Oh, chemistry, biology, physics, all with a creative twist. The rather boring ambition is to write books about science, like Stephen Hawking but without the funny voice.’ She grinned.
‘Oh really? My dad is a writer,’ said April. ‘He used to work for the Scotsman.’
Caro looked at her wide-eyed. ‘Your dad isn’t William Dunne, is he?’
April nodded.
‘Oh my God, I love him,’ said Caro enthusiastically. ‘I think I’ve read everything he’s ever written. That thing he did on Area Fifty-One was awesome. His books are so definitive, so well argued. He mixes pop culture with science like no one else I’ve ever read.’
April smiled politely, but inside she was cringing. Trust her to talk to the one girl in the school who had heard of her father. Caro put her hand on April’s arm.
