The Plot Thickens

by R. A. Spratt

  It was nice entering the history classroom all by herself. It was a large room with portraits of British monarchs across the back wall, big windows letting in lots of natural light, and ceiling fans creating a pleasant breeze. Friday picked the stool at the back, furthest away from the teacher’s desk, sat down and got out her book.

  As she was finding her page, she noticed movement out of the corner of her eye.

  That was the last thing she would remember.

  Everything was black. Except for the stars swirling around on the inside of her eyelids.

  Friday’s head throbbed terribly. It was like the pulse of her blood was squeezing her brain.

  ‘Friday? Friday!’

  Friday could hear the voices calling to her, but she didn’t want to reply or even open her eyes in case it encouraged them. She just wanted them to shut up and go away so she could drift back into unconsciousness and no longer feel this dreadful headache.

  ‘Friday?’

  Friday recognised that voice. It was Melanie. She opened her eyes. She immediately regretted the decision. The blindingly bright light made the drum in her head pound louder.

  ‘Did you do the star jump?’ she asked weakly.

  ‘Goodness, no,’ said Melanie. ‘I might seem laid-back, but I do have principles.’

  Friday closed her eyes, deciding that going back to sleep would be the best thing for this terrible pain in her head.

  ‘Friday?’ said Melanie again.

  ‘What?’ moaned Friday.

  ‘What happened?’ asked the Headmaster.

  ‘What?’ said Friday. She couldn’t understand what was going on and the effort to think was making her head hurt more. ‘Why are you here? Doesn’t Miss Bertram teach me history?’

  ‘I’m over here, dear,’ said Miss Bertram.

  ‘You are lying on the floor of the history classroom,’ said Melanie.

  ‘Miss Bertram called me when you were found unconscious,’ said the Headmaster.

  Friday thought about this for a moment. It didn’t make any sense. She opened her eyes, just a crack this time. There was a lot of people crowded round her, but it certainly looked like the history classroom and there was the distinctive smell of modelling glue used in the dioramas that decorated the room. She wished she hadn’t noticed the smell. Now she felt like throwing up.

  ‘Maybe you should sit up,’ suggested Melanie.

  Friday felt several pairs of hands grab her by the arms and gently help her up into the sitting position.

  ‘Do you know you’ve got a big lump on your forehead?’ asked Melanie.

  Friday reached up and touched her forehead. It felt like someone had glued half an egg to the middle. It really hurt.

  ‘Did you get in a fight with someone?’ asked the Headmaster.

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ said Mirabella Peterson. ‘She’s so annoying.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Friday.

  ‘What’s the last thing you remember?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘I was early, so I got out my book to read,’ said Friday. ‘I’m reading about the anatomy of gut bacteria.’

  ‘That’s how she hurt her head then,’ said Mirabella. ‘The book is so boring she slipped into a coma and hit her head on the table.’

  ‘Where is my book?’ asked Friday, starting to worry.

  ‘You’ve got a head injury,’ said Melanie. ‘I don’t think that’s important right now.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ said Friday. ‘The librarian hates me enough. I can’t lose the book.’

  Friday started looking about. It was hard to see through the forest of legs.

  ‘Here it is,’ called Patel. He hurried over to the far side of the room and picked up the paperback book, then brought it to Friday.

  ‘That’s a relief,’ said Friday. ‘I was just getting to a good bit about gluten intolerance.’ She took the book and noticed there was a large dent in the middle of it. ‘Someone’s attacked my book!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Someone bashes you on the head and it’s the dent in your book that you find shocking?’ said Melanie.

  ‘It looks like someone has hit it with a knife or a ruler,’ said Friday, peering at the pages. ‘The dent has gone right through the cover and affected half the pages.’

  ‘The police are on their way,’ said the Headmaster.

  ‘Why?’ asked Friday.

  The Headmaster sighed. Friday was irritating when she was thinking clearly, but apparently she was even more irritating when she couldn’t think at all. ‘Because you’ve been attacked,’ he said, slowly and clearly.

  ‘Oh,’ said Friday. She was finding it hard to concentrate on what people were saying. Something wasn’t right. She tried to focus on the portrait of Henry VIII on the wall. It was off somehow.

  ‘Barnes!’ snapped the Headmaster. ‘Are you listening to me?’

  ‘Why is Henry the Eighth wearing a Swatch wrist watch?’ asked Friday, as everyone turned to look at the polka-dot watch that had been painted onto his wrist in a careful imitation of the sixteenth-century painting style. Then Friday lost consciousness again.

  When Friday woke up, Sergeant Crowley was standing over her.

  ‘So was it the boyfriend?’ asked Sergeant Crowley. ‘What’s his name again?’

  ‘Ian Wainscott,’ said Melanie.

  ‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ said Friday weakly.

  ‘She’s concussed. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.’ said Melanie.

  ‘Whatever their relationship, I’ll want to ask him a few questions,’ said Sergeant Crowley.

  ‘We don’t have a relationship,’ protested Friday. She tried to summon the energy to stand up, but all she did was raise her hand a little bit off the floor. ‘What are you even doing here? Surely I haven’t been unconscious that long. It takes half an hour for you to drive here from the police station.’

  ‘I was already on school grounds,’ said Sergeant Crowley.

  ‘Were you arresting Mr Fontana?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘No, why should I arrest him?’ asked Sergeant Crowley.

  ‘Oh, no reason,’ said Melanie. ‘But he did try to force me to do a star jump this morning, so I assume he’s capable of anything.’

  ‘Let’s just deal with the matter of the assault on Miss Barnes first,’ said the sergeant, taking out his notebook and pen. ‘Does she have any other enemies?’

  ‘Oh, lots and lots,’ said Melanie. ‘All her teachers, all the students she’s had suspended or punished and then all the people she just irritates.’

  ‘It could have been anybody,’ said Mirabella. ‘I’d be tempted to do it myself.’

  ‘Really?’ said the Sergeant Crowley. ‘And what’s your name?’

  ‘Me?!’ exclaimed Mirabella. ‘Trea Dawson.’

  Trea was Mirabella’s cheerleading rival. Everyone sniggered.

  ‘Stop,’ said Friday feebly. ‘I was not attacked.’

  ‘Then how do you explain the blunt force trauma injury to your head?’ asked the Sergeant Crowley. ‘I’ve had a look at that lump. You’ve clearly been struck very hard by a thin weapon. Like a stick or a ruler.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Friday groggily. ‘I think … I think, I remember … it was a rat.’

  ‘So it was Ian?!’ said Melanie.

  ‘No, a literal rat,’ said Friday. ‘One that squeaks and scurries around.’

  ‘I don’t think a rat would have the strength to hit you with a stick,’ said Melanie.

  ‘It can’t have been a person,’ said Friday. ‘Why would they have put my book all the way over there?’

  ‘Perhaps they have a lot of anger towards boring books?’ said Melanie.

  ‘And why was the book struck as well?’ asked Friday.

  ‘Maybe you held up the book defensively and they struck it first?’ said Sergeant Crowley.

  ‘No, Friday wouldn’t do that,’ said Melanie. ‘She’d be more likely to stick her head in front to protect the book.’

  ‘I’ll
show you what happened,’ said Friday as she slowly got to her feet. Several classmates helped her over to the stool, where she sat down again. ‘I was sitting here, reading, when I saw something move out of the corner of my eye.’

  ‘Your attacker?’ asked the Sergeant Crowley.

  ‘In a way, yes,’ said Friday. ‘I saw a rat. Now, you have to understand I am not normally a hysterical female. I pride myself on being rational, and not embracing derogatory gender stereotypes. But I had just been reading all about bacteria and disease and nothing is more famous for spreading bacteria and disease than a rat. It caught me unawares, and I was alarmed. So I did what you always see people do on television and in movies. I stood up on my chair.’

  ‘So?’ said Sergeant Crowley.

  ‘See for yourself,’ said Friday, pointing at the spinning ceiling fan. ‘We don’t notice ceiling fans because they are so ubiquitous. It’s odd, really, because the blades are spinning in excess of forty kilometres per hour at such a short distance from our heads.’

  ‘You stuck your head in a ceiling fan?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘Just because I’m highly intelligent, doesn’t mean I can’t be stupid,’ said Friday.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Sergeant Crowley. ‘I still think it’s more plausible that someone hit you over the head.’

  ‘I can prove it was the fan,’ said Friday.

  ‘She’s going to stick her head in it again!’ said Mirabella excitedly.

  Friday picked up her An Analysis of Gut Bacteria. It was damaged already, so she had nothing left to lose. And then, with a surprisingly accurate toss that would have made the PE teacher proud, she threw the book up into the blades of the moving fan. The fan instantly smacked into the book and flung it across the room like a cricket ball, narrowly missing Patel’s head.

  ‘You see, the fan hit me,’ said Friday. ‘I flung up my arms, throwing the book into the fan after me. It shot across the room and I fell on the floor, hitting my head for a second time, and passing out.’

  ‘Well, this is quite something,’ said Sergeant Crowley, putting his notebook and pen back in his pocket. ‘First, the opium plant in the rose bed turns out to be a plastic Remembrance Day poppy, and now the attacker in the classroom turns out to be a ceiling fan. That’s two wild goose chases in one day.’

  ‘Shouldn’t it be geese chases then?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘I could still arrest you for being a public nuisance,’ said the sergeant, glowering at Melanie.

  ‘Oh, you’d never do that,’ said Melanie. ‘Just think of all the lawyers my father would send to yell at you. If you think I’m a nuisance, they’re much worse.’

  The school bell rang.

  ‘Oh good, it’s the end of history class,’ said Melanie.

  ‘I didn’t get time to teach you anything,’ complained Miss Bertram.

  ‘Don’t worry, Miss Bertram,’ said Melanie. ‘We probably wouldn’t have listened anyway.’

  Chapter 8

  Art Class

  Friday went with Melanie to see the nurse during morning break. The nurse gave her an icepack and a plastic bucket to carry with her in case she was sick, then declared that Friday would be all right to continue with classes so long as they didn’t involve body-contact sports.

  ‘We’ve got art next,’ Melanie told her. ‘Friday will be fine. She never does much in art anyway, except look confused.’

  ‘Walk there slowly,’ advised the nurse. ‘And don’t let her breathe in too many paint fumes.’

  ‘That’s two head injuries now,’ Melanie said to Friday. ‘First the picnic table, and now the fan. You’d better watch out, these things happen in threes.’

  ‘I think that’s only for celebrity deaths, not head injuries,’ said Friday. ‘Come on, let’s get to class.’

  Art had never been Friday’s favourite subject. She struggled with the concept of emotionally expressing herself at the best of times. But emotionally expressing yourself through two-dimensional pictorial representations was a concept that was beyond her.

  Even when it came to realism, she struggled. She found it hard to be motivated to draw a bowl of fruit when a photograph would provide a much more accurate representation. Friday still had the same feeling she had as a preschooler when she was asked to finger paint. She felt like she was entirely missing the point of the exercise.

  Mr Brecht was five minutes late for his first class. This surprised Friday. Usually the lateness of teachers could be gauged by how much damage thirty students could do with the contents of their classroom. As such, a history teacher rarely turned up in the first ten minutes because their classroom just contained chairs and tables. Whereas chemistry, woodwork and art teachers were always punctual because you could do a lot of damage with a storage room full of chemicals, lumber or paint. (In fact, if you combined all three you could even make a doomsday device.)

  Melanie was starting to drift off to sleep by the time Mr Brecht bounded in through the front door carrying a large green duffel bag.

  ‘Year 7?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Mirabella Peterson.

  Friday was impressed how much simpering she managed to inject into those two short words.

  ‘Good,’ said Mr Brecht, dumping his big bag on the floor. ‘I’ve got eight weeks to teach you how to be artists. What have you been working on so far this year?’

  ‘Plein-air impressionist paintings of the school grounds,’ said Peregrine.

  ‘Blah, how boring,’ said Mr Brecht, with disgust. He picked up the copy of the year 7 syllabus that had been laid out for him on the desk, glanced at it, then threw it in the wastepaper bin. ‘I’m sure we can come up with something more interesting than that. Let’s do some finger painting.’

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ said Friday.

  Melanie kicked her under the table. ‘It is a social convention to not be outwardly rude to a person the first time you meet them.’

  ‘But you’re supposed to be the greatest artist in the country,’ continued Friday, ‘and finger painting is something we already covered in preschool.’

  ‘And preschool was probably the last time you did a good painting,’ said Mr Brecht, sitting down and putting his feet up on the desk. Friday noted that his shoes needed resoling. ‘Which is why we are going right back to square one to build you into proper artists from the ground up.’

  BANG, BANG, BANG.

  They all heard knocking.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Mr Brecht.

  The door to the classroom was wide open and no one was there. The knocking sound came again.

  BANG, BANG, BANG.

  It was coming from the storage room. Mr Brecht swung his feet down, prowled over to the door and pressed his ear against it. ‘Is anybody in there?’

  ‘Please let me out!’ pleaded a voice from inside.

  ‘Where’s the key?’ Mr Brecht asked the class.

  ‘Didn’t they give you keys to the classroom when they gave you the job?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Mr Brecht. ‘But I don’t know where I left them.’

  ‘Normally Friday would pick the lock for you,’ said Melanie. ‘But I don’t know if she’s up to it, since the blow to her head.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ said Friday, standing up from her stool. She walked over to the closet door and bent down to have a look. She stared at it for several long moments before she slowly overbalanced and landed on her face. ‘Sorry, I can’t remember how to do it,’ she said confusedly from the floor.

  ‘Please let me out,’ pleaded the voice from the closet. ‘I’ve been in here for hours. I’m starving.’

  ‘Stand back,’ ordered Mr Brecht, yelling through the timber. ‘Get away from the door!’

  There was the muffled sound of the boy shuffling out of the way. Mr Brecht took a step back, lifted his leg and powerfully slammed the ball of his foot into the door just below the lock. The door ripped out of the frame and flew back, hitting something just behind it.

/>   ‘Ow,’ said the voice.

  Mr Brecht strode into the closet, and looked behind the door. He reached down and pulled up Travis, a short, curly haired year 8 boy. Blood was streaming from his nose.

  ‘I told you to get away from the door,’ said Mr Brecht.

  ‘I thought standing behind it would be the safest spot,’ said Travis.

  ‘Why were you in the closet in the first place?’ asked Mr Brecht.

  ‘I was locked in there by a bully,’ said Travis.

  ‘Who?’ asked Mr Brecht.

  ‘Ian Wainscott,’ said Travis.

  ‘What?!’ said Ian. ‘I’m standing right here.’

  Travis looked alarmed to see Ian. He clearly hadn’t known that Ian was in the room.

  ‘I might have been wrong,’ said Travis. ‘I know it was a big boy. I assumed it was Ian, because it’s just the nasty sort of prank he’s always pulling.’

  This clearly made Ian proud because he smiled smugly at the compliment.

  Mr Brecht went back into the closet and looked about. He came back, looking cross. ‘You ate my snacks!’ he exclaimed. ‘I had a wheel of brie cheese and a whole packet of water crackers in there and now they’re gone! Or, rather, they’re mostly gone because you left a pile of crumbs.’

  ‘I was starving,’ protested Travis. ‘I’ve been in there since first thing this morning. I missed out on pancakes for breakfast.’

  ‘Ooh, they were good,’ said Melanie. ‘Mrs Marigold’s surprise pancakes are my favourite! This crime is far more serious than I first imagined. It’s one thing to lock an annoying boy in a closet – we’ve all wanted to do that – but to lock him in on one of the rare mornings when Mrs Marigold is cooking pancakes? That’s just plain cruel.’

  ‘He’s lying,’ said Friday.

  Everyone turned to look at her. They had forgotten about Friday in all the excitement. Friday was sitting on the floor. She still seemed confused and was rubbing her head.

  ‘Friday, perhaps you’d better lie down,’ said Melanie. ‘You look like my dog Bertie after Daddy accidentally hit him with his electric golf cart.’