Amanda Lester and the Pink Sugar Conspiracy

by Paula Berinstein

But she did go because she had no choice. Since she didn’t have any friends left there hadn’t been anyone to say goodbye to, so she’d packed her clothes and filmmaking gear and that was that. The Lesters had pulled her out of school over the Christmas holiday so she could start the spring term when everyone else did. They would arrive in the UK on Saturday and the term would start two days later, on Monday.

  They had left the house in care of a smarmy real estate agent whose spiked heels were so high it was a wonder she hadn’t fallen off them. Amanda had set up a few booby traps in the hope that the woman would trip, and enjoyed imagining her pitching headlong over an errant cushion or strategically placed hamper. Too bad she’d never know if her scheme worked.

  When she wasn’t worrying about people asking her who she was descended from, she spent the entire flight to London trying and failing to remember what she’d meant to write down, which didn’t help her mood any. Then when she got off the plane at London Heathrow, she was met by weather so biting that she almost broke into tears. From there they’d proceeded to their hotel, which turned out to be so cold that she thought the heat must be broken, but when she’d called the front desk, a polite but useless man had assured her that everything was working properly and the temperature was the same as always.

  They were still tired after a night’s sleep, but Amanda’s parents insisted on driving the few hundred miles to Windermere rather than taking a train. This turned out not to be the best idea as they weren’t used to driving on the left-hand side of the road, and her father almost got them killed taking the wrong exit on a roundabout, which was a huge traffic circle unlike anything Amanda had ever seen. A woman going the other way had come very close to hitting them and had let them know in no uncertain terms how displeased she was. After that Amanda’s mother had insisted on driving.

  But miraculously they did arrive in time for the Sunday new student orientation, and now, sitting in the Legatum Continuatum chapel/auditorium (after a harrowing search for a parking place), Amanda thought about what she’d seen of the school so far.

  Aesthetically it wasn’t bad. The campus was built entirely of stone and looked ancient. It was situated high on a hill with a lake—not Windermere, but a smaller one—below to the west. When she’d asked the woman seated next to her about the lake, she’d learned that it was real. The woman, who was wearing a sleeveless dress in January—January!—had looked at her as if she were crazy, but obviously she wasn’t from Calabasas where the lakes were all fake, built by developers to increase property values.

  The huge grounds included large expanses of lawn, which unfortunately was dead and brown and covered with patches of snow. Someone had taken great pains to design the gardens, utilizing gobs of shrubbery and flowerbeds that appeared to be laid out in an aesthetically pleasing way. Beyond the buildings lay thick woods, also bare due to the season. Fairy tale icicles, varying in size from an inch or two to several feet, sparkled everywhere. If she hadn’t hated the whole idea of the school so much, Amanda might have found the place picturesque—perfect for a filming location—but now all she could think of was how cold and drafty and miserable it was going to be.

  She was so embarrassed to be seen with her parents that she tried to hide under her many layers of clothing, and she almost succeeded until the worst thing in the world happened—except for someone mentioning Lestrade. The headmaster, Gaston Thrillkill, a tall and imposing bald man with gray fringe who was giving the orientation, looked straight at her with piercing eyes and held his gaze there for what seemed like a minute.

  He had been telling them that only the descendants of famous detectives were admitted to the school and that they should be highly honored to attend. Here they would learn the tools and tricks of their future trade, and when they matriculated they would be able to practice anywhere they chose, as long as they didn’t violate the school’s secrecy oath. However, they should not expect an easy time of it. Why was he looking so hard at her when he said that? Did he expect her to be the stupidest student at the school? Of course. He knew about her ancestry. That must have been it. Lovely.

  “You will not be coddled at Legatum,” the headmaster told them. “As detectives you will be working in a brutal world for which you must be prepared. There are nasty criminals out there—worse than you can imagine. They will be aware of you and will be bent on your destruction, so you must learn to outwit them. Your safety—in fact, at times your very lives—will be at risk. Fail at your job and you may die. So listen carefully, do your work meticulously, and be aware, always.”

  Amanda shivered. She knew about criminals from her father and she didn’t like them one bit. In fact the whole idea upset her so much that she tried very hard not to think about them at all.

  “You may feel restricted at first,” said Professor Thrillkill. “You will not be allowed to post to social networking sites of any sort except our own internal one, although you may read posts on the Web. You are not to leave the school without permission and you may not mention the school to anyone on the phone, via electronic communications, or in any other medium, including in person. I can assure you that as time progresses, however, you will adjust and will not find these rules onerous.”

  How could he say that? No social networking? What about her participation in film forums? How was she going to continue her professional development if she couldn’t do that? The rules were outrageous. Her parents were trying to squeeze all the creativity out of her.

  “I want to tell you about our four houses,” the headmaster continued. “They are Dupin House, Father Brown House, Van Helden House, and Holmes House. There are approximately fifty students in each house. Your map will show you where your dorms and common areas are. I will hand out house assignments in a moment.”

  She didn’t know what a house was, but she was sure she wanted nothing to do with something with the name Holmes in the title. If she ended up there she’d die.

  “Please study your class schedule carefully. We do not tolerate tardiness here at Legatum. If you are late to class more than once, you will attend detention for two weeks. Three tardies and you will be suspended for one week.”

  Boy, he was strict. Back home it almost took murdering someone to be suspended. If the teachers had suspended people for three tardies, their classrooms would be empty. She could see herself being suspended after the first three days. Then what would her parents do?

  “In addition, meal times are strictly observed. If you are late you miss the meal. No exceptions. However, tea, juice, milk, and water are available in the dining room throughout the day.”

  Amanda didn’t like this rule one bit. What if you tripped and got to dinner ten seconds late? And what about snacks? How was she going to get her ice cream? It wasn’t like she could sneak extra at meals and stash it for later. This place was going to kill her.

  After this horrible speech, Professor Thrillkill called each new student to the stage to take the Legatum oath. It seemed a particularly inefficient way of doing things—why not give it to all of them at once, or not at all, for Amanda wasn’t fond of oaths—and she wasn’t impressed with the so-called “quality” of the school, which was supposed to derive from the stature of its alumni and faculty. She hoped the other students wouldn’t be stuck up. What was so great about being descended from this, that, or the other yoyo anyway? It was what you made of your life that mattered. Like Darius Plover. He probably hadn’t had to go to a stupid boarding school in some hole-in-the-wall place. If he had he wouldn’t be the great director he was today.

  When her turn came Amanda said, “I, Amanda Lester, solemnly promise not to reveal the existence of the Legatum Continuatum School to anyone outside the school and my immediate family. If I do so, whether purposely or inadvertently, I may be expelled, imprisoned, or otherwise punished as the board sees fit.”

  That was sobering. Imprisoned? Punished as the board sees fit? What did that mean? Tortured on the rack? Ripped apart by wild horses? Made to recite the life
of G. Lestrade in front of the whole school? Regardless of how she felt about having to be there and about the other stupid rules, she’d make sure she never breathed a word.

  And then it happened. When the students were assigned their houses and given their class schedules, Amanda was horrified to find herself a member of Holmes House. Holmes House! Of all the embarrassing, insulting, soul-destroying happenstances in the world, there couldn’t be anything worse. She was so upset that she blurted out, “I’m not going into any Holmes House!” so loudly that everyone heard her.

  “Is there a problem out there?” said Professor Thrillkill, scanning the crowd.

  Amanda was so panicked that she couldn’t respond, but her big-mouthed mother called out, “No, sir. Just a slight mishap. We’re fine.” Amanda felt like she wanted to sink into the floor.

  “She said she didn’t want to go into Holmes House,” a boy yelled. She could have killed him.

  “I’m afraid you have no choice in the matter, miss,” said Thrillkill. “We’ve worked out the house assignments very carefully and have matched each student with the one that best promises to enhance his or her academic life.”

  Amanda was mortified. As if she weren’t frazzled enough, being dragged into the spotlight like that so unnerved her that she started to gag. Unfortunately, instead of abating the sensation grew so strong that within a minute she had thrown up all over a dark blue coat on the back of the chair in front of her, which belonged to a goofy-looking dark-haired boy with huge glasses.

  “Aaaaah!” he screamed. “Get away!” He turned around, looked at Amanda with a pinched face, and ran into the aisle, stepping on several feet in the process.

  “Take the coat to the ladies’ room and clean it up,” said Amanda’s mother, pushing her daughter toward the aisle.

  This was not the easiest thing to do when you were nauseous, but at least it would get her out of there. Amanda scooped up the coat, held it at arm’s length, and went in search of what the English call “the ladies.’”

  It was freezing in the foyer. And there were so many doors—all shut. Here a door, there a door, everywhere a door. The dorms and classrooms were located in another building, so what could all those doors be for? If she hadn’t been carrying a coatful of vomit and freezing her butt, she’d have opened each one and explored.

  At last she found the ladies’ room tucked away in a hallway. Inside were a couple of ancient-looking sinks under a mirror that was too high to see into, but instead of the foamy soap you find in American restrooms, there were tiny bars of something too sweet-smelling wrapped in thin white paper with pink flowers on it. How was she going to use that?

  The first thing to do was get rid of the nasty stuff she’d deposited on the coat. Laying the garment over one of the sinks she turned around to get some paper towels. Plop. The coat fell to the icy floor. Reaching down to pick it up she saw that now the sick was on the floor too. Argh.

  She turned back to the paper towels, which were so rough that they’d probably remove skin, grabbed a couple, and wet them in the other sink. Then, picking up the coat, she dabbed at it until all the gunk seemed to have come off and laid it on the dry sink while she cleaned the floor. She unwrapped a soap (it was pink inside!) and rubbed it over the wet spot until the area was sudsy. It was so slippery that she dropped it and it bounced into a stall. Cursing, she opened the door to get the soap, when something caught her eye. Or did it? She could have sworn she saw something on the wall, but on closer inspection she couldn’t find anything. Oh well. The jetlag must have been affecting her vision.

  After further ministrations, she was satisfied that the coat was clean enough and left the restroom. But when she turned the corner to go back to the auditorium, she ran head on into another boy, and what a boy he was. He was so handsome that Amanda nearly dropped her armful. Tall, dark hair, blue eyes just like the other boy, but obviously from a different planet entirely.

  “Pardon,” said the boy in a plummy English accent.

  “Uh, uh, uh,” said Amanda. “Don’t worry about it.” Dummy! Uh, uh, uh. That’s really intelligent.

  “I was in such a hurry I wasn’t looking where I was going. I’m late to the orientation, you see,” said the boy, reaching out to steady her. “Are you all right?”

  “You’re not missing anything,” said Amanda. Ack! Why was she being negative? Well, of course she was negative. She didn’t want to be there, but she didn’t have to take it out on him, did she? “I’m okay, thanks.”

  “Oh well. One has to do these tedious things from time to time.” He looked very serious.

  “Of course,” she said, folding the coat absent-mindedly, wondering if all English people were so polite.

  “Oh dear. Where are my manners? Let me take your coat.” He reached out, but she pulled back and held the garment tightly.

  “I don’t think you want to do that. There was an accident.” She tried to smile, but she had the awful feeling that she had spinach between her teeth from that aloo saag they’d had for lunch.

  “But I must,” he said, gently taking the coat from her and holding the wet spot away from him. He extended his other hand. “Nicholas Muffet.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Nicholas,” she said, shaking his hand and noting that he had no spinach or anything else that wasn’t supposed to be there between his teeth. “I’m Amanda, er, Lester.”

  “Hello, Amanda Lester. My friends call me Nick. It seems you’ve come a long way.”

  “Yes. Los Angeles.”

  “I thought I could hear a California accent.”

  “Oh, no. Californians don’t have accents. Not like you do. I mean—” What an idiot. Here was this amazing English Adonis talking to her as if she actually mattered and she’d already managed to insult him.

  “No. Not like me,” said Nick with a wry smile. Holding out his free arm, he said, “Shall we go in?”

  Amanda looked at the arm, hesitated a moment, and took hold. Maybe Legatum Continuatum wouldn’t be so bad after all.