by Hyland, Tara
Before Caitlin could ask what she meant, a gong sounded, silencing the chatter. Benches scraped as the pupils got to their feet. A moment later, the teachers filed in and walked toward the high table. Once they were settled, Elizabeth went to the front of the hall and everyone bowed their heads. As student council president, she would start the year off by saying grace. She began to speak Latin in her strong, clear voice.
“Benedic, Domine, nos et dona tua . . .”
The rest of the meal, Caitlin tried to concentrate on what George and her friends were saying. They seemed to be nice, down-to-earth girls, like George herself. But every now and again, Caitlin’s gaze would stray to Elliott’s table. Everyone around him seemed so cool. The guys were good-looking, the girls slim and pretty. Caitlin looked at the slightly disheveled lot that surrounded her. She could suddenly see George’s point about the two groups not mixing. It hadn’t been like this back in Ireland at Holy Cross. The school had been too small for cliques. It was yet another change she would have to get used to.
7
_________
Caitlin’s first month at Greycourt passed at breakneck speed, mostly because there was so much to get used to. Privilege surrounded her at every turn. The facilities were unbelievable. There was a fencing salle, a judo dōjō, an Olympic-size indoor pool, and a nine-hole golf course. She couldn’t help comparing it to Holy Cross. The two places were worlds apart.
Never was that more apparent than in class. At Greycourt, academic prowess was highly prized. The school’s motto, Sapere Aude, Dare to Be Wise, said it all. Classes were brutal. Caitlin found that out on day one. The school secretary handed her a badly photocopied map, and she promptly got lost in the maze of dark corridors. None of the pupils rushing through the cloisters seemed interested in helping her, the new girl.
She was fifteen minutes late to her first class, which was English. Mr. Reynolds, a rodent-like man with a penchant for tweed, brushed aside her breathless explanation. “In future, make sure you arrive at my class on time, Miss Melville,” he said, his tone filled with ennui. “Otherwise Berrylands will be docked ten house points.”
Caitlin found a seat at the back. She didn’t recognize any faces in the room. Classes were streamed, and, unfortunately, George and her friends were in the top tier. Caitlin had been slotted into the bottom—“until we see what you’re made of,” the headmistress had said at their meeting that morning. Caitlin already suspected she’d be staying put.
The class was on the metaphysical poets, and it gave Caitlin an insight into Greycourt’s Darwinian approach to learning: only the fittest survived. Mr. Reynolds read out one of Donne’s sonnets, “A Valediction Forbidding Mourning,” picking randomly on pupils to explain particular parts of the poem. If someone didn’t answer correctly, the teacher would groan loudly while the rest of the class sniggered.
Finally, Caitlin’s turn came. Mr. Reynolds stood over her desk and barked, “Miss Melville! The final three verses. What can you tell me about them?”
Eleven pairs of curious eyes turned to stare at Caitlin, eager to evaluate her. The girl gazed down at her notepad, trying to collect her thoughts. But Mr. Reynolds didn’t give her a chance.
“Come along now, weren’t you listening? Time’s up, Miss Melville!” He turned to the rest of the class. “Anyone else care to venture a guess on this?”
A dozen hands shot up.
“Yes, Miss Adams.” Mr. Reynolds moved on to a striking brunette. “Would you care to enlighten us where Miss Melville could not?”
“We see Donne’s most famous conceit being introduced here,” the brunette said with an air of superiority. “The two lovers are likened to the two points of a compass. At first this seems like a ridiculous comparison, but Donne goes on in the rest of the poem to show us how it makes sense.”
Mr. Reynolds nodded along as she spoke.
“Good, good,” he said. The brunette preened under his praise. “And how does he do this?”
Caitlin spent the rest of the class trying to keep up but feeling as if she was falling further and further behind. And this was supposed to be the slow class . . .
“I’m never going to be able to do all this homework,” Caitlin remarked to George during that first week. She was trying to get to grips with trigonometry. She’d spent twenty minutes on the first problem and still had no idea how to solve it. There were fifteen more to do before she could even think about going to bed.
George looked over at the question she was struggling with. “Don’t worry. I can help you with that.” She nodded down at her geography textbook. “Just give me five minutes to finish this.”
She was true to her word. In no time, she’d simplified the mathematical concepts so that Caitlin knew exactly what to do. Caitlin wasn’t surprised, since George was naturally academic. It was only because she didn’t have a competitive bone in her body that she had ended up in Berrylands.
Caitlin had discovered that every house at Greycourt had its own distinctive character. The head made a judgment at each pupil’s interview about where they would be best suited. To most of the other houses, Berrylands was a joke. Inter-house competition was actively encouraged, with points being handed out for academic achievements and sporting wins. Results were published annually.
“Berrylands is always last,” George told Caitlin cheerfully.
There was a pecking order for everything at Greycourt. As Caitlin had observed that first night, there was a clear divide between the popular and unpopular pupils. That meant Elliott was out of her league. Not only was he two years older, he was part of Greycourt’s in-crowd. Being friends with George and her group meant Caitlin didn’t even appear on his radar.
It worked both ways. George and her friends had no time for them, either.
“Look at Barbie,” George would say scornfully, nodding over at Morgan in the dining hall. “I don’t know why she bothers putting food on her plate. She’s only going to throw it up in half an hour.”
The table would laugh along with her, but Caitlin couldn’t help looking over wistfully at Elliott. There was part of her—a shallow, superficial part, she knew—that wondered what it would be like to be accepted by his group.
Art lessons were the one part of the week Caitlin enjoyed. It helped that she got on well with Mr. Wright, the head of the Art Department. A gentle man in his early forties, he was a gifted teacher. The Head, it was rumored, wasn’t happy with his somewhat unorthodox appearance—he favored Black Sabbath T-shirts and black jeans and had a diamond stud in his left ear—but he got results, so she put up with it.
At the end of Caitlin’s first class, Mr. Wright asked her to stay behind. She half-expected him to say she wasn’t up to the acceptable standard. Instead, he asked if she’d like to join the class he taught after school on Wednesday and Friday afternoons.
“It’s mainly for the juniors and seniors,” he told her, “but I think you’d really benefit from coming along. It’s purely optional, of course.” What he meant was that it was a privilege to be asked.
The classes turned out to be more fun than Caitlin had imagined. The AP course was art-school oriented, with students encouraged to experiment and explore their own style. For the first time, she had an opportunity to shine.
The only problem with joining the class was that Morgan Woodhouse was taking art, too.
As the lessons were outside of school hours, uniforms weren’t required, so on the first afternoon Caitlin turned up in a maroon floor-length gypsy skirt and olive green long-sleeved T-shirt. As she walked to her easel, Morgan leaned over to the girl next to her.
“God, what is she wearing?” she said in a stage whisper.
“I don’t know,” her friend giggled. “She must think the hippy look is back!”
Caitlin ignored the jibe, thinking that eventually Morgan would grow bored with being horrible to her. But she was wrong. It didn’t get any better, especially once it became apparent how talented Caitlin was. Morgan was used to being th
e best in the class at art, and she didn’t take kindly to this scruffy kid usurping her title.
Caitlin stood back from her easel so Mr. Wright could see what she had been working on. Two weeks earlier he had given the class a new project, with the prompt “To create an alternative self-portrait.” Caitlin had decided to explore the changes that had happened to her over the past few months. She had split her canvas into a grid of nine boxes, each square showing a different scene from her life. All nine pictures then cleverly came together to form one large portrait of her.
This was the first time Mr. Wright had seen it, and she was impatient to hear his thoughts. He stared at the canvas for a long time and then finally started to nod.
“It’s good,” he said, almost absentmindedly. Then went on, “I mean, it’s more than good. It’s exceptional.” He squatted down beside her. “You know, the Saatchi Gallery runs a competition each year for schoolkids. I really think you should consider entering. If you win, your work gets displayed in the gallery and you’ll be considered for a scholarship to one of the major art Schools.”
He spoke just as there was a lull in the class’s conversation, meaning that everyone heard the unprecedented praise. Morgan’s head snapped up, and she scowled over at Caitlin.
After chatting to Caitlin about her work for a few more moments, Mr. Wright moved on around the class, offering praise and advice as it was due. He finally came to Morgan, who had a confident smile on her face. Her painting was an oil-on-canvas piece, similar to a Picasso self-portrait from his Cubist period.
Mr. Wright looked at it for a moment, frowning. “Morgan,” he said at last, “I think you’ve missed the point of the exercise.”
The girl’s smile faded.
“While technically this may be good, a self-portrait is supposed to be about self-expression and exploration,” he explained gently. “It’s meant to reflect the very essence of you. What you’ve shown me here is a picture of you in the style of Picasso. That doesn’t tell me anything about you as a person.”
Morgan’s face reddened, but Mr. Wright didn’t seem to notice.
“Class is nearly over now,” he concluded. “But maybe take this weekend to think about what you want to say about yourself and the best way to express it.”
Before Morgan could respond, the bell rang. The class started to tidy up, chattering about their weekend plans. Caitlin was the last to wash her brushes. She had just gotten back to her easel when Morgan walked by with one of her cohorts.
“I don’t see what’s so great about her picture anyway,” she sneered, making sure to speak loud enough for Caitlin to hear.
“Mr. Wright probably just feels sorry for her,” her friend responded.
George had arrived at that exact moment to meet Caitlin after class. It was Friday afternoon, and they planned to head into town for hot chocolate and cake at the Little Tea Shop on Watling Street. She overheard Morgan’s bitchy comment and shook her head.
“Don’t worry about them,” she told Caitlin. “They’re just jealous.”
Caitlin gave a weak smile. Somehow the knowledge didn’t make it any easier.
There were plenty of quaint country pubs around Towcester. The Brass Monkey wasn’t one of them. A dingy establishment on the outskirts of town, the floors were sticky; there was never any toilet paper in the bathrooms; and it stank of stale cigarettes and beer. But the landlord wasn’t fussy about ID, so Greycourt’s seniors patronized it despite these obvious faults.
It was Friday night and, as usual, Elliott Falconer was holding court at one end of the bar. Beneath the scarred table, where no one could see, he could feel Morgan’s hand sliding up his leg, her knuckles grazing his groin. He sighed. The last thing he needed right now was another random hookup with his psycho ex.
He reached down and pushed her hand away. “Cut it out, Morgan.”
He made his voice deliberately harsh so there could be no misunderstanding. Not that anything he said seemed to get through to her these days. How many times could you tell someone it was over? Although maybe getting drunk and sleeping with her every few weeks was sending out mixed messages . . .
“Why don’t you hit on someone else?” He nodded across the smoke-filled room. “What about that guy in the corner? He looks desperate enough.”
The entire table turned to see where he was pointing—at an overweight, bald man in his fifties. Everyone, apart from Morgan, laughed. She scowled at Elliott.
“Fuck you.”
The obscenity sounded out of place in such a refined voice, and everyone laughed again.
Elliott set down his pint. It was unusual for Morgan to react so strongly to his jibes. Usually she put up with any crap he threw her way. He was the only person at Greycourt who could treat her like dirt and get away with it.
“What’s up with you, then?” he asked.
Morgan looked away. “Nothing.”
He was about to let it go—frankly, he didn’t give a shit. But then Lucille Lewis, Morgan’s sometime best friend, said something interesting.
“It’s Caitlin Melville.” Like most of the girls at Greycourt, Lucille was prepared to betray a confidence if it meant getting Elliott’s attention for even a moment. “She’s Mr. Wright’s new pet, and Morgan’s jealous.”
Morgan shot Lucille a furious look. She had no desire for the humiliating incident in art class to become public knowledge.
“Don’t be stupid,” she said quickly. “I’m just tired.”
But Elliott sensed she was lying and couldn’t help adding salt to the wound.
“Caitlin Melville?” he drawled, a slow grin spreading over his face. “Oh yeah, I remember her. She’s pretty hot.”
Beside him, Morgan stiffened. “Don’t be so ridiculous.”
He shrugged. “I’m not. She’s a babe.”
The guys around the table murmured their agreement. Caitlin had unknowingly become an object of lust among the hormonally charged adolescent boys at Greycourt. She wasn’t their usual type, they all agreed in the locker room. She was quiet, shy even. And the company she kept—all those geeks and dykes like George Harvey. She didn’t do much with herself either. Other girls shortened the hem on their regulation skirts, or bought their shirts a size too small. Not Caitlin. She didn’t make any effort: no makeup, raven hair tied back in a ponytail. But that didn’t matter. She had a natural beauty that needed no enhancement: creamy skin, deep blue eyes, and full, pouty lips. And a knockout body. While Elizabeth was lithe and compact, Caitlin was all Rubenesque curves.
“Yeah.” There was a faraway look in Elliott’s eyes. Earlier that evening, in the dining hall, he’d deliberately stood in her path as she’d walked to her seat, forcing her to squeeze past him. He could still remember the feel of her breasts brushing against his chest. She had to be a 34D at least, he reckoned. In a school where most of the girls either didn’t eat or threw up what they did, a decent rack was rare and highly prized. “She’s definitely hot.”
Morgan pursed her lips. She always hated hearing compliments about another girl. But for it to be about that stupid little country bumpkin really got to her.
“Well, it’s not like you’d ever get anywhere with her,” she retorted. “The Virgin Mary isn’t about to put out.”
Elliott grinned with the easy confidence of someone who had slept with half his class and knew the rest wouldn’t need much persuasion. He’d noticed Caitlin’s puppy-dog eyes following him around school.
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he said, with a touch of his trademark arrogance.
There was a chorus of catcalls around the table.
“Sounds like a challenge.” This came from Sebastian Ashford, Elliott’s best friend and roommate.
“Fifty pounds says you can’t screw her by the Snow Ball,” Seb’s identical twin brother, Nicholas, added.
With their delicate bone structure and floppy fair hair, the Ashford twins were good-looking to the point of being almost girlish. But their beauty was onl
y skin-deep. Intensely cynical and morally bankrupt, more than one girl around the table couldn’t be quite sure which twin she’d slept with, or whether it was both. Their sharp minds were in constant need of diversion, and this seemed as good a game as any to keep them amused—for a little while at least.
Elliott gave a quick glance around to make sure Elizabeth Melville wasn’t within earshot. She might not have much time for her half sister, but he had a feeling she’d still draw the line at this. Only once he was sure she was nowhere near did he give the nod. “You’re on.”
Half an hour later, the bets had been placed. Elliott stood to win—or lose—about a grand. The money didn’t bother him. His generous allowance would cover the financial hit. It was more about maintaining his reputation. And there was no way he intended to lose that.
It wasn’t hard for Elliott to engineer a reason to talk to Caitlin.
Monday lunchtime, he was in the senior common room when he overheard two nerds in the drama club talking about her. They’d apparently roped her into doing the scenery for the next school play, The Winter’s Tale. She’d told one of them, Rob Cooper, that the seven-foot papier-mâché pillars she’d designed for Act I in the palace were now dry. They were meeting her in the art room after classes to carry them downstairs to the school auditorium. Elliott saw his chance. It didn’t take much to persuade Rob to let him take his place.
Elliott walked into the art room and greeted Caitlin like an old friend, even going so far as to complain that he hadn’t seen her around much since the term had started. Caitlin thought of the dozen or so times she’d walked by Elliott and he’d ignored her and promptly forgot all about them.
She watched as he effortlessly picked up one of the pillars. Next to him, Paul Edmunds, the other half of the team responsible for shifting the scenery, was struggling with his.
