by R. A. Spratt
‘Hey, don’t be rude to your mum,’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘You’re not the boss of me,’ said Ian.
‘No, but I love your mum and I don’t want you to upset her,’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘She’s my mum!’ yelled Ian. ‘I get to upset her whenever and wherever I like!’ He turned and stomped off in another direction.
‘Poor Ian,’ said Melanie. ‘Do you think he realises he’s walking off towards the rugby pitches?’
‘I’m sure he’ll figure it out and double back when he thinks we’re not looking,’ said Friday.
Chapter 7
Permission to Skive
It was a forlorn couple of weeks at Highcrest Academy. At least, for Ian it was. He had refused to go with his mum and Uncle Bernie (his stepdad, as Ian refused to think of him) on their honeymoon. Uncle Bernie asked Friday if she still wanted to come, but Friday suggested that they could all celebrate later, when Ian had had a chance to get used to the idea. It would just rub salt in the wound if she was on holiday with his mother, while he was upset.
‘It’s strange to see Ian so sad,’ said Melanie as they sat in the dining hall, eating lunch. Friday looked up to see Ian on the far side of the room, half-heartedly picking at his peach cobbler.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Friday. ‘He gets upset all the time. He’s a classic sulky, stroppy teenager.’
‘Classically handsome, perhaps,’ said Melanie. ‘But normally when he gets upset he gets angry, nasty and vindictive. This time he’s just quiet. I think I prefer him when he’s spiteful. After all, that’s the Ian you fell in love with.’
‘I did not,’ said Friday.
‘No, you were able to see through it, to the pain of the abandoned boy beneath,’ agreed Melanie. ‘But now that’s all there is left. I miss his anger – he had such creative ways of expressing his annoyance with people.’
‘Like the time he put my clothes on top of a channel marker, or the time he attached an electric motor to the picnic table I was sitting on and drove it into the swamp, or the time he imploded my pencil box?’ asked Friday.
‘Yes,’ agreed Melanie, smiling fondly. ‘Good times.’
Friday rolled her eyes. There was no point trying to reason with Melanie.
‘I just hope he snaps out of it before we go to camp next week,’ said Melanie.
Friday groaned. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t read the prospectus carefully enough,’ she said. ‘If I’d known about this camp in advance, I would have seriously considered homeschooling myself.’
‘Camp isn’t so bad,’ said Melanie. ‘All that fresh air is good for you.’
‘Really? You’re advocating outdoor activity?’ asked Friday.
‘Of course,’ said Melanie. ‘Fresh air helps you sleep at night.’
‘You always sleep like a log,’ said Friday.
‘Yes, but it’s a better quality of sleep when teachers haven’t been trying to fill my head with maths and science and history all day,’ said Melanie. ‘It’s the pure restful type of sleep you only get when all you’ve been doing is watch other people chop wood.’
‘I really want to sprain my ankle so I don’t have to go,’ said Friday.
‘So why don’t you?’ asked Melanie. ‘Obviously you shouldn’t actually sprain your ankle, but you could always pretend to do it.’
‘Because I’m frightened,’ confessed Friday.
‘Of woodchopping?’ asked Melanie. ‘I don’t blame you. I don’t know how it is that so few students accidentally chop their toes off. Speaking of which, did you know that Pandora Benedetti had to have a toe surgically reattached after the last camp?’
‘No, I’m not scared of that,’ said Friday. ‘An axe swinging through the air is just the mathematics of parabolic motion. I’m not scared of parabolic motion. Besides, I haven’t got the strength to lift an axe, so there’s no way I could hurt myself with one. I’m scared of the situation. Ten people in a dorm – not just you and me – working in teams and overcoming obstacles as a group. I’m terrible at all that human interaction stuff.’
‘Then why don’t you skive off?’ asked Melanie.
‘Because I learn so little at school,’ said Friday. ‘There’s almost nothing the teachers tell us that I don’t know already. I completely grasp the mathematical and scientific principles up to university level and beyond. The greatest lesson I learn from school is how to interact with other people.’
‘Really?’ said Melanie. ‘Because if that’s the case, you’re not doing too well at your studies.’
‘I know,’ said Friday, ‘which is why I shouldn’t shirk this challenge. I should go to camp precisely because I really don’t want to go. I need to face my fear of social interaction.’
‘Good for you,’ said Melanie. ‘And on the bright side, if you don’t overcome your fear of social interaction, you will learn how to use an axe. Once you can swing an axe about, you don’t need to socially interact with anyone you don’t want to.’
‘Barnes!’ called the Headmaster. He was waddling towards them at an accelerated speed.
‘Why must everyone use my surname?’ asked Friday.
‘Because your first name is so silly,’ said Melanie.
Friday nodded. Even she had to acknowledge this was true. The Headmaster reached them.
‘I want to talk with you,’ said the Headmaster.
‘Because you want her to come up with a gambling system that actually works and allows you to systematically beat the odds at the racetrack?’ guessed Melanie.
‘No,’ said the Headmaster. ‘Risk is the best bit about gambling. If I got a brilliant mathematician to work out a system that worked, it would totally ruin the fun of it.’
‘Then why do you need to speak to me?’ asked Friday. ‘Do you need help with a problem?’
‘In a way, yes,’ said the Headmaster.
‘What’s the problem?’ asked Friday.
‘You,’ said the Headmaster.
‘I haven’t done anything,’ said Friday.
‘Not yet, no,’ said the Headmaster. ‘But we all know it’s only a matter of time before you uncover something, or expose something, or entrap somebody, or just say something unnecessarily rude.’
‘Usually when I do those things it’s because I’m solving a case for you,’ said Friday.
‘Yes, I know, but now I want you to stop it,’ said the Headmaster. ‘I’m asking you to consider not going to camp.’
‘Why?’ asked Friday.
‘Because it took me years to find this new camp,’ said the Headmaster. ‘Most of the other camps refuse to take Highcrest Academy because the children are so obnoxious, their pranks are so dangerous, and at least three students always get lost in the woods.’
‘Then why does the school persevere with the program?’ asked Friday.
‘Because the parents love it,’ said the Headmaster. ‘They delight in it when their kids come home sunburnt, their hands covered in blisters and legs covered in leech bites. They think it’s “character-building”. Sometimes I think parents are even bigger sadists than maths teachers.’
‘Do the maths teachers know that’s how you think of them?’ asked Friday.
‘Of course,’ said the Headmaster. ‘If they didn’t enjoy being reviled, they wouldn’t have become maths teachers. Anyway, that’s beside the point. I can’t have you offending the staff and getting our whole school banned. We’re lucky, because Camp Courage was going to bar us too. But someone persuaded the woman who runs the place to give us a chance.’
‘This is so unfair,’ said Friday. ‘I’m not a student who plays pranks or gets up to mischief. I’m always the one solving those problems.’
‘I know,’ said the Headmaster, ‘and I am very grateful. But you have such a charmless, tact-free way of solving problems, the solution often ends up being much worse. So I think it would be better for everyone if you spent the four weeks here. You could help Mrs Cannon. She’s going to use the time to rearrange the book
depository.’
‘You know that means she’s just going to take naps in the English room closet, don’t you?’ said Friday.
‘Of course I know that!’ snapped the Headmaster. ‘This is exactly my point. Mrs Cannon says she is organising. I pretend I think that’s true. We’re both happy. You pointing out the truth doesn’t help anyone.’
‘You are a very deceptive man, Headmaster,’ said Friday.
‘All polite people are,’ said the Headmaster. ‘It’s called “being nice”. You should try it sometime.’
‘Friday doesn’t mean to upset people,’ said Melanie kindly.
‘I know that, you know that, but the wilderness survival experts who run Camp Courage don’t know that,’ said the Headmaster. ‘I can’t have you upsetting them.’
‘I refuse to refuse to go,’ said Friday. ‘I am exercising my right as a full-fee paying student to attend camp.’
‘You haven’t actually paid any fees since first semester,’ said the Headmaster.
‘I’ve paid for them with services rendered,’ said Friday. ‘There are several criminals behind bars that are testament to that fact.’
‘Very well, go to camp if you must,’ said the Headmaster. ‘But please, I’m begging you, try not to talk to any of the counsellors.’
‘Couldn’t she talk to them nicely?’ asked Melanie.
‘I think that is beyond her,’ said the Headmaster. ‘It would be better if Friday didn’t speak. And please don’t go around uncovering any crimes.’
‘You want me to let crime go unchallenged?’ asked Friday.
‘Yes,’ said the Headmaster. ‘Yes, please.’
‘What if there is a serious crime?’ asked Friday.
‘Try closing your eyes and counting to ten to see if it just goes away,’ said the Headmaster.
‘As a scientist, I refuse to turn a blind eye to hard facts,’ said Friday.
‘If you manage to get all the way through the four weeks of camp without calling the police in,’ said the Headmaster, ‘I will give you a whole free term of tuition next year.’
‘I’m already paid up halfway through next year,’ said Friday.
‘What do you want, then?’ asked the Headmaster.
Friday thought about it for a moment. ‘Salted caramel ice-cream for dinner once a week,’ she decided.
‘Deal,’ said the Headmaster. And they shook hands on it.
Chapter 8
The Wheels on the Bus Don’t Always Go Round and Round
The bus ride to camp was quite something. Many of the privileged students had never been on a bus before. Some were excited by the novelty while others, like Mirabella Peterson, were disgusted by the hygiene implications.
Mirabella stood blocking the entry of the bus, refusing to get on. She was a very pretty and surprisingly athletic girl who had a talent for getting her own way, largely through being sulky and petulant. She wore false eyelashes, even during PE, and although it was against school rules, none of the teachers said anything about it because no one could be bothered dealing with one of her tantrums.
‘How do I know if the seat is clean?’ demanded Mirabella Peterson.
‘My dear,’ said the Headmaster, trying to draw on his last ounce of patience, ‘I can assure you that millions, if not billions, of people around the world travel on buses every day without coming to any harm.’
‘That’s my point,’ said Mirabella. ‘Millions of people with all their germs have been touching the seats.’
Friday was close behind in the gaggle of students waiting to get on. She found Mirabella an intriguing psychological case study.
‘Rosa Parks fought for the right for African Americans to sit where they liked on buses, because it represented the small entrenched acts of racism that oppressed people of colour,’ said Friday. ‘But you’re fighting for the right not to sit on a bus seat in case you catch a cold, because it represents how selfish you are.’
‘Yes,’ said Mirabella, ‘that’s exactly right.’
‘I’ve got hand sanitiser,’ said Trea Babcock. ‘Would you like some?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Mirabella. ‘I’m going to tell my parents about this. The school should be providing hand sanitiser.’
Trea Babcock rifled through her bag and found her hand sanitiser. It was a two-litre pump-action bottle.
‘Where on earth did you get a bottle of hand sanitiser that big?’ asked the Headmaster.
‘They don’t even have bottles that big in hospitals,’ said Friday.
‘Which is probably why they have so many golden staph outbreaks,’ said Melanie.
‘Mummy sent it to me,’ said Trea. ‘She didn’t want me to catch germs from any wildlife.’
‘You do realise that very few germs can be spread between species?’ said Friday.
‘I don’t think she was worried about me catching germs from another species,’ said Trea. ‘I think her idea of wildlife is teenage boys.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Friday. She could see how dipping Trea Babcock in antiseptic gel would curtail the spread of disease.
After liberally dabbing hand sanitiser on her seat, and on the surrounding handrail and window, Mirabella finally sat down, which meant the rest of the seventh graders could shuffle onto the bus.
Friday and Melanie sat towards the front.
Ian was still being grouchy so he skulked straight past them and sat right up the back.
‘So this is how poor people travel,’ said Melanie, looking about.
‘Some poor people,’ said Friday. ‘Really poor people walk.’
‘How horrendous,’ said Melanie. ‘Thank goodness Mummy and Daddy are rich. Where is the hostess?’
‘The what?’ asked Friday.
‘The hostess,’ said Melanie. ‘Or is it “steward”? You know, the person who serves the in-journey meal.’
‘This is a bus,’ said Friday. ‘There is no in-journey meal.’
‘Gosh,’ said Melanie. She looked up and down the aisle. ‘Friday, where is the bathroom?’
Friday reached out and held her friend’s hand. ‘There isn’t one.’
Melanie gasped.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Friday. ‘You’ll be okay. You can make it. Besides, if you really need to go, I’m sure the bus driver will be able to pull over so you can pee behind a bush.’
‘Friday, I’m frightened,’ said Melanie.
‘You’re going to be fine,’ said Friday reassuringly. ‘Why don’t you go to sleep? You’re always happier when you’re asleep.’
‘Good idea,’ said Melanie, closing her eyes. She was obviously very nervous because it took her three minutes to drift into slumber, which was two minutes longer than it normally did.
Camp Courage was a four-hour drive from Highcrest Academy. The road there was smooth and the countryside was monotonous, so soon even Friday was starting to drift off.
Friday was in a half-asleep state, dreaming that she was in a university laboratory discovering the 119th unique element when suddenly she heard screaming. It took her giant brain a few seconds to realise that the screaming was not one of joy at her scientific breakthrough – it was someone screaming in terror.
Friday leapt up and turned around. Mirabella Peterson was sitting many rows behind her, wailing as loud as she could. From this distance, Friday could see that Mirabella still had two arms and a head, and there was no blood spraying out from anywhere, so it was not immediately apparent why the girl was making such a bloodcurdling noise.
‘What’s going on?’ demanded Friday as she strode down the bus, assuming the position of authority figure because the only adult there was Mr Maclean, the geography teacher, who everyone agreed could not cope with normal day-to-day life let alone a crisis.
Mirabella didn’t answer. She just kept screaming.
‘It’s her hair,’ said Melanie. She had woken up and followed Friday down the bus.
Friday looked closely at Mirabella’s hair. Friday was not a hair person. She cou
ld not be less interested in the subject. She was barely motivated to comb her own hair, let alone notice the style of others. But now, as she examined it, she observed that Mirabella had a large bald patch on the top of her head.
‘Did she have that before?’ Friday whispered to Melanie.
Melanie shook her head.
‘Is that a fashionable style?’ asked Friday.
Melanie’s eyes widened and she shook her head again. ‘Not since the medieval monk look went out of style.’
‘What happened?’ Friday asked Mirabella.
But Mirabella just kept wailing. Friday looked around at the people sitting near her. ‘What happened?’ Friday repeated.
Everyone looked at her blankly.
‘Someone attacked me!’ screamed Mirabella.
‘Who?’ asked Friday.
‘I don’t know,’ said Mirabella. ‘I was asleep.’
‘Was it a good sleep?’ asked Melanie. ‘I was asleep too and having a lovely dream about hot chips.’
‘When I woke up someone had chopped my hair off,’ said Mirabella.
‘Only a portion of it,’ said Friday.
‘A portion on the top that everyone can see!’ said Mirabella.
‘What’s all this, then?’ asked Mr Maclean. He had walked down the bus, having decided that he could no longer ignore the commotion. He had to pretend to be a responsible adult at some point.
‘Someone has given Mirabella an unattractive haircut while she was sleeping,’ said Friday. ‘But no one will admit who.’
‘Trea, you must have seen something,’ said Mr Maclean. Trea was sitting directly behind Mirabella. ‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Trea. ‘I was turned around, playing cards with Klara.’ She pointed to the girl behind her who nodded.
‘What about you?’ Mr Maclean asked Bethany, who was sitting next to Trea.
‘I don’t know,’ said Bethany. ‘I had my eyes closed. I was meditating. My psychologist tells me I need to breathe less.’
‘I can vouch for that,’ said Trea. ‘Her deep breathing was totally annoying.’
