School Monitor

  “Then why don’t you give me a break?”

  He whirls round, face twisted into a snarl that would get him on the squad of the New Zealand All Blacks. “Not an option. You broke The Code!”

  After collecting another three bruises, I shower, go back to my cell, and wait for breakfast. Bollinger brings it. I don’t eat it. I can’t. Like he does every morning, Bollinger spits right in the middle of my porridge.

  I pick up the bowl, scrape it into the toilet, and flush it all away. Then I sit on my bed and stare at the hole in the carpet until it’s time for class. I don’t have long to wait to see which prefect is going to walk me down so I don’t give Spencer trouble! It’s Rawlinson, and as far as people who hate my guts go, Rawlinson’s all right.

  “Ready?” Rawlinson has round geeky reading glasses and is going to Oxford to read the classics. He never spits in my food or pushes me around, but he does look the other way when the others do.

  I nod, get up, and follow him down to history, where I sit in the empty desk in the front row and wait for the rubber and paper missiles to start. Ten, nine, eight, seven… the first one hits my head. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and wait for Wilson to show up. It will stop then, and I can go back to trying to stay awake.

  Class over, Wilson walks me to English, and we pass Spencer in the corridor, and for the first time that morning, I’m glad my stomach’s empty. I’m so tense I think I’m going to puke.

  Spencer glares at me, and even though I don’t know I’m doing it, I’m taking smaller steps as we near each other.

  “Come on, Jarvis,” says Wilson, giving me a nudge in the back. “We don’t want any more trouble.”

  How can he think I want more agro? I just want my old life back, but Spencer’s never going to let this drop, and when I turn round, I see him firing an invisible gun at me.

  I try to concentrate on The Merchant of Venice, but it’s useless, even when I use my finger to trace along each line; all the words look like blurred grey smudges as my brain throbs from the effort of staying awake. I can’t remember the last time I slept. If that lot aren’t trying to break into my room, my own nightmares keep me awake in a frigid sweat.

  Lessons over, and it’s back to my room for lunch and the only meal I can eat, because Matron brings it. Every mouthful feels like it’s coming straight back up again, but I manage to eat half of it before the bell for afternoon classes rings.

  “Jarvis!”

  I jump out of myself as Rawlinson barks my name.

  “Ready for RE?”

  I follow him back downstairs and along the corridors into the classroom and sit in the front row. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five… the first rubber missile hits my head, and they don’t stop as I watch Father Charles open and close his mouth for thirty minutes.

  Another escort, another lesson. Can’t even tell you what we just did, and then it’s study hall with Bollinger.

  I slow down as I pass Chrissie, and right on cue, I stumble and drop my books. Like a pack of hyenas, they all laugh, but I haven’t fallen over for their entertainment; this is part of my master strategy to smuggle my letters to Beth.

  Like she did yesterday, Chrissie crouches down next to me and hands me my history textbook so I can slip her the letter, then I sit at the desk by the window and watch the rain fall until a sharp missile stings the back of my head and I remember I’ve got a history essay to hand in tomorrow.

  Groaning, I open up my book, write “How World War I Started” as a title, and an hour later, when the bell rings for the end of study hall, I’m still staring at a blank page.

  “Better than yesterday,” Bollinger says, looking down at me with a half smile. “Perhaps Wilson will take pity on you and give you a D for zero spelling mistakes.”

  I stuff everything into my backpack and follow him out to pick up my post, but my pigeonhole’s as empty as a cinema ten minutes after the credits have finished rolling.

  “What’s up, Jarvis?” Bollinger laughs. “No letter from your girlfriend?”

  I shrug and pretend I don’t give a shit.

  “She dumped you?”

  “No.” I say, following him down to the dining room.

  “Sure about that?” he asks. “She hasn’t written for days, and let’s face it, Jarvis — she’s hot. I bet she gets hit on all the time!”

  I try not to listen, but my insides still pull — Beth wouldn’t do that to me. She promised.

  I take my sausage and mash back upstairs, put the tray down on my desk, and then wait, one, two, three… Bollinger spits in it.

  “Night, night,” he sings out, the same way he does every night. “Sleep tight.”

  I wait until his footsteps disappear, then I get up, scrape my plate into the toilet, flush, change into my pyjamas, put the chair up against the door to keep them out, and lie down on my bed for another night of no sleep before it starts all over again. Perhaps Beth will write to me tomorrow. I hope she does. I hope she still wants to go out with me; if she doesn’t, I really have nothing to live for.

  Chapter 36

  There’s a pink envelope sticking out from my pigeonhole. I know Beth hasn’t abandoned me. Like magic, I’m alive again and shoving my way through the gaggle of year eights. I grab my letter and, too impatient to hear what she’s got to say, open it up as I make my way to the library, where I can enjoy it all over again from my hiding place behind ancient languages.

  Dear Rich,

  I’ve not written for ages because I really didn’t know how to tell you this. I still don’t, but thing is, I’ve started seeing Dave, and…

  Everything stops. In this weird kind of silent bubble, I read on, oblivious to the elbows and abuse, because it just doesn’t seem real. Beth’s dumped me. It’s all there in her big swirly writing. She’s seeing Dave now, and she doesn’t want to be friends anymore. It still doesn’t seem real.

  “Rich, are you all right?”

  I jump as a hand penetrates through the bubble of nothingness, and as all the noise, smell, and suffocation of St. Bart’s bombards my traumatised senses, I realise the hand belongs to Chrissie and I’m blocking the entrance to the library.

  “Rich, what’s happened?”

  I’ve been dumped before. Lucy Cromwell finished with me because she was jealous of me wanting to spend my weekends making films with Beth and the guys. It hurt for a bit — but it was nothing like this. It didn’t feel like I’d just drunk acid.

  Chrissie snatches the letter from me and, quick as anything, speed-reads the two pages. “She’s going out with Dave!”

  All the hurt transforms into this bitter anger as Chrissie tells the world I’ve been dumped, and trying to retain as much dignity as I can with a group of girls all sniggering at me, I grab my letter back and hide in the library.

  I’m sorry, Rich, but please don’t write anymore, because being friends isn’t going to work. I’d rather just forget…

  I read it again. It still doesn’t seem real, but the pain from the fallout is.

  “I’m sorry,” Chrissie apologises, sitting next to me on the window seat and squeezing my shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  I shake my head as I lose my battle to keep it together. I think if I wasn’t going through hell here, I might, just might be able to deal with it, but Beth really was the only good thing in my life, and without her…

  Turning to look outside at the grey sky to hide the fact I’m now crying, I wait until I’m back in control again; even though it’s only Chrissie, it’s still embarrassing. I don’t care what the films and songs say — it’s not all right for guys to cry.

  “She wasn’t good enough for you anyway,” Chrissie tells me. “You can do much better.”

  She’s being nice, but all she succeeds in doing is making me feel even more pathetic, and still unable to suck all the tears back inside, I press my burning forehead against the cold windowpane.

  “I don’t know why you’re so surprised,” she continues. “When you first got it to
gether, she went off with another guy.”

  “That was her gay friend from dance class!”

  “So she says!”

  “CHRISSIE, LEAVE IT!”

  As all these images of Beth and Dave getting it on play out like a movie in my brain, I fight to stop my breathing from racing ahead as the anger-infused hurt rips through me. I’d been writing all this stuff to her, thinking we were together forever, and she was with Dave all the time. Dave, one of my best mates! I try again to suck the tears back in, but there’s too many of them.

  “You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?” Chrissie asks me, all worried.

  When I see my reflection in the windowpane, I realise why she’s asking me. I don’t look like me anymore. The old me’s gone. Now, I’m just this awkward-looking weirdo with hollow, staring eyes.

  “No,” I say, digging deep into my emergency strength reserves so she won’t freak out too.

  “Good,” she says, taking Beth’s letter and tearing it up in front of me. “Now forget about her — forget about all of them!”

  I try to smile, but I can’t. It still hurts too much.

  “Let’s meet back here after dinner,” she says. “We can talk some more then.”

  I nod. It’s great being a twin. When you’re a twin, you’re never alone; there’s always someone to look after you, and luckily, I’ve got Chrissie; no one else is looking out for me anymore.

  Chapter 37

  For the first time since my fight with Spencer, I’m allowed a call from home, so Mum can sort out half-term arrangements. Bollinger walks me down to the telephone booth then stands about an inch from the door with his arms folded. So I don’t have to look at him, I face the wall and go back to chewing what’s left of my nails. I hope it’s Mum. I don’t think I can handle Dad. The phone rings, and I pick it up.

  “Rich.”

  It’s Mum, thank God.

  “Rich, are you there?”

  “Yes,” I say, my voice sounding hoarse from lack of use. “How’s Mumbai?”

  “Hot,” she tells me. “It’s thirty-three in the shade, if you can find any.”

  I force myself to sound happy, and try to remember what I was going to say. I had it all planned, how I was going to persuade her to bring me home early. Now I can’t remember any of it; my head’s full with how much I miss her.

  “How are you getting on?”

  “Okay.” That wasn’t what I meant to say. But I can’t say what I wanted, with just a thin sheet of glass between Bollinger and me.

  “I’m really pleased,” she tells me. “I told your father you just needed a bit more time to settle in.”

  I nod, hugging myself with one arm; now I’ve told her everything’s all right, she’s never going to break me out of here.

  “How’s Chrissie?”

  “Fine,” I say, not sure what Mum wants to hear. “She’s got a lot of friends.”

  “So, things are all right now?”

  She’s giving me another chance to tell her, but I’ve been silent too long, and she’s already telling me about how busy and exciting it is there, and how she needed help to cross the road because there were so many cars, scooters, and cows coming from every conceivable direction.

  “Oh, Rich, you should see it. It’s so vibrant and colourful, and last week there was this big festival, and everyone was out in the streets dancing and singing…”

  I close my eyes and try to imagine the hectic streets, the colourful saris, the musky exotic spices, but I can’t escape the grey despair of St. Bart’s.

  “Look, Rich, I asked to talk to you alone because I wasn’t sure how Chrissie was going to take this…”

  My stomach lurches again, and not because Bollinger’s punched the glass to remind me what he plans to do to me as soon as my stint in solitary’s over. “You’re not coming back for half-term, are you?”

  She’s silent so long I already know what the answer’s going to be. “I’m sorry, Rich; your father’s got a really important client event and…”

  I bloody knew it. Dad, Dad and his stupid business deal. “It’s not fair!”

  “Rich, your father needs me.”

  “So do I!”

  “It’s only a week, and then Christmas isn’t that far off—”

  “Christmas is forever away!”

  “Rich, you’re being unreasonable.”

  “ME?”

  “Please, Rich, things aren’t going well here, and after all the trouble you’ve been in with Robert, well, it’s put me and your father in a very awkward position. We rely on the Spencers for everything and…”

  I knew it; she’s going to make me feel guilty so I won’t make an issue of her abandoning me.

  “Rich?”

  “Whatever, as long as Chrissie and I can still stay with Nan—”

  “Yes,” she interrupts. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about as well.”

  “Are you saying we can’t go to Nan’s?”

  “Yes,” she tells me. “She’s not feeling too well. You know how hard Chrissie can be… your nan needs to rest.”

  “Okay,” I say, panic that she’s going to leave us here for the holidays stopping me from thinking straight. “I didn’t want to go to Nan’s anyway.”

  “That’s okay, then.”

  “I’ll stay with Stew.”

  “You can’t.”

  “What?” Okay, I know Beth and Dave are together, but Stew’s still my mate; they never said anything in the letter about Stew not wanting to be friends. “What do you mean I can’t?”

  “What about Chrissie?”

  “What about me?” I cry, sinking back against the glass.

  “Rich, how would you like it if Chrissie went to stay with one of her friends and left you at school on your own?”

  I can’t argue against Mum’s guilt logic, but I have to get out of here. I just have to.

  “Rich, I’m sorry, really, but if your father doesn’t pull this off, I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

  I’d be deaf not to hear the strain in her voice.

  “Rich, this really is important.”

  I know it is. I’m desperate, not stupid. I know if Dad doesn’t get this deal, we’re screwed. I also know when Dad closes it, he’s quite likely to promise anything — even sending me back to my old school.

  “Rich, everything is okay, isn’t it?”

  I want to tell her, more than anything, I do, but even if Bollinger didn’t have his hands and face pressed to the glass, I’m too ashamed.

  “Rich, honey?”

  “It’s cool, Mum,” I manage to say, my voice shaking as much as the rest of me.

  “Thanks, Rich. I knew I could count on you.”

  I change my mind as soon as Baxter, Finny, and Spencer corner me after study hall. I fight because I don’t know how to do anything else, but even before all this started, there’s no way I would have been able to hold my own against three of them.

  Baxter drives his knee into my stomach, and I go down, and they don’t stop kicking me until Jones sounds the teacher alarm, and then Spencer has this “great” idea to lock me in a store cupboard. I don’t know how long I was in there, but it was dark when Jones came down and unlocked the door.

  Chapter 38

  Half-term was over in a blink, and back came the daily routine of glares, abuse, and torment, made a hundred times worse since Beth finished with me. Force-feeding myself soggy cornflakes, I try to ignore it, but it’s getting harder as I fail to make any progress in uncovering my enemy.

  An elbow smacks me in the back of the head, and I jump inside out.

  “Sorry,” says Finny, plonking himself down next to me with enough food to feed the entire rugby squad.

  I freeze as I try to think of a comeback; something, anything to stop him from ripping into me even more, but thinking’s like trying to wade through thick mud.

  “Not very sharp these days, are you, Jarvis?” Baxter sneers, slotting into the space to the righ
t of me. “You should try getting some more sleep.”

  I blink and try to forget being woken up at two in the morning by a freezing-cold water bomb.

  “So, what are you doing in your uniform?” Finny asks, jabbing his finger into my arm. “It’s Sunday, moron!”

  I stare down at the mush of cornflakes and wait for it to stop, but it isn’t going to, because Spencer’s here now.

  “Don’t you remember, Finny? Jarvis has his media studies lesson.” Sitting opposite me in his polo gear, Spencer leans forward and steals my slice of toast.

  “So what do you do in media studies?” Baxter asks. “Dress up like a girl and prance around in front of the camera?”

  I could tell him to get stuffed, but what’s the point? They’ll just use it as an excuse to kick my head in later.

  “Don’t you want to make something of it?” Spencer asks as he kicks my left shin to provoke me into fighting.

  I shrug to show I can’t be bothered with them.

  “No wonder his girlfriend dumped him!” says Spencer, fixing his eyes on me. “Heard she’s banging one of your loser friends…”

  Something in me snaps, and I get up, fists clenched.

  “Wouldn’t hit me if I was you,” Spencer tells me, his taunts so razor sharp each word cuts me. “Not if you want Daddy to keep his job!” With this, I leave. Dad and his stupid deal.

  After kicking the wall, I collect the keys from Mr Henry and let myself into the security room. With zero enthusiasm, I watch faded black-and-white footage of a load of St. Bart’s boys grinning and waving far too quickly as they sign up to fight. It doesn’t inspire me. It tortures me. Captain Howard was a few years older than I when he went off to fight. He crawled into No Man’s Land on a daily basis to drag the wounded and dying back into the trenches — he died a hero. Me, I’m hiding in a glorified storeroom, too chickenshit to tell Spencer to get stuffed.

  “Rich, are you all right?”

  I turn away as Laura arrives, and try to suck the tears back inside me. “Fine.”

  “I think what you’ve put together here is amazing,” she tells me, unfolding my storyboard across the console. “I showed the Head, and he says he’ll definitely show it at the end-of-year concert. He thinks this will be an inspiring tribute to the school’s great contribution to the war. Isn’t that wonderful?”