School Monitor

  In a state of numb shock, I look around for someone, anyone, who, like me, thinks we should be calling the police, but for some unknown reason, they all seem to think threatening students is fine.

  “Still want your camera?”

  I go to shake my head. I’m no coward, but I’m not going to antagonise him any further, not until Chrissie and I are on the next train back to civilisation, which won’t be long. There’s no way Mum will leave us here when I tell her what the teachers are like. Unfortunately, Chrissie decides it’s time to stand up for me.

  “Please, sir,” she says, sounding as scared as I feel. “Rich has permission to bring his camera.”

  “Really?” Wilson sneers.

  She nods, oblivious to me silently pleading with her to shut up.

  “Rich has been selected to apply for work experience at the BBC,” she goes on. “He’s the youngest ever to be picked, and he needs his camera because he’s doing his GCSE a year early.”

  The silence somehow becomes even more intense.

  “He’s really very good,” Chrissie continues in excited tones. “He’s won loads of awards, and he’s even been on TV.”

  Mr Wilson raises an eyebrow, but not in an impressed or interested way.

  “Really?” he muses. “And pray what masterpieces does Jarvis produce?”

  I’ve studied enough movie scripts to know what’s coming next; I wish Chrissie had so she’d stop making this worse.

  “He does everything; he’s just finished this fab movie…” She breaks off, realising her mistake, and just stands there staring at her boots, bottom lip curled over.

  “And the title of this epic film?”

  “Snowzen,” she answers in a small voice.

  “A documentary on penguins?” Wilson asks, looking from her to me, clearly enjoying my squirming.

  “No,” she mumbles, still looking at her boots. “It’s a comedy tribute of Frozen.”

  “And what part did you play, Jarvis?”

  In a movie, this is one of those crunch moments, where it can go one of two ways for the hero, and I’m not going to crash and burn in the opening scenes.

  “Anna.”

  The silence is shattered by muffled sniggers as Wilson’s lined face morphs into a grin worthy of The Joker. “You’re an actress too?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, projecting a confidence to tell everyone if they think they can bully me about this, they can’t. “Do you want to see?”

  A few gasps from behind let me know that I’ve survived the crunch moment.

  “No,” he growls.

  “I do serious drama too, sir,” I add, just to make sure that even the deaf, blind, and stupid can’t use this against me. “I got an award for my portrayal of Tony in Westside Story.”

  “Any more lip, Jarvis, and you’ll be starring in round-the-clock detentions,” he retorts, handing back my camera. “Do I make myself clear?”

  “Perfectly,” I reply, and still playing cocky comedian, I leave a long pause before saying, “Sir.”

  Mr Wilson — Sir — grunts. “Check that’s correct, and sign there.”

  I glance down the list of everything he’s taken, and I’m just about to sign my name when he coughs.

  “I’d read the disclaimer if I were you, Jarvis.”

  I read the two lines in bold italics. “Any student caught with contraband goods will lose all privileges and, depending on the severity of the offence, face suspension leading to possible expulsion.”

  “Still want to sign?”

  “Yes, sir.” I sign my name and hand back the form.

  He grunts again. “New students have to go to the Churchill Room for your induction pack — just follow the signs.”

  I stride out of there like I still own the scene and put as much distance as I can between Chrissie and me. I know she didn’t do it on purpose, but I’d specifically told her not to say anything. Now all I need to make this day the worst ever is to find out I’ve got Hermit as my roommate.

  Chapter 7

  “I’m sorry, Rich,” says Chrissie, trying again to apologise as I make my way towards the dorm after being forced to sit through an hour’s lecture on how great St. Bart’s is.

  Looking forward so I don’t have to make eye contact with any of the other students, who are all pointing me out and smirking, I increase my stride, forcing her to run to keep up.

  “Rich—”

  “Not interested.” I say, cutting her off as I reach the OTT marble staircase that leads up to my dorm.

  “I was just trying to help.”

  “I told you not to say anything.”

  “I didn’t think—”

  “You never do!” I say, glaring at some fat bozo who has just asked me if I get off on wearing a dress.

  “Please, Rich; you don’t know what it’s like for me. You’ve always been popular!”

  “Well, I’m not popular now!” I snap, spitting the words in her face. “I’ll be lucky if I make it through the night without getting a kicking.”

  “Please, Rich,” she begs, grabbing my hand to stop me from leaving. “I can’t handle another Goldmeads!”

  Once again, she somehow manages to make it all my fault. Chrissie’s a pain in the arse, and I will go through hell until I can convince that lot I’m not some kind of pervert, but I’d rather get my head kicked in every day than see her have a hard time.

  “I told you, it won’t be like Goldmeads.” Anger forgotten, I sit down on the bottom step and pat the space next to me.

  “But even you hate me.”

  “I don’t hate you.” I sigh as she slides in next to me. “Just promise you won’t try to help me again.”

  She swallows and nods, and despite the sophisticated makeup and clothes, she still looks like a terrified year seven, and more than ever, I regret giving her a hard time when she needs me most.

  “Look, I’ll be fine,” I tell her, even though I’m not. “And you’re going to be popular — I’ll see to it.”

  “How?”

  “Well, you’ve already got a fan in Spencer,” I explain. “Blowing him off was a stroke of genius.”

  She giggles and gazes up at the monstrosity that is our new school. “What do you think of the place?”

  Looking towards the stone walls and miles of mahogany panelling, I let out a sigh. “I think if I can find some actors, I might remake Dracula.”

  “What about Shutter Island?”

  “That could work too,” I agree.

  “No, do The Hunchback of Notre Dame,” she says, getting all excited. “The bells, the bells…”

  I give a year-twelve guy the middle finger as he walks past humming “Let It Go.”

  “Sorry,” Chrissie mumbles again.

  “No sweat.” Pushing myself to my feet, I dig deep within myself to face the onslaught that awaits me at the top of the stairs. “Now, just remember to play it pure diva.”

  She nods, big blue eyes as scared as I’ve ever seen them. “Rich, you will stay with me.”

  “I’ll be like a shadow.” I smile. “Meet you outside the dining room at six o’clock.”

  * * *

  By the time I get to the dormitories, Spencer, Jones, and the others are lounging around in the common room, bragging about the girls they scored with, and who should and should not be on the polo squad. They all stop and stare in my direction the moment I step foot inside the door.

  “What?” I shrug, realising this isn’t the moment to start acting me.

  “You know what,” Spencer retorts. “Let’s have a look at you dressed as a chick.”

  Sitting down on the sofa, they all gather round, and I get out my camera.

  “Wow,” says Jones as he watches me fire up the LED screen. “This is no hobby, then.”

  I shake my head. “It’s my life, and with any luck, this summer I’ll be helping out on the set of a new BBC drama.”

  “Cool,” says another guy. “I’m Roberts.”

  I nod in his direction
and, getting the feeling I’ve managed to climb halfway out of the hole Chrissie’s dumped me in, press the play button, and Snowzen starts to roll.

  They all laugh. I know they’re supposed to, but I don’t want them laughing at me, not when I haven’t established myself in the pecking order.

  “This is bloody funny!” Jones says, watching me as Anna sitting astride an inflatable moose. “What else you done?”

  Knowing they’re going to watch everything, I decide to come clean. “Twilight, Buffy, Star Wars, Titanic, Charlie’s Angels, Harry Potter.”

  “Charlie’s Angels, I’ve got to see!” Spencer snorts as he waves some more guys over. “Who do you play?”

  “Lucy Liu.” I sigh, putting in the sim so they can watch it.

  To my surprise, I reel them in completely. I know I’m good. I have nearly 150,000 subscribers to my YouTube channel, and a lot of them send in requests. But I didn’t figure on any of these guys being fans. Somehow, I always imagined my followers were like me. Aspiring directors, actors, animators, and writers.

  “You’re a genius,” says Jones after watching the speeded-up fight sequence. “But you’ve got a death wish if you ever talk to the masters like that.”

  “At my old school, if a teacher laid one finger on us, he’d be arrested!”

  This time I’m the one who succeeds in making their mouths fall open, and they forget all about the movie running on my camera.

  “You do know this kind of thing isn’t allowed,” I tell them with even more force.

  They all shake their heads.

  “What were your other schools like?”

  Spencer continues to look at me as if I’m mad. “Like this one. Wasn’t yours?”

  “No, and when my parents find out what he—”

  “You can’t tell your parents.” Jones gasps. “If my father finds out I got in trouble before classes even started…”

  They’re beginning to get to me, but I’m determined to play it cool. “All right, I won’t say anything.”

  “Promise?” Jones asks me.

  “Okay, I promise,” I say, because I owe him one. “So what am I supposed to do now?”

  Spencer points in the direction of the corridor. “You need to report to Parker.”

  “He’s the rugby coach too, right?”

  “Yes,” says Spencer, searching through my sim box for another movie to watch. “Better not keep him waiting if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Great!” I leave them watching Harry Potter meets Big Brother and, finding Parker’s office a short distance down the wooden hallway, knock on the closed door.

  “Enter!”

  I step inside and stop as I find him on his mobile. Laughing to whoever he’s talking to, he signals to me to stand in front of his desk, forcing me to suffer his cigar-coated breath. Great, teachers can be distracted from their duties, but we’re not allowed. With nothing else to do until he finishes talking, I look at his office, which is wall-to-wall rugby trophies and signed rugby balls. Even his mobile phone has rugby balls all over the cover.

  “Ah, Jarvis,” he says, hanging up. “What position do you play?”

  “Sorry, sir?” I ask, trying not to look at his nose that’s squashed over most of his face.

  “Rugby, boy,” he replies. “Which position do you play?”

  “Flank, sir,” I tell him, noticing a cobweb of scars on his shaved head.

  “Figures,” he says, looking me up and down. “I was scrum-half in my day, won ten caps for England, and it would have been a lot more if it wasn’t for the accident…”

  I’m not sure what to say, so I say nothing. What else can you say to a six-foot-five giant who looks like a cross between a heavyweight boxer and army major?

  “I’ve got an opening position as a fly-half on the squad,” he says. “You’re a bit on the scrawny side.”

  I look down at my arms and chest. I’ve never considered myself scrawny. I was one of the bigger guys on my old team.

  “I’ll try you out tomorrow,” he tells me. “Five a.m. before breakfast.”

  “Five o’clock?”

  “You have a problem with that, Jarvis?”

  I do, but I’m not going to tell him that after getting on the wrong side of Wilson.

  “Good. You’re in dorm twelve, last room on the right, with Hermit.”

  Great, as if today couldn’t get any worse. Hoping Chrissie’s doing better, I trudge down to the opposite end of the corridor to find Hermit’s bagged the bed by the window.

  “Hi,” I say, forcing myself to sound happy about this. “I’m Richard Jarvis, but my friends call me Rich.”

  “Paul Crab,” he says with a slight stammer as he lines up his books on the shelf.

  “So why do they call you Hermit?”

  “Hermit crab?”

  “Oh,” I say, feeling embarrassed for him. “Sorry.”

  “It’s all right,” he says. “Did you want the window bed? If you do, I don’t mind swapping.”

  “You can have whichever bed you like.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You don’t have to thank me for anything,” I say, his fear making it impossible for me to relax. “You got here first.”

  “But you’re mates with Spencer,” he explains, retreating into the opposite corner.

  It makes me want to puke the way he’s acting. Being smacked in the face hurts, but you fight back, you don’t beg, no matter how scared you are. “My father works for his father,” I mumble, unable to look at him because I’ve just sentenced him to another year of hell. “And my sister’s here too, so I don’t want her having a hard time.”

  He nods. Hermit may be a coward, but he’s smart enough to understand the political landscape, as Dad calls it.

  Hermit shows me how to fit all my clothes into a wardrobe and three drawers so I’ll pass “morning inspection”; and then it’s time for dinner. Even though Hermit’s been decent, I make sure I head downstairs with Jones and Spencer.

  Chapter 8

  Just like everywhere else in this place, the dining room is trapped somewhere in the distant past, overdosing on dark mahogany panelling, red velvet curtains, and extravagant wrought-iron chandeliers. I fully expect to see Henry VIII sitting at the head table chucking bones to the dogs at his feet.

  Nudging Chrissie forward, we follow Spencer towards one of the bigger oblong tables decked out in pristine white tablecloths and polished silver cutlery. There are bottles of still and sparkling mineral water and silver bowls with sliced lemon and lime. I’m impressed; at our last school, we were lucky if they didn’t burn the chips.

  “Baxter, over here!” Spencer waves over at some huge guy with a neck almost as wide as his boxed shoulders, and short-cropped blond hair.

  Baxter knocks knuckles with Spencer before high-fiving Jones.

  “This is Jarvis,” Jones says, nodding in my direction.

  “Hi,” I say, deciding not to shake Baxter’s hand in case he crushes it. “My sister, Chrissie.”

  “You trying out for the team?” he asks, his accent so Scottish, I can almost see Glasgow.

  I nod, disappointed he’s not acknowledged Chrissie.

  “Great,” he says. “We need a decent fly-half if we’re going to stand a chance in the Challenge Cup.”

  “That’s me,” I say, as if I’d say anything else to someone who has a neck the size of a tree trunk.

  “Good man,” he says, waving over some guy with black spiky hair who looks like a designer version of Gru from Despicable Me. “Finny, you fag — over here!”

  “Hey, it’s Lucy Liu!” cries Finny — no idea what his other name is — making everyone turn round to look at me again. “You’re brilliant. That sketch with the speeded-up kung fu — very cool!”

  “Thanks. This is my sister—” I don’t get any further; he wants to talk rugby too.

  “Parker says you’re trying out for the team,” he says, plonking himself between Jones and me and squashing us both in the
process. “I’m the tighthead prop, Baxter’s outside centre and captain!”

  Great, I’m surrounded by rugby-obsessed nutters. “What position do you play, Jones?” I ask in the hope there’s someone of normal size on the squad.

  “I don’t,” he replies. “Spencer and I play polo.”

  At this point, we’re joined by Poppy, whose laugh is almost as loud as her mass of copper curls. “So when do we get to see these famous movies,” she demands, sitting down on Jones’s lap. “I’m an actress too, you know. Starred in Pygmalion last year.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Jones groans. “It was ninety minutes of pure torture.”

  She playfully slaps him. “What about you, Chrissie? Do you act too?”

  Chrissie shakes her head.

  “Chrissie rides,” I say, conscious of the awkward silence when she makes no effort to look up from her lap.

  “Do you hunt?” Spencer asks.

  “No,” she mumbles, still looking at her lap. “I prefer dressage.”

  “She came second in the UK Riders Dressage competition last year,” I tell them, hoping they’ll give her a break.

  “I’ve got a Quarter stabled back home,” Spencer tells her. “And an Arabian mare at the school stables. You can ride her if you like; I only really use her for polo.”

  I elbow Chrissie to say something when she fails to respond, but she doesn’t seem to take the hint.

  “So,” says Jones. “What movie are we going to make?”

  “Don’t know,” I reply before my brain fully registered his question. “We?”

  “Yeah, looks like a lot of fun.”

  I look around the table, surprised to see they’re all serious. “You really want to make a film?”

  He nods. “There’s nothing else to do, and it also means…”

  When I see him and Poppy exchange glances, I realise what that is.

  “Go on,” Jones begs. “This is a legitimate way to spend time with the girls in the evening, and I was only joking about Poppy’s acting.”

  Once again, Poppy pretends to hit him.

  “So what shall we make?” Even Finny, rugby-obsessed tighthead prop, seems on board.

  “Dracula?” I offer.

  They all shake their heads. “The masters will never allow that.”

  “What about Macbeth?” Poppy suggests. “It’s on our book list and saves learning any new lines.”

  “Boring,” Baxter moans.

  “Chrissie thought Notre Dame,” I say, trying to bring her into the conversation.