New Girl Page 4

  Gina had no idea what Niffy was talking about, but she heard Min choose proud and Amy excellence.

  ‘Still chasing Jasey-Wasey, are we?’ Penny, sitting in the row in front of them, turned round to direct this at Amy. ‘Shame, because guess who I saw in the Harvey Nichols café stroking the beautiful hair of Camille from Year Five? Oh yes – one Jason Hernandez. And’ – she paused for effect, arching one eyebrow – ‘when I spoke to Camille afterwards, she said she wouldn’t touch him with a barge pole because he’s such a druggie.’

  ‘Shh!’ came the hiss from Mrs Redpath.

  Niffy’s hand went up to Amy’s arm, as if to restrain her from making any reply, but it didn’t help.

  Amy spat out, ‘And I suppose you think Llewellyn’s such a saint, don’t you? He’s probably got his head in a bag of glue right now, along with all the other wasters from Burnside Academy. At least if Jason did drugs, he’d be able to afford the good stuff. But for your information, he doesn’t.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re quite in the same league as Camille though, are you? Little jumped-up Glaswegian nouve,’ came the vicious response.

  Although Gina didn’t know what this meant, she could tell from Amy’s face that it was insulting.

  ‘Penelope,’ Mrs Redpath warned, ‘turn round and be quiet!’

  ‘See you later!’ Penny muttered as she swivelled.

  ‘Not if I see you first,’ Amy hissed, adding for Gina’s benefit, ‘Like I’m supposed to be embarrassed that my dad comes from Glasgow and isn’t a pompous lawyer. Cow!’

  The piano struck up and the hall was filled with the sound of 450 chairs scraping wood as the girls got to their feet.

  A loud burst of singing began. Gina looked at her neighbours, wondering which page to turn to, but found that no one was looking in the book. This was probably the school hymn and everyone knew it off by heart.

  Niffy’s version was clearly the unofficial one – something about lifting up your skirts on high so ‘the king of glory enter may’. She was shaking with suppressed giggles.

  A severe-looking woman dressed in a dark suit and white shirt with wide lapels was striding in sensible court shoes towards the wooden lectern in the centre of the stage. Her short hair was swept back smartly and she had one of those complicated silver brooches pinned to her jacket that might as well have been a label reading: I’M OVER FIFTY AND TAKE MY POWER ACCESSORIES VERY SERIOUSLY.

  ‘Banshee Bannerman,’ Niffy announced. ‘Count those buzzwords!’

  ‘Girls,’ the Banshee began. ‘Welcome back for what I know will be a hard-working summer term. Our senior girls have their exams ahead of them. I know each and every one of you is going to make St Jude’s proud.’

  ‘Yess!’ hissed Min. ‘One–nil.’

  ‘I know that your dedication to your studies will pay off . . .’ the Banshee continued.

  ‘Result!’ Niffy hissed.

  And on the Banshee went, racking up four points for Min, two for Niffy but still no score for Amy.

  ‘Come on!’ Amy was urging. ‘Excellence – we’ve got to have some excellence in here.’

  ‘And now, girls,’ the Banshee said, ‘I’d like to introduce two new members of staff. First of all, one of our games teachers, Mrs Tweedie, has suffered an unfortunate car accident during the holidays. She’ll be off for most of the term, but is expected to make a full recovery, so I’d like you to welcome Miss Chrysler, who will take her place temporarily.’

  As loud applause broke out for Miss Chrysler, Amy, Niffy and Min all turned to look at each other. ‘Bum!’ Niffy exclaimed. ‘Here’s hoping Miss Chrysler knows something about winning hockey and tennis matches.’

  ‘Now the other news,’ the Banshee continued once the clapping had died down, ‘concerns our dedicated students of physics.’

  Min leaned forward in her chair.

  ‘I’m afraid Mrs Wilson has been called away from school for some time by an urgent family matter. However, we have organized a more than capable replacement who will continue to strive for excellence in this most important of departments.’

  Just as Amy’s face lit up – finally excellence had been uttered – Min’s fell.

  ‘Please welcome Mr Wilbur Perfect.’

  ‘What!’ Min gasped.

  The loud clapping could not drown out the hilarity bubbling up from 450 girls who had just learned that their school staff now included a Mr Perfect.

  ‘Mrs Wilson?’ Min whispered. ‘She’s not going to be here? I can’t believe it! Why didn’t she tell me?’

  Niffy whispered, ‘Maybe she will, Min.’

  ‘But,’ Min began, ‘I just can’t get through everything without her!’

  By the time the lunch bell sounded, Gina had lived through her first four classes at St Jude’s. It had been tough going, especially the gruelling ninety minutes of ‘double’ French.

  St Jude’s seemed to specialize in teachers of the severe variety, who were determined to make learning as joyless as possible. And, boy, did they take class seriously here! There was no talking or time for anything fun, just heads down over the books and work, work, work. Gina didn’t know if she was going to be able to stand it, let alone keep up. It wasn’t like anything she’d experienced before. In her school back home, she was used to class discussions, group projects and a sense of ‘let’s find this out together’. Here it was just about listening to what the teacher told you: a boring information overload. And the girls all lapped it up without much complaint. She could understand now why everyone who came here did well.

  The French teacher was actually French, which was kind of interesting. She wore a glamorous oyster Silk blouse a scarlet slash of lipstick and her hair up in a chignon.

  As soon as Madame Bensimon spied new girl Gina, instead of doing something to make her feel welcome, she’d asked her to read a passage in French out loud – maybe so she could assess her. Gina had clearly heard the snorts and giggles coming from the other girls as she’d stumbled her way through the complicated text.

  ‘Hmmmm . . . très Americaine. Laid,’ had been Madame’s verdict, ‘Penelope, à vous.’

  That was the other thing: because Madame Bensimon spoke in high-speed French all the time, Gina struggled to make out any of her instructions.

  But it became clear that she wanted Penny to read the passage again to show Gina how it was done. There was no mistaking Penny’s smug and melodious French accent.

  ‘Bien fait,’ Madame had said at the end, gracing Penny with an indulgent smile. ‘Merveilleux.’

  ‘She had a French au pair from the age of two and she holidays in France every year with her family,’ Niffy had whispered to Gina. ‘She’s probably going to tell us that yet again.’

  And sure enough, Penny had smiled back at Madame Bensimon and told her in fluent French that darling Paulette and summers in the Luberon meant she could now speak it almost like a native – although, grace à Madame Bensimon, her grammar was improving all the time.

  At this, Amy had made vomiting actions.

  Biology was hardly more fun. The girls had sat in long rows and copied furiously from the scrawled notes of a grumpy teacher, who seemed to have it in for Min.

  ‘Phylum, Asimina – what do I mean by that word?’ Mrs MacDuff had barked.

  When Min had failed to come up with an answer, the teacher had snapped, ‘Anyone intending medicine as a career will have to get a much firmer grip on the absolute basics, Asimina.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs MacDuff,’ Min had replied meekly.

  After biology came physics, and as she approached the lab door, again Min had looked upset.

  ‘I really liked to talk to her,’ she said to her friends – Gina guessed she was speaking about Mrs Wilson, the absent physics teacher. ‘She was like a mentor to me, not just a teacher. She really helped me. What can have happened in three weeks that’s made her leave the school? She must have known before the holidays – I’m just so surprised she didn’t tell me.’

  Then
the lab door had burst open and an extremely tall man with jet-black hair and a bushy beard, wearing a white lab coat, had ushered them in with the words: ‘Year Four, come in, welcome . . . I’ve heard so much about you all.’

  Mr Perfect’s Year Four class was small – only fifteen girls did physics – and in an unusual display of friendliness for a St Jude’s teacher, he’d been determined to get to know everyone. He’d handed out blank paper badges, instructed everyone to add their names and pin the badges to their cardigans.

  Spotting Min’s name badge, he’d said, ‘So you’re Asimina . . . I have something for you.’

  He’d gone to his desk, rummaged in the drawers and returned with a sealed cream envelope that had Asimina Singupta written across the front in loopy black letters.

  Min had opened the envelope and taken out a two-page letter. She didn’t reveal to Gina, Lucy or Suzie anything beyond: ‘It’s from Mrs Wilson,’ but it seemed to have answered some of her questions about the teacher’s departure.

  During the lunch break, Gina sat uncomfortably with the boarders she knew and some of the day girls. Acutely aware that her presence was being tolerated rather than welcomed. But anything was better than sitting alone. Even answering excruciating questions like: ‘Are you from Los Angeles?’ ‘Is your mum in the film business?’ or ‘Why are you here?’

  Gina couldn’t help noticing how much everyone ate. About five times more than Californian schoolgirls, even the ones without eating disorders.

  Here, plates were piled high with baked potatoes, cheese, tuna and salad, and once the food had been demolished, almost everyone went up to get bowlfuls of sponge cake that came with a generous ladle of custard.

  ‘Got to keep your strength up, newbie,’ Niffy said, looking at the tiny helping of potato and salad Gina was still picking over.

  Newbie?! What did that mean? Being new? Was that going to be her nickname?

  ‘It’s hockey after lunch. Our final lesson before the crucial last match of the season. And here’s the goalie,’ Niffy added when she spotted a muscular-looking girl with her blonde hair in a long ponytail striding towards their table. ‘Hilary!’

  It hadn’t occurred to Gina that the girls would take hockey just as seriously as class here. All of them? Even Amy? These girls were all so hopelessly uncool. There was no way she was going to play hockey. Not today and not any day. She would ask to be excused because she knew nothing about the game.

  Niffy and Hilary smacked their hands together in a high-five as Niffy asked, ‘What’s the plan? How do we demolish the opposition this afternoon?’

  Chapter Five

  BEFORE LEAVING THE boarding house that morning, Gina had stuffed her ‘games’ clothes into her brand-new gym bag without even looking at them, but now, in the chilly changing hut beside the playing field, she pulled out the items with something approaching horror. (It turned out hockey wasn’t optional – she’d tried. Her request to Mrs Redpath had been met with the slightly withering: ‘It’s not as complicated as cricket, dear. Just join in and muddle along.’)

  There was a short-sleeved white shirt with tiny air-holes woven all the way through it; then came a pea-green sweatshirt with the school crest on the front, an enormous pair of navy-blue underpants, a boxy navy skirt and yet another pair of the evil woollen socks.

  ‘Have you got boots?’ asked Amy, already half undressed beside her.

  ‘Boots?’ Gina wondered. ‘I put a pair of sneakers in here.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Amy looked doubtful. ‘I suppose that will do for now. And a stick? There are a few spares over there behind the door.’

  ‘A stick?’ Gina felt anxious. She didn’t want to be in charge of a stick.

  ‘Don’t you know anything about hockey?’ Amy asked scornfully.

  ‘No. Not a thing. Well . . . I’ve seen ice hockey on the TV.’ Gina didn’t want to add how terrifyingly vicious it had looked to her.

  ‘Well . . . erm . . . maybe you should just try and stay out of the way for the first game or two, until you get the hang of things. That might be the safest thing to do. The sticks get swung hard and the ball is pretty solid. You don’t want to get . . . clattered.’ This came with a look which suggested that ‘getting clattered’ wasn’t pretty.

  Oh brother! Why hadn’t her mom warned her about this? Maybe that had been the plan? To fly Gina halfway across the world and then have her killed by a hockey ball.

  As she climbed into her stiff and voluminous new games clothes, Gina watched the other girls preparing for the match. Their short skirts were tucked into their blue pants, as if to get the material out of the way, their socks were pulled up to the knee, their battered boots laced on tight. Sweatshirts were tied on round their waists and hockey sticks were carefully scraped clean of old mud and polished up against their skirts. Were these just sticks? They were being treated like weapons. Hilary secured shin pads to her legs and rolled her socks on top of them, she pulled on a padded chest protector, tying it tightly, then buckled on a helmet and pulled the metal grille down over her face.

  There was quiet in the room and serious intent in the air: the girls in here were evidently preparing for battle.

  As they began to walk towards the hockey pitch, Niffy, clearly the captain, began to organize her team: ‘OK, Hilary in goal, Min on the left wing, Suzie on the right. Amy and I will take the centre. Everyone else in the usual places . . . Gina?’ Niffy seemed surprised to see her. ‘Erm . . . we’ll put you in defence – it should be quiet down there.’ She couldn’t resist a grin. ‘The idea is to keep the ball away from our goal . . . Just try not to get in anyone’s way, that’s the main thing.’

  Penny and her friends came out of another hut, leading the other half of 4C onto the field. Gina began to feel slightly scared. This wasn’t just about hockey, was it?

  Miss Chrysler was already waiting on the pitch. As they got closer, Gina worried that she looked just a little too nice and too young and too fluffily blonde to really be in charge here.

  ‘Hello, girls,’ the teacher greeted them. ‘Do you want me to put you into teams, or have you already picked?’

  ‘We’re sorted,’ Penny replied.

  ‘Well, why don’t you play in the positions you want to first of all, and I can move you around, maybe make some changes as we go along?’

  ‘Fine,’ Niffy agreed. ‘As if,’ she added under her breath. She started warming up her long limbs with squats and jumps.

  It took a few moments for everyone to get into their positions, then Miss Chrysler blew her whistle and the game began. Gina, way down at the end of the field beside the goal, watched with wide eyes: she’d never seen girls do anything – apart from shopping in the sales – so vicious and ferocious before.

  Sticks were smacking together, the ball whizzing across the field as the girls shouted at each other and thundered up and down, their studded boots sending clods of earth flying into the air. Every time the ball edged down towards her part of the field, Gina began to feel sick. She didn’t even know which end to hold her stick by, but she didn’t think any mistakes would be forgiven. If the ball came near her, she would at least have to try and do . . . something.

  Amy and Niffy were charging up towards the far goal, walloping the ball to and fro between them.

  ‘Come on!’ Niffy was bellowing. ‘I need some back-up!’

  Weasel came running at Niffy with her stick down and there was a brief flurry before Niffy emerged with the ball.

  Just as she blasted it over to Amy, who shot straight past the goalie’s frantic block and into the corner of the goal, Weasel’s arm went up and she shouted, ‘Foul!’

  Miss Chrysler’s response was to confirm the goal and urge the girls to play on. ‘Unless I see it and blow the whistle, don’t stop,’ she told them.

  Penny and her team looked enraged, but play began again at a renewed level of fury.

  Amy and Penny were wrestling with their sticks over the ball right in the middle of the field. They were w
restling over something else too.

  ‘Aaaaaargh!’ Amy was screaming in annoyance.

  ‘Don’t ever call my boyfriend a glue sniffer,’ Penny shouted back, and raised her stick to take a swing that landed smack across Amy’s shins.

  ‘Owwww!’ Amy shrieked, followed by, ‘Leave Jason alone then!’ as she got her stick behind the ball and made a run for it.

  She passed straight to Min, who took off down the wing. Min could run, Gina thought. She could really run. Chunks of dirt and her long dark hair flew out behind her as she tore down towards the goal mouth.

  As two players rushed out to tackle her, she shot the ball at Suzie on the opposite wing, who pinged it to Niffy.

  Niffy cracked it hard, but this time the goal was saved.

  ‘Bum!’ she shouted.

  ‘None of that please,’ Miss Chrysler called out.

  Now Weasel had the ball.

  ‘On guard,’ Hilary barked at Gina and Willow, the other girl in defence.

  Penny was charging down the pitch towards the goal, ready for the ball, determined to score. Within seconds, the winger had passed to her and she was taking a mighty swing at goal.

  Hilary ran out, kicked at the ball hard, but only managed to clear it by a couple of metres in – no!! – Gina’s direction.

  At the sight of the hard white object speeding towards her, Penny charging behind it, Hilary and Willow hot on her heels, Gina was tempted to turn and get out of there as fast as possible.

  But very inconveniently, she remembered Penny’s ‘dumb blonde Californian’ comment and knew that she had to try and stand up for herself. She closed her eyes, yelled and flailed wildly with her stick in the general direction of the ball. She heard a hard crack and then felt a second, softer kind of crunch.

  When she opened her eyes, the ball was halfway down the field, which was a good thing, but Willow was standing in front of her with blood streaming from her forehead – which was not.

  ‘Oh no!’ Gina gasped. ‘No, no! I am so, so sorry!’