Taylor’s own clothes were much less… well, less. Her straight skirt ended below her knees making her legs look short, but she didn’t have long legs to show off anyway. Her top was too baggy to do anything with her curves except make her look lumpy.
The fact was, she didn’t know how to do what Georgie did with clothes. How to make them her friend instead of her enemy. She just put them on… and despaired.
Georgie wanted to work in fashion when she finished school. Taylor wanted to be an archaeologist. On the surface they had little in common but for some reason, when Georgie had first arrived in town at the beginning of year nine, they’d just hit it off.
Ever since then, Georgie had kept her from getting too lost in her books. And she’d kept Georgie from failing everything.
It just… worked.
‘Yeah,’ she said, smiling. ‘We’re still studying tonight.’
‘Miss Montclair, could I speak to you for a moment?’
Mr Finlay’s nasal voice came from behind them. Turning, Taylor saw the French teacher hurrying towards her, his wiry grey hair dishevelled as usual, tie utterly askew. He looked distracted.
She made a pained face only Georgie could see.
With a responding sympathetic grimace, Georgie melted into the crowds before she could get roped into one of Mr Finlay’s scattered conversations.
Taylor composed her face before turning back to the French teacher. ‘Yes, Mr Finlay?’
The students were funnelling off into their classrooms now. The hallway was clearing. A few students hurtled by, feet thudding on the linoleum floor, hoping to avoid the late bell.
‘Miss Montclair, I realise you’re busy at the moment with your studies and your other admirable activities…’ In his hand, Mr Finlay clutched a handful of crumpled papers – Taylor got the impression he’d forgotten he was holding them. ‘But a tutoring opportunity has just come up.’
Taylor suppressed an inward sigh. She was already up to her eyebrows in work. And teachers were always giving her more to do. It was like an education conspiracy. But she kept her expression neutral. French was one of her best classes.
‘Is it a new student?’
‘Not exactly.’ The teacher shoved his wire-framed glasses up his nose with the hand holding the papers. This served to remind him that they existed and he shuffled through them. ‘I’ve got it here somewhere. Where is it? Oh yes.’ Holding up a folded sheet of paper, he waved it triumphantly. ‘It’s a French boy.’
Taylor blinked. ‘I’m going to tutor a French boy in how to speak… French?’
‘Of course not.’ He squinted at her. ‘That would be pointless. You’re going to tutor him in English.’ He unfolded the page. ‘Here’s the information. You’ll do it all over the Internet. It’s a modern world.’ From the way he said it, Taylor got the impression he had no idea what the ‘Internet’ was. ‘Now, Miss Montclair.’ His tone changed, becoming more serious. ‘You’ll need to be sensitive. I’m told this boy’s having a rum time of it – something about his father.’ He cleared his throat as if even the merest hint of emotion made him uncomfortable. ‘Anyway, he’s struggling. He needs guidance and help. I’m sure you’ll handle it with aplomb.’
He held out the page.
Taylor didn’t have time to teach English to some messed up French kid. But she also couldn’t bring herself to refuse. She needed good grades in French, and she wanted Finlay on her side.
Reluctantly, she took the crumpled paper from his hand.
‘Get in touch with him tonight, please.’ As he spoke, Mr Finlay resumed his distracted ambulation down the hallway. ‘And if his grades improve, you can take credit for it. Oxford looks very kindly on that sort of initiative…’
All Taylor’s teachers knew she was pinning her hopes on getting into Oxford. Her grandfather was a professor there. Ever since she was a little girl, it had been her dream to study with him.
The bell rang at that moment, drowning out whatever else Finlay had to say. He turned a corner, disappearing into the depths of the school.
As the halls emptied, Taylor stared at the piece of paper.
One word was scrawled at the top: Sacha.
About the Author
A former crime reporter, political writer and investigative journalist, C. J. Daugherty has also written several books about travel in Ireland and France. Although she left the world of crime reporting years ago, she never lost her fascination with what it is that drives some people to do awful things, and the kinds of people who try to stop them. The Night School series is the product of that fascination.
C. J. lives in the south of England with her husband and a small menagerie of pets.