Night School

Uh-oh.

‘Obviously you’ve not been happy at your current school.’ She was speaking very precisely and slowly. Allie’s eyes darted from one parent to the other. ‘Now that you’ve broken in, set fire to your records and spray-painted “Ross is a twat” on Headmaster Ross’ door, it’s hardly surprising that they’re not very happy with you either.’

Allie chewed on the cuticle of her little finger and fought the urge to giggle nervously. Giggling now really wouldn’t help.

‘This will be the second school to ask us, very politely, to send you somewhere else to study. We’re tired of receiving very polite letters from schools.’

Her father leaned forward and looked Allie in the eye for the first time since he’d picked her up from the police station.

‘We understand that you’re acting out, Alyson,’ he said. ‘We understand that this is how you’ve chosen to deal with everything that’s happened, but we’ve had enough. Graffiti, truancy, vandalism … Enough. You’ve made your point.’

Allie opened her mouth to defend herself but her mother shot her a warning look. She pulled her feet up and wrapped her arms around her knees.

Now it was her mother’s turn again. ‘Last night, the helpful police liaison officer – who, by the way, knew all about you – suggested we send you to a different school. Out of London. Away from your friends.’

She said the last word with bitter contempt.

‘We made a few calls this morning, and we’ve …’ her mother paused, glancing across at her father almost uncertainly before continuing, ‘we’ve found a place that specialises in teenagers like you …’

Allie flinched.

‘… and today we went to visit it. We’ve spoken to the headmistress …’

‘Who was absolutely lovely,’ her dad interjected.

Her mother ignored him. ‘… and she’s agreed to accept you starting this week.’

‘Hang on … This week?’ Allie’s voice rose in disbelief. ‘But the summer holiday only started two weeks ago!’

‘You’ll board,’ her father said as if she hadn’t spoken.

Allie stared at him, her mouth agape.

Board?

The word reverberated in her head.

They have got to be joking, she told herself.

‘… which will be difficult for us to afford, but we think it’s worthwhile to try and save you from yourself before you throw your whole life away. You’re a juvenile now in the eyes of the law, but you won’t be for long.’ He slapped his hand on the arm of the sofa, and Allie stared at him. ‘You’re sixteen years old, Alyson. This has to stop.’

Allie listened to her heart pound.

Thirteen beats. Fourteen, fifteen …

She couldn’t believe how bad this was. It was unbelievably bad. Record-setting levels of badness were happening right now in this room. She leaned forward in the chair.

‘Look, I know I messed up. I feel really, really awful about it.’ She put as much sincerity as she could into her voice. Her mother looked unmoved, so she turned to her father, imploring. ‘But don’t you think you’re overreacting? Dad, this is crazy!’

Allie’s mother glanced again at her father; this time her gaze was imposing. He looked back at Allie sadly and shook his head.

‘It’s too late,’ he said. ‘The decision has been made. You start on Wednesday. Until then no computer, no phone, no iPod. And no leaving this house.’

When her parents stood up it felt like the judge was leaving the courtroom. In the emptiness they left behind, Allie exhaled shakily.

The next few days went by in a blur of confusion and isolation. She was supposed to be packing and getting ready, but mostly she tried to talk her parents out of their crazy plan.

She got nowhere. They barely spoke to her at all.

On Tuesday afternoon, her mother handed her a slim ivory envelope dominated by an elaborate crest in thick black ink and the words: Cimmeria Academy. Below that, ‘Information for New Students’ was beautifully written in curly handwriting.

The two sheets of paper inside appeared to have been written on a typewriter. She wasn’t certain – she’d never actually seen typewritten paper – but the small, square letters each made a noticeable indentation in the thick creamy paper. Each page held only a few paragraphs; the first was a letter from the school’s headmistress, an Isabelle le Fanult. She said she was looking forward to welcoming Allie to the school.

Oh good, Allie thought, chucking the first page of the letter aside. The second page was no more useful. It said her pencils, pens and paper would be supplied by the school. That her uniform would also be supplied. That she should write her initials using a waterproof pen or ‘stitch them’ on all of the clothing she chose to bring with her. That she should bring wellies and a raincoat because, ‘the school campus is large and rural’.