Night School

She scanned the rest of the letter looking for the usual ominous mention of ‘school rules’ and sure enough there it was, highlighted in bold:

The full rules for student behaviour will be supplied to you upon your arrival. Please read them and follow them closely. Violations of any school rule will be punished severely.



And just below that, more bad news:

Students are not allowed to leave the school grounds once they arrive without permission from either their parents or the headmistress. Permission will only very rarely be given.



Allie’s hands shook as she picked up the first page from the floor, folded the letter back into the envelope and set it on her desk.

What is this, a school or a prison?

Then she marched downstairs to where her mother was making lunch in the kitchen.

‘I’m calling Mark,’ she announced defiantly, as she picked up the kitchen phone, which magically reappeared whenever her parents were there.

‘Oh are you?’ Her mother set her knife down on the counter.

‘If I’m being sent to jail I have a right to one phone call, don’t I?’ Allie said in tones of righteous indignation. This had all gone too far.

Her mother studied her for a minute, then shrugged and picked the knife up and returned to thinly slicing a tomato.

‘Call him then.’

Allie had to think for a second before dialling. His number was programmed into her mobile so she rarely had to actually remember it.

The phone rang several times.

‘Yo.’ His voice was so reassuringly familiar and normal that for a second Allie thought she might cry.

‘Hey. It’s Allie.’

‘Allie! Bloody hell. Where have you been?’ He sounded as relieved as she felt.

‘In lockdown.’ She glared at her mother’s back. ‘They took my phone away, and my computer. They won’t let me leave the house. How are things with you?’

‘Oh, the usual.’ He laughed. ‘The parentals are pissed off, the school’s very pissed off, but it’ll blow over.’

‘Are they kicking you out?’

‘What? Of school? No. Are they kicking you out?’

‘Allegedly. My parents are sending me away to a prison camp they insist on calling a school. Somewhere in Outer Mongolia.’

‘Seriously?’ He sounded genuinely upset. ‘That sucks! Why are they being so lame? Nobody got hurt. Ross’ll get over it. I’m going to do some community service, apologise to everybody and then it’s back to normal school hell. I can’t believe your parents are being so medieval.’

‘Me neither. Listen, the Medieval Ones say I won’t be able to talk to you once I get to this prison school, but if you want to find me, it’s called Cimmer …’

The line went dead. Allie looked up to see her mother holding the plug, which she had pulled from the wall. Her face was expressionless.

‘That’s enough of that,’ she said, and smoothly lifted the phone from Allie’s hand.

Her mother returned to slicing the tomato as Allie stood stock still, staring at her. Over the course of thirty seconds she felt her face first pale, then redden as she fought back tears. Finally she spun on her heel and stormed out of the room.

‘You. People. Are. Crazy!’ The words started low, but rose to a scream as she mounted the stairs. She slammed the door to her room, and once inside stood in the middle of it, staring around her, bewildered.

She no longer recognised this place as her home.

When Wednesday morning arrived hot and bright, she was surprised to find that she was actually relieved. At least this phase of her punishment was over with.

She stared at her open wardrobe for half an hour trying to decide what to wear. She finally opted for skinny black jeans and a long black vest with the word ‘Trouble’ scrawled across it in sparkly silver. She brushed her bright red hair and left it loose.

Studying herself in the mirror, she thought she looked pale. Scared.

I can do better than this.

Grabbing her liquid eyeliner, she applied a thick black swoosh to her eyelids and then coated her lashes in mascara. Next, she dived under the bed and pulled out a pair of dark red, knee-high Doc Marten boots, lacing them up over her jeans. When she walked downstairs a few minutes later she looked, she thought, like a rock star. Her expression was mutinous.

Her mother looked at her outfit and sighed dramatically but said nothing. Breakfast took place in icy silence, and afterwards her parents left her alone to finish packing. She piled her clothes up on the bed and then sat among them, her head resting on her bent knees, counting her breaths until she felt calm.

When they walked to the car that afternoon, Allie stopped and looked back at their ordinary terraced house, trying to memorise it. It wasn’t much, but it had always been home, with all of the emotional beauty that word implied.

Now it just looked like every other house on the street.





THREE