because they’re starting in the middle of the year. Nothing more exciting than that, I’m afraid. Thanks, girls. Remember what I said.’
Chapter Two
Obviously, I cannot wait to discuss this thrilling development with Shimmi and Nathalie. I hardly get the chance, as I have Spanish before lunch, which neither of them takes. As the bell rings, I stumble straight over to the dining hall, to catch up with Shimmi and grab something to eat before we go and meet Nathalie. It’s a precise regime, perfected over, well, every lunchtime in the history of forever.
‘Yo, bitch.’
‘What’s with this new “bitch” thing?’
‘Ooh, I do apologise – Ms Salem, queen of the world. Better?’
‘Whatever, bitch. So, what about these new girls, the twins that Miss Webb was talking about? That whole speech was pretty strange, don’t you think?’
‘Just this place getting weirder by the second. They’re obviously going to be total freaks. I wouldn’t go getting all enthused about it or anything.’
‘I wasn’t! I just mean… Oh, nothing.’
‘Macaroni cheese and chips, please.’ Shimmi shoots a sly look across at me as she places her order for double carbs.
‘What, you’re having hot lunch? But what about—? Oh, sorry, um, just a tuna fish sandwich, please.’
‘Yeah, I thought I’d eat here today, spice things up a bit, woo-hoo. Are you sticking around?’
‘No, I’d better…’ I gaze longingly at Shimmi’s chips as she drowns them in vinegar.
‘OK, see you later… Hey, Alex, Alice – wait for me!’
I shouldn’t be surprised that Shimmi’s just gone straight off like that. She’s ever so slightly higher up the social scale from Nathalie and me – only because all the cool girls think she’s funny – and so eating lunch isn’t such a minefield for her as it is for us.
Actually, I could probably sit and eat a hot lunch like a normal person if I wanted to as well, but it would be too mean to ditch Nathalie. So, I take my tuna sandwich and trudge across the damp hockey field, to the almost-hidden old cricket pavilion that sits on the outer edges of school property. Nathalie is already settled in, nibbling at the edges of a samosa.
‘Hey.’
As always, she looks slightly relieved that I’m there – as if, until she actually sees me, she still thinks I might not turn up. Like I said, we’re not quite at the bottom of the pile around here, so this part of the routine is not completely out of sad necessity. No, it’s because Nathalie has a phobia of people seeing her eating, always has ever since that time she puked up cannelloni all over Lexy White in Year Seven and never lived it down.
‘So, what about these new twins?’ are the first words out of Nathalie’s mouth, and I’m pleased it’s not just me who’s secretly excited. Shimmi probably is, too, really.
At least with Nathalie, you don’t have to pretend to be cooler than you are.
Having spent all of lunchtime gossiping about the hot topic of the new girls – and without Shimmi there to make us feel like complete psychos for being so interested – by the start of afternoon lessons, Nathalie and I cannot wait to lay eyes on these mysterious creatures. It helps that it’s Friday afternoon and – for me, anyway – that we have English to finish up the week.
However, my heart sinks when we enter the English room to find the desks pushed up against the walls and the chairs arranged in a semi-circle in the middle. Miss Webb is putting slips of paper, face down, on each seat. This can only mean one thing. The A level English course includes a module called ‘Explorations in Drama’ – we’ve been studying King Lear and Arcadia, and Miss Webb has long been threatening to do a practical session in which we do improvisation exercises to learn what makes a good dramatic scene. Frankly, I’m appalled that even my favourite subject can find a way to embarrass me in public.
Amie Bellairs and a few of the other ‘A’s stroll in, with Shimmi straggling behind them. Then, in the space of a second, all of the chatting, whispering and giggling that fills the air suddenly disappears. Something happens to the room, as if the temperature has plummeted or all of the oxygen has been sucked out with a straw. Not so much something as someone. Two of them, in fact, if we’re being picky.
I’ve never met identical twins before, and it probably sounds stupid to say it, but I hadn’t realised they would be so completely, well, identical. This fascinating observation is quickly overshadowed by the fact that they are absolutely drop-dead beautiful. Kill yourself beautiful. They have light-blonde hair, pale skin, and wide, blank blue eyes. This simply doesn’t get across the enormity of how pretty these two girls are, so just visualise around it, the most perfect faces and figures you can imagine. Then double that. Then you’ve probably got it.
They are in their own clothes, making our burgundy kilts and polyester jumpers look even lamer than ever before, which is quite some feat. They are both dressed in black and festooned in jewellery, which I’m surprised they’ve been allowed to wear to school. Miss Webb, however, is the only one who appears unsurprised by their appearance in the drama room.
‘I’m Elyse,’ says the first sister, who close up is the prettiest and the most vividly drawn if that makes sense. ‘This is Melanie. We’re supposed to join in, or something.’
She’s smirking and coming across as totally unruffled; however, I note that she looks a tiny bit nervous as well, and that she briefly squeezes her sister’s hand before Miss Webb ushers them into the last two spare seats, a few spaces apart from each other.
‘So, welcome, Elyse and Melanie. First of all – sorry, girls, this must drive you mad – how do I tell you apart?’ Miss Webb asks, when her back has been turned for a moment and the twins have taken their seats.
‘I’m Elyse, and you can tell Melanie from her scar.’
When Melanie turns slightly and tucks her blonde hair behind one ear, we can all see what Elyse means, and how easy it will be to tell them apart from now on – Melanie has a livid scar, thin as a blade but red and angry, running the whole length of the left-hand side of her face. If anything, it makes her even more beautiful. The juxtaposition against her perfect doll face is stunning.
‘OK, ladies.’ Miss Webb claps her hands, in a clear attempt to stop us staring and restore some normality to the class. ‘A bit of fun for a Friday afternoon. As you’ve probably gathered, as part of our English studies, we’re going to be doing a practical drama exercise today. Here’s how it’s going to work: you each have a slip of paper on your seat, with your “stimulus” written on it. This means some background information about the character or situation you will be portraying in your improvised scene. Don’t tell anyone else what your paper says, so that when I call you up to the front, in pairs, the other person won’t know what you’re doing. The audience has to shout out what they think is going on in your scene.’
Predictably, the two biggest show-offs, Shimmi and Sabrina, are called up first. When it comes to audience participation, Miss Webb always does this, to try to get the rest of us to chill out enough not to mind making fools of ourselves in front of the class. It never really works.
