A Royal Mess (37 page)

I don’t suppose I was the only one wondering how a nonviolent Buddhist would deal with a fierce house spinster with a stick. Meditating her out of existence seemed a bit unlikely.

‘Sort her out, Siddhartha,’ Honey ordered, and next thing, Siddhartha produced a bronze cylinder on a stick from his robes and starting spinning it and chanting.

‘Oh my God, he’s got a gun!’ Indie shrieked.

We all hit the floor, apart from Honey, Siddhartha and Miss Bibsmore, who brought her stick down on Siddhartha’s prayer wheel. Honey screamed. I think I might have too, and then Indie pushed the panic button.

‘Oh, lovely,’ Star joked above the wail of the sirens. ‘We’ve just summoned the police.’

Miss Bibsmore wasn’t finished with Honey’s Buddhist, though. She’s quite the master of the ancient art of stickery, so I don’t think anyone was surprised to see her whack Siddhartha over the head. Siddhartha lifted up his robes and legged it down the corridor to Miss Bibsmore’s cries of, ‘That’s right, you big chicken in yer girlie frock. Cluck, cluck, cluck.’

It was all very undignified, and I suspect a severe blow to the credibility of Buddhist security guards everywhere.

The panic alarm was still blaring and Honey was still screaming when the police finally arrived.

‘Alright, Sarge, it’s just the O’Hare girl again,’ one of the bobsters said into his walkie-talkie thingamee. ‘We got a bloke outside in an orange sari an’ all. Says he’s from some Buddhist defence team sent to guard her from kidnappers, over.’

We heard a great deal of chuckling from the other end.

I know how the sarge felt. We all had to stuff our mouths with our duvets to stop chortling. The alarm was finally turned off, and Miss Bibsmore led the officers of the law to Sister’s office, dragging Honey with her by the ear.

‘Aren’t you glad you came to England to go to school?’ Star asked as she dove under the covers with me.

THIRTEEN
The Sword of Damocles

Even though we were up most of the night chatting about Honey’s Latest Prank, we all woke up at the first bell. After breakfast, chapel and room inspection, we loped off to English with Ms Topler. English being a core subject of the curriculum, we all had to do it. Which meant Star and I got to sit together. On top of each desk was a copy of
How to Pass Your Exams (And Enjoy Yourself).

I sat next to Star, who was decorating her booklet with some sort of musical score. I tried to read the booklet, which recommended taking breaks from study to walk the dog. What dog? I didn’t even have a dog. I shut the book and set about a more disciplined and constructive activity: seeing how long I could go without writing
I love Freds
on my pencil case.

Star must have sensed my love battle because she looked up from her musical score and drew a heart on my hand in permanent marker. Then she added an
L
in the middle. Presumably it was intended to signify Loser rather than Love.

I snatched the marker off her and was about to draw a heart with an arrow through it on Star’s hand when Ms Topler walked in. She was wearing an appallingly creepy pink floral dress with a pink cable-knit cardigan. Even her shoes were pink. They were those horrendous plastic ones that make a nauseating squelchy sound as you walk. Poor old dear, no wonder she’s never found love and has to look to tragic cases like Thomas Hardy for comfort.

‘Good morning, girls,’ she trilled.

We all stood. ‘Good Morning, Miss Topler, and may God bless you,’ we chanted in the tone of worshipful respect which Saint Augustine’s girls are famous for.

After a perfunctory
‘In nomine patras, et filie et spiritus sancti,’
Miss Topler began jumping up and down as if she needed to do a wee. Then she clapped her hands together. ‘Before we get under way on our term’s work, I have a very exciting announcement to make.’

I thought she was going to say something mind-numbing, like how much fun she’d had with the metaphysical poets over the break. She always goes on about metaphysical poets when we all know they took vast amounts of narcotic drugs and hardly ever finished their poems. Whenever you point out blindingly obvious facts like this to Ms Topler, though, she showers you in blues.

But as it turned out, the metaphysical poets couldn’t have been further from her mind. No, her announcement was worse than the worst metaphysical poem.

She clapped her hands, and like a guillotine falling on
my neck, she said, ‘Calypso Kelly’s essay, “My Family and Utter Madness,” has been short-listed for the National Under Sixteens Essay Competition.’

Then she started the class off on a round of applause.

‘Breathe,’ Star told me as I swooned – and it wasn’t even a fake swoon. In fact, it was very nearly a real faint!

‘Breathe,’ Star repeated. You know things are bad when you have to be reminded to do basic things like breathe.

‘In, out, breathe, breathe!’ Star urged as my head hit the desk with a thud.

‘Is something the matter with our little heroine?’ Ms Topler asked excitedly. I lifted my head as she strode towards me like a tall pink meringue. ‘Oh, my giddy aunt,’ I muttered. ‘My life is over. If you have any
amore
for me whatsoever you’ll kill me now, Star. Use a compass, a pencil, just shove it in my aura or aorta or whatever it is that makes you bleed to death. Please, Star, I beg of you.’

Ms Topler looked concerned.

‘She’s just overcome,’ Star said. ‘She often becomes a danger to herself when she’s excited. I might take her out for a bit of air, if that’s okay?’

Ms Topler concurred, harbouring the insane illusion that a bit of air was going to make things okay.

After Star had led me down the corridor, she gave me a hug. ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure you won’t
win.’

‘But you told me last term that you were sure I
would
win.’

‘I just said that so you’d enter,’ she told me, grinning
broadly. ‘It’s an essay competition for people who’ve experienced great tragedy in their lives.
Great
tragedy! That’s hardly
you,
Calypso.’

‘But you told me last term that it
was!’
I said hotly. ‘You said that Bob and Sarah’s split was traumatic and tragic.’

‘No, I didn’t!’ she argued. ‘You’ve got a life of bliss and wonderfulness. You get to go back to LA and drive around in golf carts, and your parents aren’t drug-addled rockers who can’t remember your name.’

I glared at her. ‘I assure you that you most certainly did urge me to enter. In fact I don’t think saying you used strong-armed emotional force would be too far off the mark.’

‘Well, maybe I did. But darling, I only did it for your own good.’

‘It’s not good to be murdered by your parents!’

‘You’re overreacting,’ Star insisted.

‘No, I am not. My essay will be published and Bob and Sarah will read about how totally insane they are!’

‘What do you mean?’

Sometimes Star can be remarkably stupid and forgetful. I was starting to feel I’d get a more reasoned conversation from Tobias. ‘You told me to write about the effect their breakup had on me!’

‘So?’

‘Well, one naturally uses a bit of artistic license to bring out the, you know, tragedy and pathos of one’s situation.’

‘Oh, does one?’ she mocked.

‘I just wrote about how crazy Bob and Sarah are – you know the regressing thing with Sarah; Bob’s self-obsession with his Big One; and then I sort of inflated the whole drama for artistic effect.’

Star looked horrified. ‘But they’re so in love.’

‘They weren’t so in love then. They were separated, Star. Sarah was calling me Boojie and Bob was being distant and arrogant.’

‘Bugger,’ my friend exclaimed. ‘Let’s pray they don’t buy the paper that day.’ By the way she looked at me, I knew she had realised the full horror of my predicament.

When we went back to class, Ms Topler informed me of my reprieve. None of the essays would be published until after the judging, which was after half term. Phew, phew and double algebra phew.

My next class was double Greek, and we were subjected to a lecture on Damocles – who demonstrated the precariousness of happiness by making the chief sandal wearer of Ancient Greece sit under a sword dangling from a single hair. I don’t know if that was ironic, but it was unnerving hearing about Damocles and his sword when I had one of my own hanging above me.

FOURTEEN
When Good Fantasies Go Bad

Damocles and his sword fear was long forgotten by Saturday afternoon, after classes ended. I was off to see Freds in Windsor! Despite his worrying txt the previous Sunday, nothing had ‘come up,’ and our rendezvous was going ahead as planned. I even attempted a celebratory cartwheel in our room, but my freakishly long legs got tangled in the curtains and the whole shooting match came tumbling down.

Luckily all Indie did was tickle me until I almost peed my pants and had a couple of her security guys re-hang the curtains.

Freds had been relatively quiet during the week. I’d tortured myself over Freds’ lack of txts privately, but I didn’t dare say anything in case it set Star off on her rant about boys taking up valuable creative brain space. Also, I’d been sufficiently distracted writing lyrics for Star and
Indie, which meant coming up with loads of words that rhymed with ‘angst’ and ‘anger.’

I’d taken a taxi into Windsor with Arabella and Clemmie, who, judging by their outfits, were out on the pull big-time. They waited with me outside the taxi drop-off place where I was rendezvousing with Freds.

‘I hope he brings some fit friends,’ Clemmie said as we huddled under the awning.

‘I told him I was coming in with you, so I’m sure he’ll bring someone,’ I told her as we watched our bare legs go blue with cold. I wish tights weren’t so uncool. I know I could have worn jeans, but I’d worn jeans last time I saw Freds. Oh the sheer merde-arama of true love.

I’d actually asked Freds to bring a couple of mates along to amuse Clems and Bells so I could be alone with him. I hadn’t seen him since the Scottish Fiasco as Star was now referring to my trip to wildest Kiltland. She kept giving me her impersonation of his disappointed looks, which had everyone apart from me lying on the floor and kicking their legs in the air with mirth. Now, ‘mirth’ is a good word. Loads of words rhyme with ‘mirth.’

Freddie arrived bang on time looking gorgeous. Hah! And true to his word, he’d brought Malcolm and another boy.

‘This is Orlando,’ he said, introducing a fit guy I’d heard of but never met. He was semi-famous in a school chat room sort of way for being the 18th Lord of Hunte, a famous DJ on the public school circuit, and for running a Web site about Sloanes. It was meant to be a piss-take of
Sloaney values and dress, but loads of people (like Honey) took it tragically seriously. Orlando was wearing a really un-Sloaney Saville Row suit with a rugby jersey underneath and frayed white tennis shoes.

‘You’re looking blindingly beautiful today, Calypso,’ Malcolm remarked, which made everyone muffle chortles. Apart from Freds, who stood by sullenly. Freds has been suspicious of Malcolm and me since last term, when I’d got stuck in the rain trying to climb the wall at Eades in the middle of the night. I was trying to get to Freds, but everything got muddled when I was caught in Malcolm’s room in his robe while my clothes dried. Anyway, I think it’s feverishly touching that Fred is so jealous, even though of course he doesn’t need to be. As fit as Malcolm is, he’s blatantly keen on Indie.

‘So everything’s cool with your parents now, then?’ Malcolm asked.

‘I told you about their marriage blessing, McHamish,’ Freddie chided, nudging Malcolm, who nudged him back. Then that turned into a nudge-fest as Malcolm replied, ‘Yaah, but I thought you were lying, didn’t I?’

Freds and I both rolled our eyes, and Freds squeezed me into his chest and kissed the top of my head. Then he suggested we go for pizza. I nodded, and Freds told the others we’d catch them later as he put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me down the lane.