Chapter 7
Henry
After such a long journey, I could have slept for twelve hours straight, but nobody goes to bed early on the first night of term.
After wing time, Omar, Gideon, and I sneaked into Sinclair’s room so we could talk the night away, like we used to in the old days.
After the eight-week summer holidays, we had a lot to catch up on, but I seriously regretted it when my alarm went off at six this morning.
I could hardly keep my eyes open during assembly.
Not that there was any important news just yet.
There are no new teachers at Dunbridge this year, so Mrs. Sinclair stuck to a few motivational words for the start of the academic year, plus a reminder of the morning run that replaces the assembly from Tuesday to Friday.
Not even a decent cup of tea at breakfast helped me wake up properly.
I feel like there’s no way I can get through a whole morning’s lessons.
I’m just on my way to English when I hear my name.
“Bennington!” Oh, no! “How was Namibia?”
“Kenya,” I say, trying not to buckle at the knees as Valentine Ward, from the upper sixth, slaps me on the back. For a rugby captain he’s surprisingly slim and athletic—typical winger!—yet the blow is borderline brutal.
“Are you sure? I could have sworn it was there.”
“Oh! You’re thinking of Nairobi,” I say. “The capital of Kenya.”
“Oh, yeah. Don’t tell Ms. Kelleher.”
“No worries.” Even if I did, his uncle would look after him. Or that’s what people say.
“Anyway, the point was,” Valentine begins, shoving me aside slightly, “that Mr. Cormack says we might be getting a new winger soon.”
I freeze under his arm. “Does he?”
“Yep.” His eyes bore right through me, and I long to run away.
“I’m seriously assuming that that was a misunderstanding on his part.
” He sounds kind of threatening. I step back a bit, but he’s pinning me down with his stupid arm.
“You’re not getting onto my team just because your surname’s Bennington,” he adds.
“I thought Mr. Cormack picked your team,” I reply.
“Anyway, it was his idea.” Apparently, the PE teacher was impressed by my sprinting last summer, just before the holidays, and thinks I might take after my brother.
He’d also suggested that playing for the school would help my university applications, but there’s no need to tell Valentine that part.
Anyway, I’m still not sure if I should turn up to the open training session at the end of the week.
Just because Theo was rugby captain and the team won just about everything in his day, doesn’t mean I give a crap about rugby.
Sport is not my strong point, to put it mildly.
“Don’t make a tit of yourself.” Valentine narrows his eyes to slits. “Fine. Come to training if you like. Maybe then you’ll figure out that you have to get your hands dirty to achieve anything with us.”
“Is that right?”
“You bet it is.”
“Pity your uncle doesn’t pick the team,” I say as I turn away.
Valentine pins me to the wall by the shoulder. “What do you mean by that?”
“What d’you think I mean by it?” I just can’t help myself.
Valentine Ward makes it way too easy to wind him up.
And I’ve had it up to here with him acting like he owns the school just because he likes fighting other guys for some stupid ball in the mud and gets special treatment.
“That I might get a genuine chance that way?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Bennington,” he hisses. “And watch what you say if you don’t want my uncle to hear about it. I hear you’ve got him for English and maths this year. You need good predicted grades, don’t you?”
“Shut the fuck up, Ward,” I mutter, finally tearing myself away.
My pulse calms as I walk down the hall. Of course my first lesson this year has to be English with Mr. Ward.
Because, sadly, Valentine was right. I’ve got his uncle for two subjects, and it’s no secret that he hates me.
Mind you, Mr. Ward hates everyone. Probably including himself—at least, that’s the only explanation I can come up with for why he’s always so mean.
All the teachers at Dunbridge are strict, but Mr. Ward’s in a league of his own.
He’s the only teacher who always calls every single pupil by their surname.
Not even Mrs. Sinclair does that, but fine, whatever .
. . Unfortunately, he’s also my form tutor, when I’d have preferred Mr. Ringling. Great.
“Hey.”
I raise my head. Emma’s facing me, smiling a little uncertainly. I don’t know why, but seeing her, all my irritation dissolves into thin air. Why do I feel so proud at the sight of her in our school uniform?
“Morning,” I say. “Sleep well?”
She nods. “Yes, thanks. How about you?”
“Not enough, but yeah, OK.”
“Still the jetlag that isn’t jetlag?”
I have to smile. “Probably.” Her pale-blond hair is tied back, and only a few strands fall into her face. Everything about her is so light and soft and gentle. How can you not want to look at her the whole time? “Are you looking for your classroom?” I ask hastily. “I’ll show you the way.”
“Oh, you don’t have to . . .” She stops when the bell goes for the first lesson.
“What have you got?”
“English with Mr. Ward,” she says. I’m pleased for myself but sad for her.
It doesn’t strike me as an ideal start to get a teacher like Mr. Ward when you’re new at a school.
But on the other hand, that means we’ll be in the same class for six hours a week.
And maybe a few others, if I’m in luck. Or out of luck, depending on how you look at it.
“Do you know where that is?” Emma asks.
“Yes, I’m going that way myself,” I say. She smiles, which makes me happier than it should. “We have to hurry.”
Emma walks rapidly down the now-empty corridor beside me. Fortunately, our classroom door is still open. I can hear Tori’s laugh from out here.
“Emma!” She’s right by the door with Inés and Gideon and whirls around toward us. “I lost sight of you after assembly, sorry! Did you find your way OK?” Then she spots me. “Oh, you had a guide. That’s good.”
“Hi, Tor,” I mumble, glancing past her into the room. Most desks are already taken, but there are two seats together at the back of the classroom, and I turn to Emma. But before I can say anything, Tori’s grabbed her arm.
“No danger, Henry. Emma’s sitting with me. It’s bad enough that Olive’s got Ms. Ventura.”
Amazement flickers across Emma’s face as she looks from Tori to me. I smile and shrug regretfully.
“Who am I to contradict Victoria Belhaven-Wynford?”
“Very true.” Tori’s smile is sickly sweet as she and Emma walk further into the classroom.
“What did Val want just now?” Gideon draws me aside by the sleeve and nods toward a chair he’s been saving for me.
Like Omar, he’s been on the rugby team for a few years now, and he can tell you a thing or two about what a waste of space Valentine is.
Before I can fill him in on our conversation, Mr. Ward walks in.
Emma
“You have to put your phone up here during classes,” Tori explains, pointing at the little shelves where Henry and a couple of others have just left their mobiles.
“Make sure it’s definitely on silent,” she adds, dumping hers in one of the pigeonholes.
“Mr. Ward’s been known to punish us all if anyone gets a call or notification in class. He’s merciless.”
“Sounds like a nice guy,” I say, putting my phone on the shelf next to Tori’s.
She turns away, and I freeze. At that moment, a man walks into the room, and he’s looking right at me.
His face is inscrutable, his beard perfectly trimmed.
His jacket and the brown leather briefcase in his hand are seriously expensive.
There’s no doubt that this is Alaric Ward, my future English teacher—and he probably heard what I just said. Shit.
Tori’s still talking, but suddenly I can’t move. He can’t be any older than Mum, but he walks with a stick and limps on his left leg. But the thing that sends an ice-cold shiver down the back of my neck is the way he looks at me. Dismissively, coldly.
Is there anything wrong with my uniform?
I hastily glance down at myself, but everything’s just as it should be.
When I look up again, he’s putting his briefcase on the desk.
Two girls flit into the room as discreetly as possible, and one shuts the door.
I turn as Tori pulls me by the hand. Silently, I follow her to a table toward the back.
Mr. Ward hasn’t spoken a word, but his very presence has made everyone fall quiet.
I put my bag next to the table, but everyone else is standing up, so I don’t sit down.
“Good morning, all,” says Mr. Ward. It’s only after an almost imperceptible nod from him that everyone sits down.
“And welcome to the sixth form.” He pauses.
“How nice that you’ve all ventured to take A-level English.
” Is it a coincidence that he’s looking at me again?
“I’m sure we’re all going to have a lot of fun together. ”
I gulp. When Mr. Ward turns away, I catch Henry’s eye. He and Tori were clearly right. Mr. Ward is hardly a ray of sunshine.
“Before we discuss the impending academic year, I’ll take the register,” he announces. He’s holding an iPad as he turns back to the class. “Gideon Attwell?”
“Yes.” The guy sitting next to Henry bobs up, then sits down again.
“Henry Bennington?” Mr. Ward sounds mildly irritated.
“Here.”
“Where else?” He doesn’t even glance at Henry as he ticks off his name. The same procedure is repeated twelve times, and in the end, I seem to be the only one left. But Mr. Ward doesn’t read out my name. He looks up from the iPad and directly at me.
Should I stand up? Should I have introduced myself at the start of the lesson, or is there some other process for new pupils? Have I forgotten something among all the new information that Ms. Barnett gave me yesterday? Oh, please, God, no, I should’ve asked Henry if . . .
“You’re the spitting image of your father.”
At first, I wonder if I’ve just imagined Mr. Ward’s voice. But as the others turn toward me, I’m sure he did say that. Heat builds in my cheeks as I frantically wonder what to say.
“Jacob Wiley . . . He is your father, yes?” Mr. Ward sounds almost mocking now.
“Yes, sir,” I manage. “He is.”
“I presume that you grew up in Germany with your mother. Correct, Ms. Wiley? Your accent is unmistakable,” he continues. “Not that you’re the only one, of course—this is an international school, after all.” He doesn’t go into it any further, but it’s clear what he thinks of that.
My blood runs cold. He’s so rude. I’d like to reply, but my mind’s gone blank.
“You understand that this is A-level English? ‘A’ for advanced. I only teach the best of the best here, and there will be no time to deal with comprehension problems.” Mr. Ward turns away, and I see Henry open his mouth in outrage.
“All right, Mr. Bennington, there’s no need for any commentary from you.
I’m quite sure that Ms. Wiley will need only a little extra tutoring to keep up.
You appear all too keenly aware of your duties as school captain.
” He looks back at me. “Ms. Wiley, what did you last read in Germany?” He narrows his eyes slightly. “In school, that is.”
Someone laughs.
I want to get out of here. I just want to get out of here.
“Have you studied The Picture of Dorian Gray?” he asks when I say nothing.
“No,” I admit.
“Very well.” Mr. Ward clicks his tongue. “It looks like you’ll have some catching up to do. We did some A-level preparation after GCSEs last year, so you’ll have to ask your classmates what you need to read. Alternatively, you still have time to switch courses. It’s your decision.”
“No, thank you. I’m sure I can cope. We covered a lot of English literature at home. Although I hope that here, we won’t just study books by dead white men.”
For a moment you could hear a pin drop.
I’ve gone too far, I’m sure of it.
God, what was I thinking?
“We’re doing Wuthering Heights,” someone says.
Henry’s looking from me to Mr. Ward, his head slightly aslant. “And Jane Austen’s Emma. Funny coincidence, huh?”
He keeps a totally straight face.
I love him for that.
“You can leave the syllabus to me, Mr. Bennington,” the teacher snaps, but Henry doesn’t bat an eyelid. When Mr. Ward turns to the board, Henry looks at me. Smiles very fleetingly. It’s both appreciative and soothing.
“Don’t let him faze you,” Tori whispers, patting my arm. “He’s like that to everyone.”
I just nod, because that’s not much consolation.
“He knows your parents, then?” she asks.
“Quiet, please.” Mr. Ward glares in our direction, but this time, I’m almost grateful to him.
I wait until he’s not looking, then shrug my shoulders.
Apparently, he does know my parents. Both of them.
And he seems to know that they’re divorced.
Which might mean he’s still in touch with my dad.
Or has seen his Wikipedia page . . . Either way, he might have answers to my questions, however horrible he is.
I don’t take in much of the rest of the lesson.
I sit on that chair, wondering how to get those answers.