Chapter 9
Emma
I don’t know where the time’s gone as my first week at Dunbridge Academy draws to an end. It’s Friday, my lessons are over for the week, and now it’s considerably quieter in the corridors. The day pupils have gone home and a lot of the boarders seem to have left for the weekend too.
“Have you made any friends?” Mum asks.
It’s the first time we’ve Skyped since I arrived last Sunday. I nod and lean back against the wall beside my bed as I place my laptop on my lap. “I get on really well with Tori, in the room next door,” I tell her. “We’re in some of the same classes and she’s shown me everything this week.”
“That’s great, darling.” Mum smiles.
“Everyone else is really nice too. Especially . . .” Especially Henry. Henry, who I spend more hours a day thinking about than is probably good for me. Will he be here over the weekend? Or will he spend the days with Grace?
“Uh-huh? So who’s ‘everyone else,’ then?” Mum asks casually.
Obviously she’s seen right through me. “A few others in my tutor group. Tori, Olive, Henry, Sinclair . . .”
“Sinclair? Like the head teacher?” Mum asks.
“Yes, he’s her son. Do you know her?”
“No, not really. She was a year or two older than me, but I spoke to her on the phone when they offered you a place. It’s nice that she came back to the school.”
“Yes. I like her.”
“So how are lessons? Is Mr. Ringling still there?” Mum asks.
“Yes,” I say, in astonishment. “Henry has biology with him, and I had him for PSHE yesterday.”
“How nice. Say hello to him for me—he might remember me. He was new to the school in my day.”
“I will,” I say.
I also make a mental note to ask Mr. Ringling about my dad. If he taught Mum, he must have taught him too. And perhaps he’d be prepared to tell me more than Mr. Ward was.
“Which other teachers do you have?” Mum asks.
“Ms. Ventura for PE and Mr. Ward for English and maths.”
“Ward?” Mum echoes. Her voice has changed, and there’s something about her tone that I don’t like. “Not Alaric Ward, surely?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“Not really,” she says. “He was in my year. I didn’t know he’d gone into teaching.”
I say nothing, hoping she’ll tell me more. But it doesn’t work.
“What’s he like?” she asks.
“I don’t think he’s very popular with anybody,” I say. “He seems kind of . . . bitter.”
Mum gives a cautious nod. “Has he said anything to you?”
“Why do you ask?” I say. “I mean, why would he say anything to me?”
“Nothing. I just wondered. Given your surname, he’d be bound to.”
“He did mention Dad,” I say, and see her expression harden. “He said I look like him. But that was all.” And it’s probably better if Mum doesn’t know that I asked him about my dad. Or that he didn’t want to talk to me.
“You sure do.” Mum’s smiling, but it looks kind of strained. “I’m sure Mr. Ringling must be nicer, though. Is he?”
There’s more to this, more to find out about Mr. Ward and my parents, I’m sure of it. Otherwise Mum wouldn’t have changed the subject so abruptly.
But I don’t know what it is. Or why I’m not allowed to hear about it. But I know that if I’m going to find out, it’ll be here, in this place.
Henry
What was I thinking, showing up to this open training thing? Did I think it wouldn’t be this bad? Wow. At least past-Henry had a sense of humor.
Jeez, this is awful. It was bad enough just turning up among all the other potential new team members.
Everyone else who’s come to the trials is way younger than me.
No surprise there. Most boys here have played rugby since the juniors, and the junior teams are obviously the best way into the seniors.
It’s rare for anyone to want to start as late as this.
Maybe I should spare myself the humiliation and walk away.
But that would be just as embarrassing at this point.
I can feel the weight of Valentine Ward’s and Mr. Cormack’s eyes on me as we warm up and pair off for the first drills.
I’m partnered with Gideon, who’s already on the team, and although I’m sure he’s not putting his full strength into the throws, it’s still brutal enough.
We have to run half the length of the rugby pitch, throwing and catching the ball as we go, and by the time I try to circle the cone to head back again, my knees are so weak that I fall flat on my face in the muddy grass.
My hip hurts like hell, my thighs are burning as fiercely as my lungs, and I don’t want to know how red my face is.
I’d say I’m really giving it everything, but apparently, that’s not enough.
I can see it in Val’s mocking expression.
He yells a few words of encouragement in our direction, then goes to stand next to Mr. Cormack, who’s making notes on the clipboard in his hand, his face inscrutable.
I want to stop. I need to stop. Or I’ll throw up. Oh, God, no. I’m about to pretend that my laces need retying when Mr. Cormack blows his whistle, almost splitting my eardrums.
“Good. Everyone new, come to me!” he roars.
The team carry on their training without him, while we trudge over.
All I can see around me are red, sweaty faces and mud-smeared bodies.
I look longingly in the direction of my water bottle, miles away in the stands.
A moment later, I hold my breath as I notice the girl passing by all our jackets and kit bags.
It’s Emma, running on the track that circles the pitch.
The floodlights are on, and the red-orange sunset has almost completely faded.
I look up at the clock on the electronic scoreboard opposite.
It’s already half past nine . . . Is she really training voluntarily at this time in the evening?
I wonder if Grace did take her along to the track team.
“Bennington.” At that moment, I hear Mr. Cormack’s voice. “A little less staring into space and a little more concentration, if you don’t mind.”
I tear my eyes away. “Yes, sir.”
He stares at me for a moment, then at his clipboard.
“Good. Baker, Valtersen, DiSanto, Hsuan, you’re in.
Training on Monday and Thursday evenings at seven thirty, and on Wednesdays at five.
An hour’s weights in the gym every Tuesday, and Fridays too, although that’s optional.
If you have any other questions, ask Valentine.
Fifteen minutes’ cooldown now, and you can go. ”
I shiver as the others thank him and wander away. They’re all third- and fourth-formers, and they were way better than me. There’s no denying it.
I jump as I hear my name.
“Bennington, Stokes, Meskill.” Mr. Cormack looks us in the eye, and I have trouble meeting his gaze.
“You’ve got a month to show me you can do better.
You were poor today. I expect you to do extra training so that you can get somewhere near the team’s level.
The rest of you can try again next year. ”
Wait a moment . . . Does that mean I’m in? Subject to conditions, at least?
“That’s all,” he says curtly. “You too, cooldown, then get in the showers. Be back in your rooms by ten.”
I choke out a quiet “Thank you,” then turn away with the rest. Gideon stretches out his thumb to me, turning it questioningly up and then down. I hold my thumb sideways to signal that it had gone mediocre at best.
You were poor today . . .
Wow. It had been all I was capable of. I couldn’t have done more without puking my guts up onto the pitch.
I haven’t the faintest idea how I’m meant to raise my game enough inside a month for Mr. Cormack to give me a real chance on the team.
Let alone for me to play in a match. Because that’s the point of all this.
If I don’t get anything to put on my UCAS form, then why bother?
Four sessions a week, and my own personal training on top of that.
Valentine looks at me, a self-satisfied smile on his lips, before twisting his face into a regretful grimace.
Don’t flatter yourself, Bennington . . .
I give a quiet laugh as I jog sluggishly along the edge of the field.
But maybe he’s right. It would probably be wiser to throw in the towel now and admit that there are easier things to put in my uni application.
I could do some volunteering. Or join the choir.
This is so stupid. I’m wasting my time. I want to be a teacher, not a rugby player.
But if I’ve set my mind to something, I put in the effort and the hours until I’ve achieved it.
That’s always worked until now. And I’m not prepared to let a guy like Valentine Ward get me down.
Emma
Henry looks utterly exhausted as he stumbles from the pitch toward the changing rooms. At first I’d thought maybe this wasn’t rugby training at all, because I’d been expecting the players to be padded up as they wrestled for the ball.
I’m embarrassed to admit that, until now, I’d thought that rugby and American football were basically the same game.
But now I’m learning that the British version does without bulky shoulder pads and helmets.
Which is kind of impressive because the whole thing looks just as brutal.
I hadn’t been sure at first if I’d be allowed to run on the track while the training session was on, but Mr. Cormack didn’t send me away, just nodded to me and turned back to his clipboard.