The Highfields Series

1 — Hitting the Bottle

 

Erin McDoogal stood in the small shower room of the Cushing House dormitories and wiped the mirror for a third time. She watched the droplets form in the wake of her hand, watched the demarcations gray over and the warm mists of the room reclaim her reflection, rendering her an indistinct blur. 

 

Even through the haze she could see what she had done. Brash and defiant and radical. Gone was the little girl with the mousy-brown hair, flat and useless like a life unlived. 

“I will have more fun,” she said to herself. Then she wiped the mirror for a fourth time and found her smile. 

 

“Hey dummy!”

A hand banged on the outside of the shower room door. 

“You’re holding up the goddamn line!”

It was Celeste Morrow. Erin shrank back into the mists.

“Just a minute, Celeste!” Erin cried. She hastily scooped up the remnants of her bathroom adventure, like a criminal scrubbing away the memory of a crime. 

“Grundy wants us out front when she brings in the fresh meat,” Celeste called through the doorway again. “You just trying to look your—?”

The door opened slowly. 

A miasma of steam and chemical smell rolled round the sides of the doorway, for a moment obscuring the girl inside. 

“—Best?” Celeste finished. 

 

The tall girl looked Erin up and down, from the twee, yellow-ducky flip-flops, past the ill-fitting towel that hugged Erin’s skin into uncomfortable rolls of overhanging flesh, and all the way up to the fresh head of platinum-bottle on the dumpy girl’s head. 

“Mhm,” Celeste commented, noncommittally and then pushed past her and into the shower room. 

 

Erin trudged back to her dorm room, past groups of loud girls who acknowledged her with silent, judgemental looks, and marked her movement with giggles and pointing when her back was turned.  By the time Erin was back in her dorm room and had locked the door, she wished that the only sign she had ever done anything rebellious at all was the pathetic trail of water leading sluggishly back to the scene of the crime. 
 

 

2 — Fresh Meat

 

She doesn’t look like a bad girl, Erin thought when she saw the student Ms Grundy was marching in from Wray House. She was 5’ tall, maybe, with light-brown skin and curly, dark hair. She had only one piece of luggage with her, a single shoulder bag that clung with both straps like it was afraid to fall from the safety of her back. 

 

“She doesn’t look like a bad girl,” Erin whispered under her breath. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to break the silence and allow the hubbub to begin. 

“I heard she blew up the pool house…” a girl to Erin’s left remarked. 

“Aisha Al-Jahani told me that girl killed Dr Dick!” another girl claimed. 

“Everyone knows Dr Davies ran off with that Year 9 student,” a voice from the hubbub asserted. “They were lovers..” 

“That’s so disgusting!” another voice joined. 

“No,” another part of the gestalt piped up, “They found Shauna Price buried in the rubble of the pool house—”

“—I heard they found her in the church basement—”

“—New girl blew that up too—”

“—I thought it burned down—”

“—Whatever! It’s all the same. Tyreen Onoh is a bad girl—”

 

She doesn’t look like a bad girl, Erin thought again. She held Tyreen’s name on her tongue, rolled it around a little to see how it tasted. Warm, and oddly sweet and invigorating. Tyreen, she thought. Ty—reen. 

 

“Tyreen!” someone said as the new girl was marched towards the house dormitories. Erin was startled when she realized it was her own voice that had spoken. She grinned involuntarily, and raised a hand to her mouth. 

 

What else might this new, confident Erin McDoogal raise? Her eyes, perhaps? To meet Tyreen’s and encounter a world of opportunity in those deep, brown, hazelnut pools? A new friend? An acquaintance, at least? Someone to confide in and keep her afloat on the wide, lonely seas, while the sharks surfaced?

 

One of those sharks was surfacing now. Right in front of Erin, and interposing herself directly between her and the new girl, Celeste Morrow moved up to attack-speed. 

“Welcome to Cushing House, Tyreen!” she declared. 

 

The wake of her riptide was so strong it felt like a shove in Erin’s belly; a prod to drive her back and out onto the seas again. 

“Any problems with anyone here and you can bring them to your Prefect. Which is me.”

Celeste leaned in and made a show of whispering a secret truth. 

“Ms Grundy doesn’t like to be bothered by other people’s mess…” 

The tall girl flicked her eyes in Erin’s direction, then smiled from behind the bars of her long, black pigtails. 

 

Tyreen looked her up and down and trudged silently inside to find her room. 

 

Celeste turned to Erin and grinned so wide that it pulled her flesh thin over her skull. 

“Go and simp somewhere else, blondie,” Celeste spat. Then added, “This meat’s too dark for you!” 

“I’m a vegetarian,” Erin replied, defiantly. 

“You’re a vag-etarian,” Celeste quipped. “And a new hairstyle doesn’t change the fact that you never met a meal you didn’t like!”

 

With that, Celeste left Erin standing on the steps as the hubbub drowned away, and descended once more to the depths, allowing the feeder fish to circle what was left of the floundering girl’s pride.

 

 

3 – Pride Before a Fall

 

Erin was wearing her rainbow socks. They stuck out from beneath the plain, gray blankets that were provided in the common room when the evenings grew dark and cold, as they did when the clocks went back.  

 

The common room had a huge wood fire, but Grundy never let anyone build it up beyond a single lukewarm log at a time. So most of the girls made hot chocolate and huddled together for warmth under well-worn blankets. 

 

The rainbow socks were thick and warm and comforting. Erin sipped at her hot chocolate and watched the other girls in the dorm. 

 

Two of the Year 7s were playing cards and arguing about iPhones and sim cards and unblocking. Neither of them had a phone at Highfields, but the taller girl — Malia? Aleena? — was convinced she was an expert. 

 

In front of the fire, two Year 8 girls held hands, their fingers interlocked. Anna’s head lolled on Swathi’s shoulder. They were friendzoned, Erin was fairly sure; Anna held on the tighter of the two to the spaces between Swathi’s fingers, and wriggled her head occasionally for attention. 

 

At the far end of the extensive, gray corner-sofa sat Tyreen. Her eyes fixed on the fire, her gaze so intricately rapt in it that Erin wondered for a second if the rumors about her burning down the church were true. Tyreen’s mind was somewhere else, Erin could see. Having one of those rehearsal conversations with another version of herself, no doubt. For a parent maybe, explaining why she had been moved House in the middle of the year. 

 

I should go over there, Erin thought, then immediately dismissed it. What would she say? What could she possibly have in common with this pyromaniac bad girl. Erin didn’t know for how long her rainbow socks had been wiggling outside the dull blanket before Tyreen spoke to her. 

 

“I like your socks,” the fire-gazing girl began. 

Erin felt light in the stomach area, like kittens were pawing her pleasantly from the inside. 

“You can borrow them sometime if you like,” Erin replied. 

No — no — no!! 

Somewhere, inside her, another version of Erin was banging its head against a wall in disappointment and disbelief. 

 

Tyreen smiled thinly back at her and Erin felt the sudden urge to escape. She pulled her feet back inside the gray blanket and shrank her head down until the cloth was almost to the level of her eyes. 

 

In another life maybe another Erin would have laughed it off. Made a joke of her shyness and embarrassment. Struck up a conversation about rainbows and gay rights. Waited to see if the girl on the other end of the lgbt-baitbag swam the same way she did. 

 

She would, of course, in another life. And this other-Erin would invite her to share her blanket and let her sip her hot chocolate. Share her sweetness. Let her own head loll on the girl’s shoulder. Hold on a little tighter to the spaces between interlocked fingers and just enjoy the rise and fall of possibilities. 

 

But no. That wasn’t for this Erin. That was for some other girl with perfect conversation and a perfect body and perfect hair. She didnt know how to be that Erin. She never would. 

 

Tyreen stared into the fire; Erin finished the rest of her chocolate and stared at the space where her rainbow socks had been. 

 

4 — The Spaces in Between

Ms Forster’s cross country runs were an exacting ordeal that Erin dreaded every term. Through the woods that spread themselves thickly across the lurching hills around Highfields, down along the cracked town road for half a mile, then back up and through the school gates — in full view of everyone — three times!

 

All told, the course was a little over 5 miles and Erin just wasn’t made for it. She used to joke she was built for comfort, not for speed. Like a big rig. But she stopped saying that when people started calling her Big-E. Then Biggy, sometimes mispronouncing it as Piggy. 

 

Erin could feel herself wheezing as she stomped through the woods on her second lap. The other Year 10 girls had gone on ahead. She’d be a fine piggy now if anyone caught her making noises like this. She took a cautionary glance behind her, but there was no one there, so she felt confident in stopping, putting her hand up against a tree and catching some much needed breath. 

 

It was then that she saw her. The bad girl. Tyreen. A few days had passed since Erin’s utter failure to talk to her. An awkward time of nods and mumbled ‘Hellos’ that often went unacknowledged. 

 

This isn’t right, Erin mused. Tyreen was in Year 9. What was she doing on a Year 10 run? And still in her uniform? Tyreen was stationary, transfixed by the maw of a cave, a painted look haunting her face. She hadn’t seen Erin yet. From the looks of things, she hadn’t taken her eyes off the cave in some time. 

 

She’s truanting! Erin thought. She’s run away from school. She really is a bad girl! Something inside her twitched at the idea. 

 

Then she noticed something else. Tyreen’s lips were moving. Like she was in conversation with someone. Erin ducked behind a nearby tree and peered out nervously. There was no one else there. 

 

The monologue grew louder. More distinct. She’s venting, Erin thought. This is where she comes to do it. To be alone. To rage against the world. The one-sided conversation rose to a crescendo. 

“Because I’m fucking gay, okay!” Tyreen shouted at the cave. 

 

Erin bit her lip in silence. Bit down hard like she had that time her mother caught her. Bit down like she might sever the shame of knowing someone else’s secret without their knowledge. Bit down to distract desire. 

“And I love her!” Tyreen continued. “And I miss her!”

 

Erin could taste blood. Like she had that time her mother caught her. But this pain — any pain — kept her heart from beating out of her chest. 

 

Tyreen was in love. With another girl. But that girl didn’t want her. Joy rolled over pity rolled over melancholia in a familiar, undulating course. Pulling Erin along. Pulling her into the spaces in between happiness and sorrow. 

 

It was like an old friend, this feeling. It draped a familiar arm around Erin’s shoulder. Patted the pit of her stomach and whispered, ‘You’re in love with loneliness…’ 

 

And maybe she was. But at least loneliness was there. Everpresent. Dependable. Safe. 

 

And Tyreen Onoh was anything but safe.

 

Erin let the feeling take her by the hand and lead her away from the cave to a place of shame and recrimination. 

 

Like she had that time her mother caught her…

 

 

5 — The General’s Daughter

​

It was the weekend when Erin got the call she’d been dreading. She was sitting in the early November chill of the one-log Cushing common room, sipping on her second hot chocolate of the morning and trying to decide whether it was worth risking another outing of the rainbow socks. When Grundy came in — looking sincere and important — Erin knew the answer. 

 

“General’s on the phone,” Grundy informed her. 

Erin stood up immediately; not quite to attention, but with the drilling of years. Grundy looked her up and down, as though performing a visual inspection. 

“You’ll do,” she said, and waved her off in the direction of the old payphone. 

 

Personal phones were not allowed at Highfields. That didn’t stop some girls from having them, Erin knew. Celeste had one for sure. One of the girls in Wray had one — Sun, Kim — something like that. Erin could probably sneak one if she wanted — her parents gave the school so much money each year that they practically owned the place. But Erin didn’t want one. 

 

The receiver lay sideways like a cudgel, black and worn: an antique from a bygone age that should have gone bye a long time ago. Erin picked it up carefully and spoke into the mouthpiece. 

“Hi, Mum.”

“That how you address an officer?”

“No—”

“No, what—?”

“No, Ma’am,” Erin replied heavily. 

The voice on the other end of the phone relaxed a fraction. 

“That’s better,” it said. 

 

Erin wasn’t surprised about the call. Or the tone. It was always the same. This time of year. 

‘Remember, remember the 5th of November…’

How could she forget?

 

“I suppose you’ve heard the news?” the General asked. 

‘Why thank you, Mum. I’m doing fine actually.’

“Cameron made Cadet Corporal…”

‘No, I’m not too busy to talk. Thanks for showing an interest.’

“Cameron’s twelve, Mu—Ma’am,” Erin corrected. 

“I know. Pretty impressive, isn’t it? He led his first parade last Thursday.”

‘I made a new friend, Mum. Kind of…’

“When are you going to do something pretty impressive?”

The question twisted like the knife it was. Erin’s belly felt hard with it. Knotted. 

“Was there anything else?” Erin asked, willing the tears back up her cheeks, back down into their ducts. Where they belonged. Why wouldn’t they just do what they were told?!

 

“Actually, yes,” the General replied.

Here it comes, Erin thought. 

“It’s Christmas, actually…”

That wasn’t what she expected. 

“Oh? Ma’am?”

“Cameron wants to have some of his friends from QVS over, so I’ll need you stay on post at Highfields.”

‘Of course. I’d be only too happy. For the—’

“Family is the most important thing, you understand, Erin,” the General informed her. 

 

Erin. She’d called her Erin. The girl wiped her tears away and tried to compose herself. But her voice would not obey; her breathing would not fall into step; her whole being would not follow her commands. 

“I’m your family…” Erin whispered, but the line had already died. 

Erin’s body was in rebellion. It wasn’t her fault. She was born on a day for rebellion. Against your country. Against your king. She ran the rhyme in her head, hardly aware that the words were forming a mantra on her lips. 

 

‘Remember, remember, 

The 5th of November,

Gunpowder, treason and plot. 

For I see no reason

Why gunpowder and treason

Should ever be forgot.’

 

‘If it’s a rebellion she wants,’ Erin vowed to herself, ‘it’s a rebellion she’ll get!’

 

 

6 — Rebellion

 

She borrowed the clippers from Erika Siggurdson in Lee House. The magazine of designs came from a girl in Gellar. Gellar House was always the trampiest anyway. This time, she put a sign on the bathroom door: ‘Use the other one, bitches!’

 

The clipper blades kissed like a mother’s touch. Tender. Reassuring. Utterly persuading of the beauty in what she was doing. Where they swept along the right-hand side of her head, they reaped long stalks of golden growth that had never been trimmed back to the earth before. They fell in strands, catching the fluorescence of the bathroom lighting before dropping into the basin. 

 

Erin inspected her handiwork. One whole side of her head was rough and shorn, like the girls in the magazine. Irregular stubble jutted up defiantly, breaking the uniformity of her insurrection. Erin swept the blades a second time. Then a third. 

 

With each passing, the hair got  shorter, more ordered, but never quite regular. More than just the length of it — more than the rebellious soldiers standing to attention, all at different heights — the hair was patchy, where the mousy-brown intrusion of a girl she no longer knew was peeking through. 

 

Erin reached for the peroxide. It stang when she put it on. It made her scalp warm and itchy. But she could take it. She was the General’s daughter. And this was one impressive coup d’etât. 

 

Erin allowed the rinsing of it, under a cool shower, to soothe her, washing away the familiar. She smiled at the welcome stranger in the mirror. 

“Let’s go, bitches!” she whispered to herself. 

 

Later on — when she was sitting on the bench outside the Vice Principal’s office — she would ask herself how they had remained so quiet outside the bathroom door this whole time, Celeste and the others. How they had waited so patiently without a telltale snigger or conspiratory whisper. 

 

“There she is, girlies,” Celeste began, as Erin opened up the door to leave the bathroom. The Year 11 clicked a button on her camera phone. “Ready for her close-up.”

“You shave everything that short?” a girl to Celeste’s left cried, and looked around the group for approval. 

Erin stood, startled, still wrapped in a styleless towel, a clenched fist at her side. 

“Wow!” another girl barked, looking at the blonde curl and buzzcut of Erin’s hair. “She looks like a fat Miley Cyrus!”

“You’re not supposed to eat the wrecking ball!” Short-Shave quipped. 

Erin’s fist moved on its own. 

 

At first, Erin didn’t understand why the girl was on the floor. Couldn’t make sense of the blood pooling around the shapeless mass that used to be a nose. Then she felt the sharp pain in her own right fist, followed by the dull after-ache. She’d never hit anyone before. Apart from Cameron, her brother. And he hardly counted. 

 

“You’re done, bitch!” Celeste gloated, flipping the phone around and showing Erin the video of her knocking the other girl — Stephanie? Tiffany? — to the floor. 

“Fink is gonna pex you for sure!” Miley-Cyrus added. 

 

*

 

Erin had been sent back outside Fink’s office as soon as the call came through. All discussion of permanent exclusion — ‘pexxing’ — dropped with Vice Principal Fink’s face when he heard that Erin’s mother, the General, was on the line less than 20 minutes after the incident had even happened. 

 

The door was open a crack and Erin heard Fink poring over what had happened. The uploaded video, recorded on the phone that Celeste shouldn’t have; what Erin had done to her hair; interpretations of the school’s dress code. She didn’t need to hear the other side of the conversation. Erin could guess how it went from what Fink said. 

“—The other girl’s parents might not see it that way—”

“—Yes, she’s one of our scholarship students, how did you kn—”

“—Yes, I know who pays for that scholarship—”

The door closed fully, now. Fink’s muffled voice followed. 

“—Yes, I will—”

“—Yes, Ma’am—”

 

The door opened; Fink was red-faced, his hands trembling. 

“Go back to your dorm and wait for Ms Grundy,” he ordered with a quiet rage, then yawped to his assistant., “Get Celeste Morrow in here. Now!”

 

 

7 — Cause and Effect

 

Erin had chosen the corner of the sofa to sit on in the common room, waiting for Grundy. She watched the rain form into droplets on the window outside, then snake down to the sill, leaving empty demarcations behind them; they pooled on the already-saturated ground. 

 

She considered packing her bags. Fink might not pex her, but he could send her home for a while. She could be at Edinburgh Waverley station in two hours. The General would send a car. Some tight-up Lieutenant with too much drilling and not enough chat. Some cipher for who Erin should be. She didn’t pack. She watched, instead, the lonely carving of droplets down misty glass towards a ground that had no place for them. 

 

Erin was so absorbed that she almost didn’t hear the other girl calling. 

“I like your hair, Erin,” a voice came from behind. 

Erin turned. It was Tyreen. She allowed herself half a smile. 

“Thanks,” she replied, turning the full way around.  

“Was that what Stinky Finky wanted to see you about?” Tyreen asked. 

Erin chuckled. “Stinky Finky. I’ve never heard that before.”

“It’s what all the Wray House girls call him,” Tyreen replied. “Cos, y’know. He’s a BO master…”

Erin’s chuckle turned into a full-blown giggle. 

“He really does stink,” she replied. 

“I don’t think he even washes his clothes,” Tyreen joked. 

“Probably gets Grundy to do it for him.”

“Yeah,” Tyreen replied. “Or Manners!”

The girls shared another giggle at the thought of the two House Mistresses washing Professor Fink’s stinky shirts. 

 

“Do you miss it?” Erin asked when the laughter died down. “Wray House?”

“I miss the people,” Tyreen returned. “Apart from Manners of course.”

Erin mouthed the words, ‘Total bitch!’ back at her and they shared another giggle. 

“Do you have someone?” Erin probed gently. “Back there?”

Tyreen’s face fell and she grew somber. 

“No,” she replied, at length. “Not anymore.”

 

“Do you think they’ll let you keep it?” Tyreen asked after a moment, and touched her own hair. 

“Probably not,” Erin replied, wrinkling her nose. 

“What does it feel like?” Tyreen asked, reaching a hand toward Erin’s head. 

“Cold,” Erin joked, moving away a little. 

“Can I?” Tyreen asked, extending her arm further. 

Erin looked away, but the smile stayed on her lips. 

“Okay,” she said, and sat sideways to give Tyreen a better look at her hair. 

“It’s so soft!” Tyreen marveled, running her fingertips across it. 

Erin crossed her ankles and squeezed her legs together. 

“Uh-huh,” she replied, fighting to contain herself. 

“Do you think I should do mine?” Tyreen asked, pulling her hand away. 

Erin turned to look at her, but the oncoming storm bundling through the house doors didn’t give her the chance to respond. 

 

“Straight to your room and bring it straight back here!” Ms Grundy ordered Celeste. The storm broke open. 

 

Celeste thundered past the two girls, giving Erin the filthiest of looks. A moment later, she returned, still fuming, still leaning into her steps like she was pressing into an oncoming hurricane. 

 

“Unlock it!” Grundy commanded. Celeste did as she was told. 

“Now, delete the post from social media.”

Celeste complied. 

“Then delete it from your phone and your recently deleted!”

Grundy watched as the girl did as she was told. 

 

“Now, give it to me!” Grundy demanded. 

“Miss, it’s my personal property!” Celeste retorted. 

“There’s no phones at Highfields,” Grundy said, quoting the school’s draconian rules. 

“What about her?!” Celeste asked, pointing off at Erin. 

Grundy didn’t take the bait. 

“I’ll tell you what will happen to you,” she replied, standing toe-to-toe with Erin and looking up fiercely into her eyes. “I won’t have any Prefects in this house who can’t follow the rules…”

“But, Miss!” Celeste protested. 

“But nothing!” Grundy replied. “I’ll make her a Prefect before I’ll reinstate you!” she issued, firing a finger off in Tyreen’s direction. 

Celeste’s shoulders slumped. 

Grundy held her hand out expectantly. 

“Miss, when will I get it back, Miss?” Celeste pleaded. “I need it!”

“Your parent can collect it when they come in for Progress Day.”

“That’s in March!” Celeste exploded. 

“That’s right…” Grundy replied calmly, and raised the platform of her hand eagerly. 

 

Celeste handed over the phone and sliced her gaze sideways at Erin and Tyreen. There were no words; the cut of it was clear. 

 

“You!” Grundy barked. 

Erin stood involuntarily to attention. 

Grundy reached into her back pocket and pulled out a dirty-looking black beanie hat. 

“You’ll wear this until your hair grows back.” 

She threw the beanie at Erin; the girl clutched it to her chest. 

“Is that all she—?” Celeste shouted, but Grundy cut her off. 

“—And! You will be cleaning the house bathrooms for the rest of term!”

 

Celeste grinned at Erin behind Grundy’s back; the House Mistress stormed back in the direction of Fink’s office. 

“Enjoy cleaning up my shit!” Celeste baited, and took a step towards Erin. 

 

Tyreen had moved before either of the girls even saw her stand. But she stood now. In between Erin and Celeste. 

“No!” Tyreen commanded. “She’s my friend. And I won’t let you!”

Celeste pushed her tall body against Tyreen’s, but the smaller girl did not budge. 

 

“All right, new girl,” Celeste menaced, backing away. “You made your bed. Now you two dykes can lie in it together!”

And she turned and tramped away back towards her room. 

 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Erin admonished. 

“Yeah I did,” Tyreen replied. 

“Whaddya think she’s gonna do?” Erin asked. 

“Something bad,” Tyreen replied. 

“Whaddya think we should do?” Erin asked, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Tyreen and looking off towards the dorms. 

“Something worse,” the bad girl replied. 

​

​

8 — Bad Girls

 

Erin let the feel of the brush in her hands travel through her. This wasn’t just art, it was protest. Rebellion. She needed to feel it. 

 

“How you going on your side?” Tyreen asked. 

“Not quite done yet,” Erin replied, scooping up another large glob of ‘paint’ and daubing it on the wall. 

“Hey, you’re really good,” Tyreen said, standing back to admire Erin’s brushwork. 

Erin was still close in. She could see the fine detail, but not how it all fitted together. How it would look from a distance. 

“We should probably get out soon,” Tyreen advised, looking at the time on the phone in her hand. 

“Mhm,” Erin replied, sweeping the brush. “Just one — last — touch!”

She stood back. Tyreen was right. It was really good. 

 

The girls had more sense than to wait anywhere near Grundy’s office. When she came back and saw what they’d done, searched for the confiscated phone and found it missing, read the words they’d left her, the phrase ‘Cast Iron Bitch’ wouldn’t come close. 

 

They sat, instead, on the large sofa in the common room, a single log half-burned down on the lukewarm fire, a well-worn blanket covering their legs, but not their feet. In the middle, two rainbow socks sat proudly, one on Erin’s right foot and the other on Tyreen’s left. They sipped triumphantly at their rich, sweet chocolate and watched the fire glow, neither one of them needing to say a thing. 

 

It began with a cry of disbelief. Suely, nobody would have so little fear of House Mistress Grundy. Although she was half a hallway away, it resonated through brick and cement and paint and punishment. 

 

“CELESTE MORROW!” Grundy screamed. “HERE! NOW!”

Erin reached for Tyreen’s hand and the other girl let her take it. 

 

“Where is it?!” Grundy demanded, loud enough for everyone to hear. 

“Miss, I didn’t—” Celeste shot off, but Grundy wasn’t finished with her opening salvo. 

“And what have you done to my office?!” she screamed again. 

“Miss, I would never—” Celeste cried, seeing the awful display on the walls. 

“Possession is 9/10 of the Law!’” Grundy roared, reading off the wall. “‘Confiscation is Stealing!’”

“Miss—”

“I won’t tell you what it smells like it’s written in, you disgusting little child!” Grundy growled. “Give me your Prefect badge right now!” 

“But Miss,” Celeste protested. “It wasn’t me! I’m being framed.”

“Framed?!” Grundy replied. “By whom?”

“It’s Erin McDoogal!” Celeste replied. “And that new girl. The— the bad one!”

 

Grundy marched down the hallway and into the common room. Erin pulled the blanket up over her and Tyreen’s interlocked fingers. Grundy pointed to a young girl who was sitting by the fire reading a magazine. 

“You girl? Year 7. María?” Grundy opened. 

“It's Malia, Miss,” the young girl corrected. 

“I know what your name is,” Grundy retorted and pointed at Erin and Tyreen. “How long have they been sitting there?”

“All afternoon, Miss,” Malia replied. 

 

Grundy spun on her heel and marched back off to her office to give Celeste another chewing out (and, likely, a bucket and cloth). 

“Thanks Malia,” Tyreen said, and pushed the phone down out of the bottom of the blanket.

The girl took it, shrugged, smiled, and shot off to her dorm room, leaving Erin and Tyreen alone. 

 

“Before,” Tyreen began after they had both stared into the fire, enjoying every second of Celeste’s reaming at the hands of her House Mistress. 

“Yes?” Erin replied, still watching the flames slowdance. 

“When you asked me if I had someone at Wray House…”

“Oh,” the girl replied, adjusting herself slightly. “You said no…”

“I did,” Tyreen replied. “I mean, I-did-I-used-to. We broke up. She— left me.”

“Oh,” Erin replied again, seeing in Tyreen a familiar, chilling numbness.

“I think I— I mean—” Tyreen fumbled. “I need some time— Before I— You know—”

Erin couldn’t say that she did. 

“It’s okay,” Erin replied, and held on a little tighter to the spaces between Tyreen’s fingers. She lolled her head on Tyreen’s shoulder, letting the stubble of her shorn hair poke out from beneath Grundy’s punishment-hat and brush up against the softness of Tyreen’s neck. Smiling, they wiggled their rainbow toes, let their breathing slowly fall in time with each other and enjoyed the rise and fall of possibilities.