1. Agatha is thirteen years old, 5 ft 2 (ish?). She has chestnut-brown hair worn in a bob.
2. She likes wearing vintage clothes – floral dresses, trench coats, DMs. So many trench coats. She’s often writing in a notebook.
3. Always hanging out with Liam Lau.
I’m about to say that my hair is dark brown, not chestnut, when someone bursts loudly into the classroom.
‘We can use this room, it’s just Oddball and Boy Wonder in here,’ they say.
I know immediately whose voice it is before I turn round – Sarah Rathbone, one of the three CCs, and she’s got the other two with her – Ruth Masters and Brianna Pike. They say that CC stands for Chic Clique, but everyone else says it stands for Carbon Copies. With their identically blonde hair, manicured nails and primped and preened appearances, they stand for everything St Regis is about. The school is full of the rich and beautiful like them, and making the rest of us feel unpopular is what they’re best at.
Some identification notes, for telling one CC from another –
1. Sarah Rathbone – If the other two are copies, Sarah is the original. The jewellery she wears has real diamonds, but it’s small and tasteful.
2. Ruth Masters – Second-in-command, Ruth is ruder than Sarah, which is saying something. Her dad works in PR, and Ruth is just as conscious of her public image, carefully managing who the CCs talk to and who they avoid.
3. Brianna Pike – Brianna is Sarah’s other henchwoman. She plays with her hair a lot and spends all day posting pictures of herself pouting on social media.
I face Sarah, head on. ‘I’m afraid we’re using this room,’ I say.
‘Using it for what?’ Sarah sneers. ‘Making detective notes with your little friend?’
Brianna approaches me. She draws her shoulders back and swings her blonde hair like a weapon. ‘Move.’
‘But we’re in the middle of something,’ I say.
‘We’re in the middle of something?’ Ruth sing-songs back at me. ‘Well, get in the middle of this – SCRAT.’ She brings her face up-close-and-personal and I automatically spring back. She picks up the book I’m reading from the table – Poisonous Plants of the British Isles – and shoves it into my chest.
‘Enough messing around,’ Brianna joins in, ‘get out, Agatha. Get going.’ She pushes my shoulder.
I brush my blazer as though some dirt has landed there. ‘Come on, Liam,’ I say, gathering my things. ‘We’re outnumbered.’ And then I mutter under my breath, ‘Physically, if not mentally.’
By the time the CCs realise they’ve been insulted, we’ve already left the room. The door slams behind us. I sigh, letting my frustration show.
‘You OK, Aggie?’
‘Yes … thanks, Liam.’ I shrug. Sometimes I hate St Regis more than anywhere in the world. My first school, Meadowfield Primary, was so different. The buildings might have been falling down and there was never enough money for new books, but it had been bright and friendly, and the teachers had encouraged all of us just to get along. I had a nickname there – The Brain – which hadn’t been a bad thing. It was a dumb nickname, but secretly I had liked it. At Meadowfield, being brainy was OK. When nobody else knew the answer to a question, they’d turn to me. Then had come the scholarship to St Regis that my teacher had put me forward for. I almost hadn’t shown it to Dad. When he saw the letter, he’d said it would be silly not to at least take the test. He’d been right, hadn’t he? There was nothing to lose. Even if they offered me a place, I could still turn it down, right? And they probably wouldn’t offer me a place anyway, would they?
I took the test.
I won the scholarship.
Dad sent a letter back, saying I would accept, starting in September.
I had been excited about going to a prestigious school at first. My new school had more money floating around than Meadowfield could have ever dreamed of. New computers, new classrooms, spotless walls and carpets. But in this place of shiny things, it was me who ended up seeming shabby. It didn’t matter whether I was brainy. In fact, it didn’t matter whether I was kind or funny or whatever else might have made me the person I was. I just didn’t fit, until I met Liam …
I’d been sitting in the canteen (or refectory, as they preferred) of St Regis, eating lunch, when I pulled the Sunday Times from my satchel and started trying to do the cryptic crossword.
13 down – Calling for business meeting, talker gets excited.
‘Perhaps “calling” means a telephone call.’ A voice came from across the table. I jumped – I hadn’t realised that I’d been thinking out loud. I looked up and saw a boy my own age who I recognised from class. His name was Liam Lau. I don’t think I’d heard him speak once, except to answer ‘present’ when register was called.
‘Sorry, did I startle you?’
‘No, I … I just didn’t realise I was talking to myself.’
He smiled. ‘Do you do that often?’
‘Maybe. Sometimes.’
‘Me too.’ He nodded, grinning. ‘They say it’s the first sign of madness.’
‘Hmm … Maybe you’re right about “calling” being a telephone call.’ I said. Then, as though my brain had suddenly decided to co-operate – ‘Oh, and what if “excite” means “jumble” – there might be an anagram in there?’
‘Yes, that sounds good … Hmm, what about “meeting talker”?’ Liam said. ‘That’s the right number of letters.’
We both stared at the letters M E E T I N G T A L K E R for a long moment. Then, together, we both shouted –
‘Telemarketing!’
I was grinning as I took up my pen and put the answer in.
‘Agatha …’
Liam’s voice shakes me out of the memory. Here we are, almost a year later. I’m still a social outcast, but I have Liam as a friend. I look at him. ‘Yes?’
‘Promise me something?’
‘What?’ I ask.
‘Try not to get expelled tomorrow?’
I roll my eyes. ‘I promise.’
He grins. ‘Come on, then – you can walk me to the bus stop.’
I’ve just finished liquidising a pile of vegetables when Dad walks into the kitchen, begrimed with mud and smelling of manure. I’d forgotten my tiredness in the excitement of making something new.
‘What on earth are you doing, Aggie?’
‘Making dinner,’ I say.
‘With all the green mush, I thought it might be some kind of science experiment,’ he laughs.
I sigh – Dad can be soooo closed-minded sometimes. He isn’t a bad cook, but he isn’t a very good one, either. I often make dinner for the two of us, but it’s usually one of his favourites – something easy, like sausages and mash or beans on toast. Who can blame me for wanting to try something different for a change? I’d found a dog-eared copy of Escoffier’s Le Guide Culinaire from a bookshop on the Charing Cross Road, and then spent an evening trying to decode his instructions