AllFreeNovel
Share Us
18
In the weeks accounting for Luke’s recovery, Lochkelvin’s social hierarchy undergoes a series of subtle changes. Every day, there’s a new development in Rory’s plan to battle the press and court the gremlins, and I watch in fascination as Luke’s popularity fluctuates daily among the rest of the students. He’s either the Greatest Of All Time or The Utter Worst. As a polarizing figure, there aren’t many Lochkelvin students able to discuss Luke with an apathetic shrug and ameh, although for my own peace of mind, I desperately wish indifference were the ruling emotion. It turns out that being the perfect symbol is almost as bad as being someone’s perfect villain.
Especially when it comes to the press, who’ve decided in the absence of any functional monarchy that it’s a free-for-all on attacking Luke and all things House of Milton. Lies upon lies about Luke are published every day to activate the outrage machine — that he’s lined up to do a high-profile interview simulcast on at least a dozen US TV networks, that according to a former royal biographer he’s signed a major “tell-all” book deal with his old publisher, that he’s considering breaking his silence by participating in the next season ofDancing With the Superstars, or that he’s been spotted living the quiet life on a ranch in Montana… They make doubly sure to insert the phrase “taxpayers’ money” into each piece of Luke fanfic they print.
In light of what the chiefs come to refer to as theattack on Luke, Rory instructs Danny to find ways to keep Luke’s popularity buoyant in Lochkelvin. And Danny, in his creative wisdom, gathers us around one lunchtime to dispense small, glittering pins.
“They’re crowns,” Danny says, his tone filled with exhausted pride. I haven’t seen him in days, he’s been squirreling away, working on this secret project by himself. In my palm is a badge so tiny it’s almost cute, its gold facade shining as brightly as Rory’s Head Boy badge. Unlike Rory’s badge, however, Danny’s pin is fashionable, trendy in an ironic, kitsch way, with its adorable, almost cartoonish style.
Rory turns the pin over in his hand, examining its gold sheen carefully. “How did you make these?”
“Clay, gold paint, averysteady hand…”
Finlay’s already pinning his onto his jacket. “Ye raided the art department again, aye?”
Danny’s answer comes in the form of his coy smirk.
“Good work, Hamilton.” Rory pauses. “Are you able to make more of these, if it comes to it?”
Danny tilts his head to the side, considering. “If required.”
“Then I think this might just work.”
At first I don’t understand, because how can a tiny badge hold such power? Especially against the bombardment of bile circulating in the press each morning. But then I recall Arabella’s personality switch, as though she finally had an excuse to act like even more of a snitch, the moment she’d been presented with some dumb badge. I realize then that Danny’s idea is a masterstroke.
In Lochkelvin, where any deviation from the norm is frowned upon and individuality is actively discouraged unless you’re feeling brave — or possess Finlay’s levels of don’t-give-a-fuck-itude — the pins attract comments that very afternoon. They’re small enough to pass under the teachers’ noses, but it’s no surprise that a bunch of teenagers on the hunt for minor differences — to pounce upon among their peer group — and new trends — to make them stand out as the coolest in a gloomy, sky-gray castle — notice them instantly. The pins tap into the exclusivewant, want, wantmentality that dominates the gremlins in particular — theywantto improve their social standing, theywantto be part of an elite group. And in Lochkelvin, there’s no one more elite or higher in status than the chiefs to model this season’s hottest accessory.
It says something about the quality of Danny’s pins that, in one afternoon, a queue starts to form. That week, the queue turns into a waiting list, and the waiting list grows into a whole underground cottage industry.
“Fifty-nine more badges,” Danny mutters, gazing down at the list in front of him in awe. He scratches out a quick sum on the back of the list, and I note that his fingers are decorated with flakes of gold paint. “So if one badge takes… and you times that by… then I think I might see sunlight by, hmmm, next year at the earliest.”
He looks at me, lost.
“I can help,” I suggest. “Might not have your magical, arty touch, though.”
Danny contemplates this for a moment. “No, maybe, yeah.”
The longer I spend in this country, the more I realize that, depending on context, an affirmative can be any two of these words at once.
Danny smiles at me. “No, an extra pair of hands would be much appreciated. Cheers, Jessa. Your hair’s looking nice, by the way.”
Since the popularity of Danny’s badges exploded, I decided to upgrade my own style. Along with the cute gold pin on my lapel, I’m wearing my red ribbon in my hair. With my hair now long enough to tie into a ponytail, I figured it’s time to overcome my aversion to the ribbon by making it less a dark symbol of the past and more the useful object for which it’d been designed. It’s an attempt at self-acceptance, of healing old wounds. Not that it didn’t stop my fingers from shaking the first time I put it on, but still… It’s not like trauma can be flicked off like a switch. It’s layers of new skin slowly healing over old.
“Attention!” Headmistress Baxter’s voice is loud enough to echo throughout the dining hall, and all heads swing in her direction. Startled, Danny’s pencil falls to the stone floor with a clatter. Only when it stops making a noise in the now-silent hall, Danny’s face reddening with every elongated second, does Baxter finally speak.
“The sixth years among you will be aware of how crucial this year is in your academic career. The rigor of Lochkelvin has, hopefully, prepared you for the greenest of pastures new — and it is in these green pastures that you will move into new, respected fields of study.”
Out the corner of my mouth, I murmur to Danny, “I can’t tell — are we cattle or students?” and Danny snorts with laughter.
“Something amusing about my words, Mr. Hamilton?” Baxter snaps, and all eyes land on us. “I assure you, the only thing you have any right to find laughable is your academic record this term.”
This is a particularly scathing comment when Danny’s been doing way better academically than me, but then I imagine Baxter doesn’t put as much stock in me to begin with. Danny sinks deeper into the bench, his red face now glowing faintly puce.
“Time is of the essence when it comes to your applications for further study. The majority of you are no doubt aiming to achieve, like the extensive list of alumni before you, places at St. Camford’s. You will be well aware of how incredibly selective the university is, but Lochkelvin has built a strong relationship with the institution, and boosting St. Camford’s ranks with well-educated, well-bred Lochkelvin stock is an excellent result for all of us. This afternoon, they have announced that their open day is on the seventeenth of this month, and all prospective St. Camford’s students are invited to attend.” Her sharp, hawk-like eyes gaze across the tables as though searching for dissent. “I expect the overwhelming majority of sixth years to be in attendance.”
As the speech ends and chatter gradually resumes, I get the impression that I’m not included in Baxter’s definition ofthe overwhelming majority. In fact, her use of that phrase begs the questionwhichsixth years aren’t her esteemed students.
Danny looks miserable, his freckled face slowly returning to its regular paleness. “How are we meant to decide when I don’t even know what I want to do in my life?”
