And that was when I caught the chicken pox.
It was the middle of September when I finally started at St With’s (as I soon learnt to call it). I was a whole week late! I couldn’t help thinking if there was anyone else that was new, they’d have made friends by now, which meant I’d be the odd one out. I told Nat that if she hadn’t gone and breathed on me I might never have caught her rotten chicken pox. It was just an observation. She didn’t have to get all uppity about it.
“Wasn’t my fault,” she said. “I didn’t know it was the chicken pox!”
I said, “Well, considering you were covered in spots.” Which she’d scratched. At least I hadn’t done that.
“I meant at the beginning,” she said. “At the beginning I didn’t know. And anyway, you’re not the only one starting a new school. It’s just as bad for me.”
“It was your chicken pox,” I said. “And it’s nowhere near as bad for you!” Nat was starting at secondary school. She’d still be with lots of her friends. “It’s loads worse if it’s boarding school.”
“Well, you chose it,” said Nat.
That was the point at which Mum came into the room. “Are you two at it again?” she said. “What’s going on? You never used to fight like this. It’s enough to make me wish we’d never won the wretched lottery!”
I couldn’t believe Mum really meant that. She loved her new house with its big garden.
“I do hope,” she said, “that you’re not regretting this, Zoe?”
“I’m not!” I said.
I was just having a sudden attack of what Gran calls the collywobbles. Not even that, really. Just the odd flutter, like butterflies in my tummy.
Mum and Dad drove me down to St With’s on a Sunday afternoon. Nat had to come with us on account of Mum thinking she was too young to be left on her own. We squabbled again in the car. Nat had found a new joke: instead of going to St Cheeseburga, I was now going to St Beefburga. She cackled uproariously as she said it. Several times. In the end I told her to shut up. She said, “You’re not supposed to speak to me like that.” I said I could speak to her how I liked, it was a free country. So then she said, “This is what happens when people go to posh schools – they get all big-headed.”
“Talking about big heads,” I said, “you’d just better be careful you don’t fall off your pony, when you get one, and knock all your brains out! Not,” I added, “that you have much in the way of brains to begin with. It’s mostly just sawdust.”
She then yelled, “Beefburga!” in a mindless kind of way, but before I could think of a suitable retort Dad told us both to be quiet, he was sick of the sound of our voices, while Mum said that if this was what having a bit of money did to us she’d almost be tempted to give our share to charity. She said Nat didn’t deserve a pony and I didn’t deserve to go to boarding school. Just for a moment I felt like saying, All right, then, I won’t!
The butterflies were flapping like crazy, all swooping and swarming. To be honest, if Dad had said, “Let’s just forget about it and go home,” I’d have been secretly relieved.
Miss Latimer, the Head of Boarding, was there to meet us when we arrived, sweeping up the drive in Dad’s new car. The first new car we’d ever had!
Miss Latimer said, “Zoe! I’m so glad you could make it at last.” She said it like she really meant it, like she’d almost been counting the days till I could come. I immediately felt a whole lot better. The butterflies had settled down and I couldn’t wait to get up to the dorm and start arranging my things.
Dad wanted to carry my bags up there, but Miss Latimer said it was all right, Mr Bracey would do that. I thought Mr Bracey must be a teacher, and I guess so did Dad cos he said, “No, no, that’s not necessary! I can do it.” But then Mr Bracey appeared and simply picked up the bags and went off with them, leaving Dad standing there. It was ages before I discovered that Mr Bracey was the man who did things around the school. He was like Dad! Dad was The Handyman, Mr Bracey was the school handyman.
Mum was eager to come and help me unpack, but I told her I could do it myself.
“Are you sure?” said Mum, sounding a bit worried. It was like suddenly she didn’t want to go off and leave me there.
I said, “Honestly, Mum! I can manage.”
I so didn’t want Nat trailing upstairs with us, making her stupid Beefburga jokes and ruining everything before I’d even started!
“We’ll take good care of her,” said Miss Latimer. “Don’t worry.”
I waved goodbye quite cheerfully to Mum and Dad and followed Miss Latimer into Homestead House. Homestead was where us seniors lived. The juniors were in the Elms. All the dormitories were named after flowers. Year Eights were Buttercup and Daisy, which was another reason I hadn’t wanted Nat coming upstairs with us. She’d already gone off into peals of insane cackles about it. She kept spluttering, “Buttercups! Daisies!” When Mum asked her what she found so funny she just cackled even harder.
“Personally I think it’s nice they have pretty names,” said Mum.
So did I! I didn’t care what Nat thought.
I was in Daisy, which meant I had a cute little lazy-daisy badge to pin on my sweater. There were six of us in there, three up one end of the dorm and three at the other, with a folding door in between. The Buttercups were further down the hall. There were also, Miss Latimer told me, six day girls, but of course they weren’t in school on a Sunday. She said the other Daisies had gone off on a school trip, except for someone called Fawn, who had gone home for the weekend.
I was a bit alarmed at the thought of the unknown Fawn. What kind of a name was Fawn? It sounded like a posh person’s name! Maybe my annoying little sister was right, and all the other girls would be smart and snobby and look down on me. I found that the collywobbles had suddenly come back.
“In case you’re worrying about being the only new girl,” said Miss Latimer, leading the way along the passage, “you’re not alone. Rachel’s also new. She arrived just a few minutes ago.”
Miss Latimer tapped at the door, and paused a second before opening it. I was well impressed! I am more used to people just barging in. Well, when I say “people”, of course, I mean Nat. She’d never learnt to ask if she could come into my bit of bedroom.
“Here you are,” said Miss Latimer.
A girl was standing at the window, leaning out at a perilous angle. She sprang round, her face lighting up. She seemed really pleased to see me.
“Rachel, this is Zoe Bird that I was telling you about. Zoe, this is Rachel Lindgren. The others are off on a school trip. They should be back in about half an hour, so they’ll bring you down to tea. In the meantime, you know where to find me if you want me?”
Rachel beamed and said, “Yes!”
“Good. In that case, I’ll leave you to get on with things.”
I waited till Miss Latimer had gone, then said, “I don’t know where to find her.”
“In her room,” said Rachel. “At the end of the corridor.” She bounced on to her bed and sat there, swinging her legs. “I’ve had the chicken pox,” she said.
“Really?” I said. “Snap!”
Rachel giggled. She said, “Snap?”