She smiles. “You must have made quite an impression if the producer for him invited you on set.”
“I guess,” I say, remembering back to that terrifying moment I thought that jeep was going to hit Chrissie.
“So,” she says, waking me from my thoughts. “Have you given any thought to the film you’d like to make?”
“Some of the guys here want to make a send-up of The Hunchback of Notre Dame.”
“Sounds like a lot of fun,” she says lightly. “But if you’re serious about getting that internship, you’ll need to show the judges you can do more than quirky comedies.”
I feel like I’ve just been punched, and I do know what a punch feels like, unfortunately. Normally the teachers love my ideas — this is the first one who hasn’t.
“Rich, you’re incredibly talented, but so are all the other students up for consideration, and they’ve had a lot more experience than you, so you need to showcase a wide range of your talents.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“A documentary,” she replies.
So far, I’m not that excited about the idea.
“They don’t all have to be serious or boring,” she tells me. “An Inconvenient Truth was groundbreaking and a box-office hit.”
I nod. I get it.
“So what cause is close to your heart?”
I shrug. “There’s lots of things I’d like to change, like getting the Internet turned on here.”
She laughs. “I can’t see the headmaster agreeing to that, but I do have one suggestion that will get you access to all the resources you need to make an amazing, thought-provoking film.”
“You do?”
“Yes, a documentary on one of the boys who used to go to St. Bartholomew’s.”
I groan. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No,” she says, handing me a hardback book with an old black-and-white photo of some British soldiers. “Captain Timothy Howard was Head Boy in 1912 and remains the only St. Bart’s boy to win the Victoria Cross.”
I flick through the pages unconvinced.
“He gave his life to save his battalion, and the considerable fortune he left was used to set up a trust to help wounded soldiers. You can make a film about bravery, the futility of war, or friendship — many of the lives he saved were old boys from this school.”
She gets me thinking about making some dark and satanic wartime masterpiece using the backdrop of the school with its vomiting gargoyles.
“The school has quite an extensive library of old news footage,” she tells me. “Do a good job, and you’ll have the full support of the headmaster behind you. He’s quite a history buff, so start putting some ideas down, and I’ll see you for our first lesson on Sunday.”
Chapter 12
I finally track down Chrissie on the third-floor landing on my way to English Lit. “Like your hair up,” I tell her, determined to put an end to her ignoring me.
“Thanks,” she says, not bothering to look at me as she heads towards the classroom.
“Did you get my note?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
She really isn’t giving me any breaks. “And what, Rich?”
Jumping in front of her so she has no choice but to talk to me, I give her my pleading look, which works on everyone except Dad. “Am I forgiven?”
“I suppose,” she agrees, failing to swallow the start of a smile.
“Thanks,” I say, conscious I’m still on trial. “You okay?”
“Better now we’re talking again. I hate it when we fight and…”
And then this hot sixth former with long auburn hair taps me on the shoulder and waves one of the Quasimodo posters Jones made in my face. “How many have signed up to read for Fleur-de-Lys?”
“No idea,” I finally manage to say when she takes her boobs out of my face.
“Think I’m in with a chance?”
I wonder if she knows something I don’t; I can’t see anyone except Jones, Spencer, and the gang showing up. “I guess.”
“Great!” she says, winking at me. “I’ll see you at five; the name’s Nicole Maynard.”
I watch her run back to her equally hot friend, who also waves a poster at me, slightly stunned, because hot girls don’t usually queue up to join my films. I turn back to Chrissie to see what she makes of all this, but she’s gone to English without me. By the time I get there, the only free desk is next to Hermit.
I try to get her attention as we work our way through The Merchant of Venice, but Chrissie won’t look up, and when the bell rings, she’s first out the door and on her way to study hall.
“Sorry about earlier,” I apologise, catching her up. “I wish I’d never let Jones talk me into doing Quasimodo; you wouldn’t believe how much work it is.”
She stops walking but doesn’t say anything.
“I could really do with a casting director,” I continue, ignoring her anger. “Want to apply?”
This time my pleading look doesn’t work. “Bog off, Rich!”
“Chrissie, don’t be like that. I’m doing my best.”
“Yes,” she agrees. “Doing your best to avoid me.”
I shake my head, which has started throbbing with frustration. “Don’t be like that.”
“Like what?” she says with serious attitude. “I’m just doing what you do to me — ignoring you!”
The last thing in the world I feel like doing is comedy auditions after that, and shoulders sagging, I head off to the main hall, where instead of finding half a dozen sad acts and wannabes, I find about fifty of the coolest year elevens and sixth formers St. Bart’s has to offer.
“About time!” says Jones, pushing me towards a real director’s chair. “This is getting out of hand.”
“Too right.” I’ve only ever managed four actors, if you include me, and with thirty-plus kids all looking to me for leadership, I feel like I’m drowning, especially when they all start telling me how I should be running things.
“Where do you want me?” asks Lisa.
“I don’t know,” I say, hoping she can’t hear the shake in my voice. “What part are you auditioning for?”
“Esmeralda, you idiot!”
“Stand over there.” I tell her, pointing at the stage, then as loudly as I can, I shout. “All Esmeraldas to the stage!” And while they’re organising themselves into a line, I tell everyone else to sit down, and explain that we’ll do speed auditions for all the main parts.
“Remember to give Poppy the part,” Jones reminds me, whispering far too loudly not to be heard. “I’m not doing Quasi unless she is.”
I push him out of my face, jump up on stage, and take control by setting the scene, placing a small table and two chairs in the centre. The one thing I learnt at Brown’s Acting Academy is that you need to give your actors clear directions, and with no script, the only thing I can do is get them to ad-lib.
“You’ve all seen what I do,” I explain, ignoring all heckling from the guys about me doing Lucy Liu. “I do comedies, so you’re going to have to make a fool of yourself.” More sniggers and more comments about me as Lucy — I ignore it. “So, for your auditions I want you to act out Esmeralda meeting Phoebus at a speed-dating event. You’ve got two minutes.”
Beth could have done it a hundred times better even if she wasn’t trying. None of these girls would know a joke if it was diamond-encrusted; trouble is, they’re all too stuck up to make fools of themselves, and only care about which wig looks best. I can’t stand it.
“Enough!” I cry, calling a halt to it all by waving my arms about and shouting. “This is supposed to be a comedy.”
The girls moan amongst themselves as I jump onto the stage.
“You’re supposed to be Esmeralda on a speed date,” I explain, taking the blond wig from Poppy. “Esmeralda’s hot, she can have anyone she wants, so there’s a million ways you can play it for a laugh!”
I pull on the wig, and ignoring the wolf whistles, s
it down at the table, and doing all things I associate with girls — curling a lock of hair around my finger, looking at my nails, and checking out my boobs — I show them how it’s done.
“Bonjour,” I say, forcing my voice into a long, slow, and sexy drawl. “Aren’t you a big boy?”
They all start laughing, and sinking deeper into character, I purse my lips into a kiss.
“So, you’re a captain!” I continue, leaning forward and fluttering my eyelashes. “I love a man in uniform…”
Everyone falls about, including Spencer, so I keep going, hoping one of the girls will get the hang of it.
“What’s that you want to do to me?” I ask the nonexistent Phoebus, cupping my hand to my ear.
I pause for comical effect before doing an over-the-top horrified gasp and pretending to slap Phoebus round the face.
They all love it, and taking a bow to my applause, I return to my director’s chair. It’s amazing what no TV and Internet does to you — I’m the best entertainment this lot has seen since they left home.
The auditions get a bit better after that, and even though I already have my Quasimodo and Esmeralda, I select two sixth-form girls who seem to take direction well for some extras, and my short-list complete, I go to bed. I’m so tired I sleep through Spencer and Finny throwing Hermit’s shoes out the window.
Chapter 13
Saturday’s here before I know it, and after getting up early to film the sunrise over the sprawling stone mansion for my project about Captain Howard, I put some gel in my hair to spike it up a bit and go off to see Parker in his rugby shrine to get my weekly allowance to spend in the village.
“And where do you think you’re going?” Parker demands before handing me my money in a white envelope.
“Village, sir.”
For a horrible minute, I think he’s going to tell me I can’t go because we’ve got another scrum practice, but it’s far worse than that. “Not dressed like that, you’re not!”
I look down at my jeans and grey sweatshirt and wonder what the problem is.
“You wear your uniform, Jarvis!”
“You’ve got to be joking!”
He’s not. “You have a problem with your school uniform?”
I do. I’d rather die than go outside dressed in that, but I keep my mouth shut because I’ve seen what the masters can do to you here. “No, sir.”
“Then don’t let me keep you, and back by one; we’ve got a match to win!”
I go back to my room and change. Great, now I’m going to be ripped off by the village kids for being dressed as a nerd!
“Aren’t you coming?” I ask Hermit, who’s lying on his bed reading some manga comic.
“Where there are no masters to stop Spencer from killing me, no thanks.”
“Shouldn’t have grassed him up, then.”
“I didn’t have any choice!” he retorts. “He hid the TV under my bed; if I hadn’t told the Head it was him, I’d have been expelled!”
I never realised he was stitched up, and I’m about to apologise, when he lays into me a second time.
“The Head promised to keep my name out of it. Said he’d tell Spencer he was caught on security camera, but Spencer’s dad just donated some more money and…” He breaks off, sits back down on his bed and, taking off his glasses, rubs his face.
Unlike most guys, I don’t go running when someone starts crying — even another guy. I don’t know if it’s because of all the parts I’ve played, or the fact that I get a lot of practice dealing with this stuff because of Chrissie, but I’m cool with it.
“You okay?” I ask, taking a step nearer.
He nods and shrugs.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
He doesn’t look so pathetic when he meets my gaze. “The masters aren’t in charge here, Jarvis. So carry on kissing Spencer’s butt, unless you want to end up like me.”
I have a new respect for Hermit now, but not enough to tell him he can come to the village with me. Already late, I head down to the entrance hall, confused why everyone has their backpacks with them when we’re not allowed to bring back any food or drink.
“Jarvis?”
As I’m searching for Chrissie, Fiona corners me on the steps outside.
“Have you cast Fleur yet?” she demands.
“No,” I reply, still searching the crowd for Chrissie.
“So when—”
I hold up my hand to stop her, when I finally spot Chrissie in the main group, queuing to get on the purple-and-gold coach. “Sorry, Fiona; talk later.”
Weaving in and out of everyone and their OTT backpacks, I stand alongside Chrissie. “Hi.”
Like she did yesterday and the day before, she blanks me, looking straight ahead with a ridiculously big beige shoulder bag.
“Chrissie, how long are you going to keep this up for?”
“Keep what up?” she demands, her voice as severe as the black eyeliner and scarlet lipstick.
“You know what,” I say, following her onto the bus. “I said I was sorry.”
I sit down next to her; I’m not putting up with this any longer, but Spencer barges me out of the way.
“Find your own seat, I promised to show your sister around.”
Trying to pretend I’m fine, I sit next to Jones and Finny on the backseat.
“Spencer always hits on the new girl,” Jones explains, slipping his arm round Poppy and pulling her to him. “Don’t sweat it; he just enjoys the chase.”
Great, now I’ll have to put up with Chrissie crying her eyes out over Spencer in addition to her ignoring me.
“She looks like she can take care of herself,” Jones tells me.
She does. Beth did a great job making Chrissie look super cool, but I don’t think she’s even kissed a guy, and I can’t warn Spencer off, or Dad’s going to kill me! So, I just have to watch Chrissie make a right idiot of herself as she giggles at Spencer’s lame jokes as we drive through endless shrub land before arriving in the village.
It’s even worse than I remember from the journey up here. A desolate hole of grey-brick tourist shops and one big car park packed with local kids and shopkeepers, holding up hand-painted banners offering everything from mobile and Internet rentals to cigarettes and booze.
Almost flattened under the stampede as everyone races off the bus and into the toilets, I realise too late why they’ve bought the bags.
“What are you playing at?” Jones asks, pulling me along with him. “You did bring some clothes with you, didn’t you?”
I shake my head.
“Sorry,” he apologises, unbuttoning his shirt to reveal a grey Armani t-shirt. “I thought you knew.”
Great. Taking off my tie and undoing my top button so I don’t look so much of a nerd, I rent myself a mobile for twenty quid plus call charges, buy a Coke, crisps, and a bar of chocolate for a fiver, and sitting on the car park wall, which is the only free thing in this place, I resort to calling Beth when I can’t get Facetime working.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” she says, and suddenly it doesn’t matter that I’ve just spent all my allowance and I’m the only loser in school uniform. “St. Bart’s sounds like a right prison.”
“It is,” I tell her, unable to stop myself from grinning because I’m just so happy to hear her voice. “So, are you missing me?”
“What do you think?”
I laugh. I still can’t believe Beth and I are together.
“How’s Chrissie?”
“Gone off somewhere with Spencer,” I tell her, turning around to avoid Jones and Finny, who are negotiating with some twelve-year-old kids to hire their mobiles. “I’m the sad dork sitting on my own.”
“Oh, poor Rich…”
I laugh, but as well as feeling all warm and happy inside, I feel sad too; I miss her. “Did you manage to get hold of Dave and Stew?”
“Yes, they’ll be here in an hour…”
I don’t talk much. I want to hear what’s happening b
ack home, and she’s in the middle of telling me that she’s been shortlisted for an advert, when the guy I hired the phone from comes back for it.
“You’ve got one minute!” he says, pointing at his big gold watch.
I’m not going to annoy big watch guy when I see his naff tattoos and assortment of knuckle-duster rings, so I interrupt Beth mid-sentence. “Sorry, time’s up.”
“Okay, see you soon.”
“Yes, can’t wait.” I hang up, and with no money and nothing else to do, I go off to explore the rest of this dump with Jones and Poppy.
“Chrissie’s fine,” Jones says as he catches me looking at her and Spencer in the coffee shop. “Spencer can be a real arse at times, but he’s never a prick to girls.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand all right,” he says. “I’ve got a twelve-year-old sister, and when guys hit on her—”
“That’s not it; she’s…”
“What?” he asks, hanging back with me as Poppy goes into the newsagents to pick up more sweets.
I swallow, because talking about Chrissie behind her back seems disloyal, but at the same time, I don’t want him thinking I’m the jealous-brother type. “She got bullied at her other school, and it was pretty bad.”
“How bad?”
“Really bad — we had to move and everything.”
“Well, she won’t get picked on while I’m here,” Jones assures me. “Relax. She’s fine. If anything, it looks like Spencer’s doing all the running.”
I ditch Jones when he starts making out with Poppy by the pond and, after killing some more time with Baxter and some of his mates, make my way to the Internet café, where I’m forced to fight my way through all the kids squashed around the twenty computers to the only empty station between Finny and some sixth form girl who looks like a wannabee Aja Bair.
Finny taps me on the shoulder. “This is my brother Adam,” he says, pointing at a guy who looks about twenty with the same black spiky hair. “Adam, this is Lucy Liu!”
I groan as Finny’s brother erupts into laughter, but I can’t tell what he’s saying because Finny’s still wearing his headphones.
“You’re a big hit round Princeton!” Finny tells me, talking to both his brother and me. “Yes, Jarvis is our new fly-half…”
I leave the two of them talking, and trying to ignore the wannabee Aja, who’s moaning about her sister, I fire up Skype and call Beth, my insides buzzing with a hundred volts at the thrill of seeing her again.