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Authors: Fiona Foden

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Chapter thirty
Four months later

 

I'm back down south now, near Brighton. That bit was true. Not the boarding school part; I was never a boarder – though, weirdly, that's what I'm going to be now. It's the start of my new life after a long, hot summer. My ankle and arm are finally free of plaster casts, and the scar on my face is still there, but fading slowly.

I don't mind it. It's my souvenir from those few short weeks when so much happened. Kyle, Danny, Harris and Jude – I wonder if they'll remember me. And Zoe and Layla… I hadn't been used to girls liking me, that was the problem. At my old school, there weren't any. But even if there had been, they'd never have looked at me. The kids at that school were clever beyond belief.
Future leaders of this country
, Dad used to tell us. Can you imagine, being one of the dumbest kids in your school where your own dad is the deputy head? No wonder the other boys hated me.

When I came up with the plan to have a mini festival in the school grounds, I didn't think it'd make me popular. I just wanted to make music and show everyone what a great time we could have. And I was sick to death of all the rules and regulations.

New Year's Eve, it was. Anyone I knew who played an instrument, I persuaded them to come along. Actually, they didn't need much persuading. Just like moths, everyone surged towards the massive bonfire we built – it was the best night ever. Well, maybe the fire wasn't such a good idea. I'd got carried away and hadn't realized it would completely ruin the school football pitch. And then, of course, there were police and fire engines and not even Dad could stop me from being suspended from school…

An
event
, that's what I'd wanted. Something amazing, that everyone would talk about and remember for ever. I wanted to make things happen. I guess I always have. Sending me to Aunt Mary's was supposed to be a punishment, but it wasn't really. I loved it there.

Still, at least my parents have agreed that I can make the choice this time.

So here I am, in Dad's big black BMW pulling up in the school car park. It's not like Mossbridge, which was a modern building. Raven's Gate Arts Academy is all red brick and vast grounds with woodland and even a lake. Mum, Dad and I climb out of the car. The atmosphere between us is kind of awkward but immediately, it feels right being here.

Already, a couple of girls and a boy have glanced over and said hi. From an open window I can hear someone playing piano, and a boy of around my age has strolled past, carrying a guitar. Groups of students are sprawled on the grass. It's a warm, sunny September morning, and the new term starts today. Somehow, I don't think I'll have to invent a new persona to be here.

“Let's go in then,” Mum says, smiling hesitantly. She's nervous around me, perhaps because I'm so different to my genius big brothers, and she doesn't know how to handle that.

“OK,” I say, picking up my guitar. Dad goes to take my wheeled suitcase, but I grip its handle firmly.

“I can manage, Dad,” I say with a smile.

His face relaxes as the three of us head towards the school entrance.

We meet Miss Boyle at the office. We've been here already and she's shown me around, and seemed impressed that I've had a home tutor these past few weeks. How to wreck someone's summer, huh? Anyway, she's all smiles and laughter as she takes me up to my room.

“I wish he'd had his hair cut,” I hear Dad muttering to Mum behind us.

“You'll be sharing with Anthony and James,” Miss Boyle says as I set my bag on the floor of the bright, sunny room. “Now,” she adds, turning to my parents, “I'd like to introduce Benedict to some of the other students…”

Time to go
, is what she means.

“Well, we'd better be off,” Dad says quickly.

“Yes, of course,” Mum says, giving me an anxious glance. We all head back down the grand, curving staircase out into the grounds. I hug Mum, then Dad, and there's something different about it. It's warmer, more real. But I'm still relieved when they turn to give a final wave, climb into the car and drive away.

There's a burst of laughter from a group of girls. Two in particular catch my eye – a tall, sporty-looking blonde one, a bit like Zoe, in a vest top and tracksuit bottoms, and a smaller girl with a tumble of dark curls.

Miss Boyle smiles. “I've asked a couple of girls to show you round, if that's OK.”

“Yes, great.”

She shields her eyes against the sun and beckons them over. “Chloe? Bryony? Would you come over here, please?” They turn and look, first at her, then at me. “Remember I talked to you about showing our new arrival around?” Miss Boyle says.

They head towards me, perhaps seeing my scar, perhaps not. I don't care. It's just a part of me now. “Hi,” the blonde one says, blushing slightly.

I push back my hair, reminding myself that I don't have to pretend to be something I'm not. This is me now, the
real
me, no more lies. “Hi,” I say with my brightest smile, “I'm Ben.”

Scholastic Children's Books

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SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

 

First published in the UK by Scholastic Ltd, 2014

This electronic edition published by Scholastic Ltd, 2014

 

Text copyright © Fiona Foden, 2014

The right of Fiona Foden to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her.

 

eISBN 978 1407 14530 3

 

A CIP catalogue record for this work is available from the British Library.

 

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Scholastic Limited.

 

Produced in India by Quadrum

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

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