number isn’t
here,” Jamie explained less than apologetically. “I looked through
the entire system. No personal info, no contact details, no
timetable - nothing.”
Felicity shoved the
notebook in her satchel and joined the twins at the
computer.
“What am I gonna do?”
Hollie moaned. “How am I gonna find him?”
Jamie shook his head
as he stared intently at the computer screen. “It’s bizarre,” he
murmured. “Even his grade predictions are gone. It’s like... it’s
like he was never even here.”
“I can’t end our
relationship on that first date,” Hollie continued. “It was a
disaster!”
“Oh, grow up, Hollie,”
Jamie groaned.
“That’s easy for you
to say!” his sister said. “You don’t have a love life, and probably
never will. But I have a reputation to think about!”
Jamie rolled his eyes
as he stood up from the computer. He looked at Felicity. “I hope
you’re prepared to deal with this for the entire school day,” he
sighed, gesturing towards his sister.
Felicity didn’t answer
him. She clutched the strap of her satchel tightly.
“Let’s get out of
here,” Jamie said. “Come on, Hollie.”
Jamie had been right
about his sister. For the rest of the day, Hollie was in mourning.
At first she complained quite openly and rather noisily, much to
the irritation of her teachers, one of whom was compelled to remove
her from the class for ten whole minutes. Her endless group of
supporters sympathised greatly. Towards the afternoon, however, she
began her silent grieving process, staring at the air before her
eyes and staying close to Felicity, who could do nothing but be
there, for providing comfort was not her speciality. This did
nothing to deter Hollie; in fact, she seemed to feel better in the
company of herself, Felicity and her own thoughts and, as a result,
shunned the fellowship of the other girls.
As soon as she was
able, which happened to be during last period, Felicity excused
herself from lessons and headed to the girls’ toilets, where she
locked herself within a cubicle and took out the book she had found
in Mr Oakley’s office. She felt a warm surge in her stomach when
she looked at it, for she was very aware that in taking it she had
committed an offence. Still, she was so certain that the book
belonged to her mother that she had felt she had no choice but to
take it, as if she was returning it to its rightful owner. This
sudden sense of duty was strange and new to her.
The book was very
worn, and looked as though it was bound by leather and string. She
opened it at random. It was definitely her mother’s handwriting.
Felicity would have known the distinctive style anywhere. Although
the two of them had not been close, Felicity often used to attempt
to imitate her mother’s handwriting, especially when she was
younger and had longed for her mother’s attention. The way she had
formed the words in sweeping loops and joined each letter to the
next, the way she had carefully placed dots and little squiggles
above and below certain letters was unlike any other style that
Felicity had ever seen. As a child, she had found it beautiful. It
occurred to Felicity then that her young self had found many things
about her mother beautiful.
Though she could make
out some of the words, Felicity had no idea what the contents of
the journal meant. Many of the pages were structured into lists,
and the paragraphs appeared to be instructions, but it meant
nothing to Felicity. Nor could she understand the many pictures,
diagrams and symbols that her mother had drawn.
She traced the letters
of ink with her fingertips, trying to imagine what the book had
been for. Closing her eyes, she visualised her mother sitting in
her study at their house in the countryside, one hand resting on
the open pages and the other holding a pen, but she found it hard
to see her face; her dark hair, blue eyes and pale skin were all a
blur. Felicity wondered if she was starting to
here,” Jamie explained less than apologetically. “I looked through
the entire system. No personal info, no contact details, no
timetable - nothing.”
Felicity shoved the
notebook in her satchel and joined the twins at the
computer.
“What am I gonna do?”
Hollie moaned. “How am I gonna find him?”
Jamie shook his head
as he stared intently at the computer screen. “It’s bizarre,” he
murmured. “Even his grade predictions are gone. It’s like... it’s
like he was never even here.”
“I can’t end our
relationship on that first date,” Hollie continued. “It was a
disaster!”
“Oh, grow up, Hollie,”
Jamie groaned.
“That’s easy for you
to say!” his sister said. “You don’t have a love life, and probably
never will. But I have a reputation to think about!”
Jamie rolled his eyes
as he stood up from the computer. He looked at Felicity. “I hope
you’re prepared to deal with this for the entire school day,” he
sighed, gesturing towards his sister.
Felicity didn’t answer
him. She clutched the strap of her satchel tightly.
“Let’s get out of
here,” Jamie said. “Come on, Hollie.”
Jamie had been right
about his sister. For the rest of the day, Hollie was in mourning.
At first she complained quite openly and rather noisily, much to
the irritation of her teachers, one of whom was compelled to remove
her from the class for ten whole minutes. Her endless group of
supporters sympathised greatly. Towards the afternoon, however, she
began her silent grieving process, staring at the air before her
eyes and staying close to Felicity, who could do nothing but be
there, for providing comfort was not her speciality. This did
nothing to deter Hollie; in fact, she seemed to feel better in the
company of herself, Felicity and her own thoughts and, as a result,
shunned the fellowship of the other girls.
As soon as she was
able, which happened to be during last period, Felicity excused
herself from lessons and headed to the girls’ toilets, where she
locked herself within a cubicle and took out the book she had found
in Mr Oakley’s office. She felt a warm surge in her stomach when
she looked at it, for she was very aware that in taking it she had
committed an offence. Still, she was so certain that the book
belonged to her mother that she had felt she had no choice but to
take it, as if she was returning it to its rightful owner. This
sudden sense of duty was strange and new to her.
The book was very
worn, and looked as though it was bound by leather and string. She
opened it at random. It was definitely her mother’s handwriting.
Felicity would have known the distinctive style anywhere. Although
the two of them had not been close, Felicity often used to attempt
to imitate her mother’s handwriting, especially when she was
younger and had longed for her mother’s attention. The way she had
formed the words in sweeping loops and joined each letter to the
next, the way she had carefully placed dots and little squiggles
above and below certain letters was unlike any other style that
Felicity had ever seen. As a child, she had found it beautiful. It
occurred to Felicity then that her young self had found many things
about her mother beautiful.
Though she could make
out some of the words, Felicity had no idea what the contents of
the journal meant. Many of the pages were structured into lists,
and the paragraphs appeared to be instructions, but it meant
nothing to Felicity. Nor could she understand the many pictures,
diagrams and symbols that her mother had drawn.
She traced the letters
of ink with her fingertips, trying to imagine what the book had
been for. Closing her eyes, she visualised her mother sitting in
her study at their house in the countryside, one hand resting on
the open pages and the other holding a pen, but she found it hard
to see her face; her dark hair, blue eyes and pale skin were all a
blur. Felicity wondered if she was starting to
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