MY LOCKER AT SCHOOL was number 0013 and was thus in a prime position right where the corridor began. However, I suspected that it was available only because no one wanted the number thirteen. Good thing I wasn’t superstitious. I didn’t believe in unlucky numbers any more than I believed in horoscopes, or four-leaf clovers and chimney sweeps that brought you luck. So far as I was concerned, mirrors could be broken on Friday the thirteenth, and on the same date hordes of black cats could cross my path—whether from left to right (lucky) or the other way around (unlucky), it made no difference to me. (Lottie had told us about the black cats; she also touched wood three times on the slightest provocation. She thought my disbelief in any kind of extrasensory perception was because of my star sign and that those born like me under Libra, with Sagittarius in the ascendant, were skeptics. They always wanted to find explanations for everything, and that, said Lottie, was why I had doubted the existence of Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy even as a toddler.)
The locker was wonderfully large. I unloaded what felt like a hundred pounds of textbooks, exercise books, and files into it, as well as my sports bag, and I’d still have had room for a picnic basket and a tennis racket. Not that I’d have needed one; this term I’d signed up for track and field sports, in the absence of anything I considered a real alternative. I’d really have liked something typical of Great Britain, but the sports on offer at Frognal Academy, unfortunately, weren’t as British as the coat of arms on the school gates suggested. In my year you couldn’t opt for rowing, field hockey, cricket, or polo—very disappointing.
When I closed the door of the locker, I almost dropped my English books in a fright. I was looking straight into the face of Shaving Fun Ken, who was grinning at me for all he was worth, showing his white teeth. I immediately had every detail of my crazy dream in front of my eyes again, including the sight of Shaving Fun Ken in plaid flannel pajamas.
“Hi, Liz,” he said, putting out his hand. I was so startled that I actually shook it. “We had the pleasure of meeting yesterday,” he said, “but I entirely forgot to introduce myself. I’m Jasper. Jasper Grant.” When I didn’t react, he laughed. “Yes, that’s right. The Jasper Grant.” Extraordinarily, he was laughing exactly as he’d laughed in my dream: a sort of self-satisfied chuckle.
I withdrew my hand and tried not to show how confused I felt.
“But I hope you don’t believe everything Aphrodite Porter-Peregrin told you about me,” he went on. “The fact is, Madison didn’t dump me, I dumped her.”
What? I finally came back to my senses. “That really sets my mind at rest,” I said sarcastically. “I admit I’d wondered.”
“Well, you know how it is. Somehow it’s always kind of embarrassing to a girl when you say you’re tired of her.” Jasper’s glance moved down over me, stopping briefly at my legs. “Although I bet no one’s ever told you that, have they, Liz?” he said in an ingratiating tone of voice. “I can imagine you’d look stunning without those glasses … wouldn’t she, Henry?” He waved to someone behind me. “See who’s here.” This time he sounded positively triumphant. “Little Liz.”
Slowly, I turned around. Henry was standing in the milling throng right behind me, paler and with his hair untidier than ever.
Henry, then. And he’d had that name in my dream, too. The odd thing was that I could have sworn the name had never been mentioned during that business with Persephone and the grapefruit. So how on earth had I managed to name him Henry so accurately in my dream?
And why was I getting goose bumps now?
“Jasper,” said Henry, slowly and meaningfully.
On the other hand, perhaps Grayson had mentioned his name during their phone conversation, when I was eavesdropping. In addition, Henry was quite a common name, and he kind of looked like a Henry.
“What about it?” Jasper grinned at Henry. “I suppose it’s all right to renew old acquaintances.” He put an arm around my shoulders. “Liz is still stunned to think Jasper Grant remembered her name, right?”
“Yes, particularly as you got it wrong,” I said, freeing myself from his grip. “My name is Olivia.”
“That’s a pretty name too! A very sweet name for a very sweet girl,” Jasper said, not in the least deterred. Even the genuine Shaving Fun Ken must have a larger brain inside his plastic skull. “But I think you ought to wear your hair loose. I’m sure it would suit you much better, particularly when it’s a little untidy. Don’t you agree, Henry?”
Henry obviously preferred not to reply. He had opened locker number 0015, but he was still looking at me over the top of its door with the same thoughtful expression as in the dream.
I shook my head and tried to pull myself together.
Advice on my hairstyle from Shaving Fun Ken, silly looks from Bed-Head Henry—there really were better ways to begin the day. Clutching my books, I pushed past the two of them.
“Wait a minute,” Jasper called after me, but I pretended I couldn’t hear him. You’d better get out of here, I told myself, or you’ll never stop thinking about that stupid dream!
But that was easier said than done. Everything, absolutely everything, today seemed bent on reminding me forcefully of my dream. The English lesson was about Victorian literature, and everyone was given a writer whose life and work he or she would introduce to the class in the coming weeks. In my shock at seeing Christina Rossetti on the list (was she following me around?), I entirely forgot to volunteer to sponsor Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and was very nearly landed with Emily Brontë. Luckily at the last moment it occurred to the boy who had opted for Elizabeth Barrett Browning that poetry was girlie stuff. I was very glad we were able to swap, because last year, in Pretoria, my English teacher had given me a bad grade because I didn’t see Wuthering Heights the same way she did. (I’d defended Heathcliff’s behavior by putting it down to his underprivileged background. Dickens’s David Copperfield had also had a bad time as a boy, said the teacher, but he had turned out all right.)
Music was my third class, and it might have made me think of other things, but the teacher’s name was Mrs. Beckett, and I was sure that I’d heard her name in my dream as well. In addition, the subject of Gregorian chant reminded me forcibly of Arthur’s singsong chant as he was conjuring up the Lord of Shadows. Custos opacum … Come and speak to us. The dream had its hooks firmly into me, like a catchy tune that was particularly hard to get out of my mind.
In French, which was my next class, Persephone Puffed-Up unexpectedly sat down beside me. “Hi, Liv! I hope you don’t mind Julie and me changing places. I mean, I’m your big sister, so I have to look after you.” Ignoring my astonished expression, she produced a sugary-sweet smile. “What an achievement, Liv—first day at this school, and you’re already in the Tittle-Tattle blog.”
“In the what?”
“And those glasses really suit you—I meant to say so yesterday. There’s something so … so retro about them.”
Silly frump. I knew myself that those heavy-framed glasses were a bad buy. I’d chosen them only because, being so huge, they performed the optical illusion of making my nose look shorter. In retrospect, maybe that shouldn’t have been the deciding argument for choosing them, but now I had them, so I needed to make the best of it.
“Thank you. Emma Watson wears the same model,” I said.
“Oh, I didn’t know that Emma Watson wore glasses.”
She didn’t, but who was to know?
Persephone leaned a little closer and whispered, “Is it true that your mother is going to marry the Spencer twins’ father?”
Oh my God. I hadn’t even thought of that. No one had said a word about getting married so far. But the way things were going, it probably couldn’t be ruled out. “Well, in any case, they’re … they’re a couple,” I said stiffly.
“Crazy. Then you’ll be moving in with them?”
I nodded.
“Crazy!” said Persephone even more enthusiastically. “The Tittle-Tattle blog is always up to date with the latest developments. Wow! I bet there are advantages to being Grayson Spencer’s future little sister.” She patted my hand. “Of course he can’t take you to the Autumn Ball himself, but he and Florence are sure to try pairing you off with one of their friends. The only question is who?”
“What’s a tittle-tattle blog?” It sounded somehow improper. And why couldn’t Grayson go to the ball with me? That was a purely theoretical question, of course.
“You’re too young for Jasper—you’re only fifteen, right?—and probably not pretty enough for Arthur, but then, who is pretty enough for Arthur?” Persephone sighed deeply, and I couldn’t help feeling that she wasn’t talking to me anymore, she was thinking out loud. And without stopping to take a breath or bothering about my confused expression. “That leaves Henry Harper—but could anyone get him to go to a dance? However hard I try, I can’t imagine him in evening dress. Last year, anyway, he was conspicuous by his absence from the Autumn Ball, and he wasn’t at the end-of-year ball either. Of course I know about the rumor that he and Anabel Scott … but I mean, hello? No one really believes it, Tittle-Tattle or no Tittle-Tattle.”
My God, what on earth was the matter with her? And was it catching? I instinctively edged a little farther away from her, but Persephone moved to close the gap between us again. “Then again, Secrecy always has a good nose for these things. She knew when it was all over between Madison and Jasper—even before they knew it themselves.”
Mrs. Lawrence, the French teacher, had come into the classroom and asked for quiet, but unfortunately Persephone wasn’t about to let that stop her. “If Florence has her way, I bet you’ll have to go with Emily Clark’s pimply brother,” she said, still thinking aloud. “But better to go to the ball with Sam the Pimple than not at all. I went with Ben Ryan last year, and it didn’t bother me. I’m so fed up with waiting for Jasper to remember my name, or even register my existence at all. As a girl, I mean. This year I’m going with Gabriel. He owes Pandora a favor—he’s on the basketball team too—and believe you me, I’ll make sure it’s the best evening of his life. Because of course the boys talk in the locker room, and Gabriel will say such enthusiastic things about me to Jasper that he’ll be pale with envy and never call me Aphrodite again, and—”
“I said un petit peu de silence, s’il vous plaît, and that means you too, Persephone!” Mrs. Lawrence was standing in front of us, frowning, and she looked really annoyed. All the same, I’d never been so glad to see a teacher in my life.
“Pardon, madame. Liv is new, so she has a lot of questions,” said Persephone with an apologetic flutter of her eyelids. “Hush for now, Liv,” she hissed in a loud stage whisper. “We can talk about it later.” With that, she leaned over her books again, and I looked at my watch, feeling exhausted. Wow! She’d mentioned at least thirty-seven names and the same number of facts in just two minutes, and I didn’t understand a word of it. However, I did know one thing for certain: I wouldn’t be going anywhere with Emily Thingummy’s pimply brother.