Black Academy

Chapter 2 - Part 1

Elsa watched the old woman go, a little uneasy. She'd liked Madame Bennett. Very much. It was just that . . .
Oh, for God's sake. It was just that Elsa was out of her depth. Poor old thing, she must be a hundred in the shade. How old did she think Elsa was? At fifteen, she'd have two or three years at the Academy, max, rather than many of them - assuming she didn't drop out, or get thrown out.

Madame Bennett might look fabulous for her age, but she was losing it a bit. She was no one to be afraid of. She was elegant and confident, that was all. It was time Elsa learned to be the same. Still, Elsa thought crossly, at least she had a rough idea how to behave like a human being - unlike the staff around here. That porter, or whatever he was, didn't even offer the old girl a hand. The hatchet-faced bruiser simply tagged along as she limped into the vast, baroque hall.

Moments later they were both lost from sight.

Elsa shrugged. Nothing to do with her. Remembering that her case was still at the foot of the steps, she turned on her heel and ran back down, light-footed and even a little light-hearted. Her heart went crashing right back into her trainers. A small group had gathered in a semicircle around her abandoned case and, as she approached nervously, the Japanese girl gave her a sidelong smirk.

"Perhaps we should call the gendarmes," she announced loudly. "I mean, it could be bomb."
"Oh, Elena. I think even terrorists have a little more class."
The speaker was an American boy, but he couldn't be more different from the guy Elsa had seen earlier. This one wore designer spectacles, leather loafers, crisp chinos and a polo shirt with a recognizably expensive logo. He looked like he'd just given his credit card a serious workout in that avenue outside.

"Now, Tom," drawled an English boy, his hands casually in his pockets. "Don't be uncharitable. There's such a thing as shabby chic." Elena sniggered. "Tyler, how patronizing. The poor are always with us, remember." "Now you're being unkind, Elena," said Tom, nudging Elsa's case with his toe.

"The poor, after all, have a certain working class charm. This is more . . . what do the French say? Petit bourgeois?" Tyler raised an eyebrow so high it was lost in his dark floppy fringe. "Oh, Thomas. Now who's being petty?"
For about three seconds Elsa wanted to crawl into the nearest hole and die. The impulse passed, and the tight little burning ball of anger exploded into life. She swore, spectacularly.

"Get your hands off my stuff!" Jumping down the last few steps, she shoved Elena aside. Elena looked absolutely livid, but Elsa had been in a scrap or two in her time. She clenched her fists - she could handle this stuck-up bitch. Tom the American stepped back, taking a sharp breath that sounded almost sacred, but Tyler only folded arms, smiling.

"This ought to be good," he murmured. Elsa tensed, half-expecting Elena to leap at her throat, but after a moment the beautiful girl laughed. "I never touched your 'stuff', scholarship girl. I wouldn't soil my hands." Elsa's ragged nails were digging into her palms. Oh, she'd love to punch the smirk off Elena's face. But it was obvious that the smug little vixen wasn't going to go for anything as bourgeois as a fistfight.

Anyway, wouldn't they just love it if she got herself expelled on her very first day?

No way. Not worth it.