Blades

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, left, 2, 3, right, 2, 3, swing, 2, 3, 4, 5-

“If you want to leave this lesson with a head, I suggest you leave ice-bound Narnia and return to earth.” Charlie’s hissed whisper hits the brakes on my train of thought; hard.

      “Huh?” I ask. The French classroom’s grey light is only just coming back into focus after the bright sun from the window.

      Charlie makes a light gesture towards Madame Halluté, our teacher.

      “Any moment now, Hallucination over there is gonna notice that your eyes are out the window, Freddie, not on her. She’s vain enough that that’s a problem. She may just bite your head off.” His face is so dead-pan, his green eyes so serious, that I almost laugh out loud.

      “Thanks for the warning, Charleston. I can’t do my homework without a head.”

      I sigh and look down at my sheet. French verbs. Great.

      The lesson drags on for another minute. Another three. And another two. Madame Halluté is rambling on about something in such a thick French accent that even the French would have difficulty understanding it. I look over at Charlie. He’s staring at the front of the room, eyes blank and biro firmly clamped between his teeth. Basically, looking exactly how I’m feeling. I absent-mindedly fill in the middle of each typed letter on the sheet - we all finished it ten minutes ago, but Madame Halluté always gives us easy work in the lesson. It’s the homework you have to watch out for.

      I sink back into my imaginary practice. The trees and red-brick buildings outside merge into a blur as my mind drifts into the rhythm: 1, 2, 3, 4, run, 2, turn, 4, swing, 2, 3, 4, forwards, 2, 3, 4 and spin. The problem is bringing the edge round hard enough when stepping to forwards so that the spin doesn’t hit the barrier. If you were a better skater -

      Again, my thoughts are interrupted as the school bell blares around me. I’ve never been so glad to hear it; everybody in the room scrapes their chairs back and starts stuffing books and pencil cases into their bags at high speed. If we can just get out the door…

      It’s not to be.

      “Wait! Les Devoirs!” We all stop in our tracks. “Do this sheet for Monday. My locker by registration!” Madame Halluté begins bustling round the room, her crazy grey-yellow hair and big glasses facing each of us in turn as she hands out the homework. I take the crisp paper from her grudgingly, my only protest being the absence of the usual ironic thank you. Beside me, Charleston groans.

      “Why does it have to be tenses?” he asks the ceiling. Charlie is a self-proclaimed protester against all French tenses. He says that they’re a form of confusing torture.

      “Don’t worry,” I say, patting his shoulder, “they can only kill you once.”

      “Wonderful,” he growls, but his tanned face splits into a smile, “ghosts don’t go to school.”

      We sling our satchels over our shoulders and head down the corridor, side-stepping other people in unison with trained precision, always a unit. We laugh and chat lightly, nothing worrying either of us.

      “So, the Milkshake and the Bulldog survived old Hallucination’s torture chamber.” I look to my left to find the short, dark-haired form of Harry slotted in beside me, having fallen into step with Charlie and I naturally. We make an odd threesome – me, quietly crazy; Charlie, the sunniest person alive; and Harry, the wide-eyed Welshman – but it works.