The Red Slayer

Vampires may exist, Dad may work for MI5, but I have to go back to school and life goes on. The snow which shut down London for an entire day turns to slush and black ice, dashing anyone’s hopes for a four-day-weekend, but at least this means we’re performing again tonight.

Friday first thing is English where I sit next to Tara. I keep my hands buried in my bag to stop myself pulling her into a kiss when she comes near me. There’s something elegant about the flex of her wrist when she sets her workbook and pencil case down on the desk. Once we sit down, she leans over to me. I stay still to receive her. She opens her mouth and whispers, ‘Lewis’s mum is going to take away his dad’s custody.’

‘Wait, what?’ I say, both disappointed and confused.

‘He told me on the bus. The news story about his awful stepmother was the final straw.’

The teacher ‘ahems’ at us to get our attention and hands out the book we’ll be studying this term. Twelfth Night. Thank god. I never thought I’d see the back of Thomas Hardy’s depressing short stories.

Halfway through reading Act One, Tara gently puts her hand on mine under the table. I try to calm my beating heart by taking deep breaths. The girl sat in front of me, Vicki, tenses up from the sound and glares at me. I ignore her and entwine my fingers into Tara’s for the rest of class, squeezing my warmth into hers.

Tara and I linger after the bell rings to make sure no stragglers overhear us. After Wednesday night, I’ll never let anyone sneak up on me again. Tara links her arm into mine as we head into the corridor.

‘I’ve decided,’ she says.

‘Decided what?’

‘What us kissing meant.’

‘Oh?’ I’m prepared to ask her to be my girlfriend then and there, but when we turn the next corner, Vicki is stood there with her arms crossed, looking down her nose at us.

‘What makes you two think you can walk around like you own the place?’ she snipes. ‘Show offs.’

I roll my eyes and pull Tara along. It probably isn’t a good idea to have “The Relationship Talk” in a crowded corridor. And I don’t need to get in another fight with Vicki. I threw an apple at her head last term when she called me a munchkin. Any bad behaviour could cost me my role.

‘Let’s talk at lunchtime,’ I whisper to Tara. ‘We’ll go to the library.’

‘Good idea.’

***

It’s hard not to ignore the double standard here. If I were a boy, people would gasp for a week then forget about it. But when it’s two girls, you run the risk of horny teenage boys demanding you kiss in front of them or simply being asked a million times if you really are a lesbian. It’s best to stay quiet while we figure it out for ourselves.

Tara and I meet at a far table in the library. To a passer by we look like we’re doing chemistry homework, but really, we’re passing notes back and forth to each other on a piece of scrap paper. Tara uses her favourite sparkly pink gel pen while I use my metallic red.

Have you been freaking out since Wednesday?

I’m tempted to write, Yes, but for entirely different reasons. But instead, I put, There’re worse things to freak out about. My dad said it’s nothing to be ashamed off.

She stares at me, alarmed, and scribbles, You told your dad we kissed?

I told him I was gay. And that I wanted you to be my girlfriend.

Tara looks at me with wide eyes, desperate to speak, but there are Year 11 girls on the next table over. I write an extra note with my red pen in my looped, joined-up handwriting. Is that a no?

NO!

I raise an eyebrow at her. She scribbles again. I mean, I’m not ready for other people to know.

I nod with understanding. Far be it from me to out someone against their will.

I write, We’ll keep it secret at school then and do whatever we want at the weekends. Lucky for you, I’m a sucker for forbidden love.

She smiles back at me and reaches across the table for my hand. Such a risk taker. It sends my adrenaline levels through the roof when I take it in clear view of the Year 11s. They too busy looking at their phones under the table to notice. Tara lets go again a second later and I let my heartbeat slow down again.

And that is that. I spend the rest of that day wondering why other people put themselves through so much drama and whine about how hard it is to find someone or hold down a partner. Tara and I just shot those idiots in the face with how simple it can be. Maybe it’s just a straight person problem.

***

When I return to the theatre for the matinee, I notice my dressing room smells of disinfectant now. There’s no trace of vampire ashes on the floor. The leopard-print dress and shoes are gone from my cupboard, but Karen’s leather bomber jacket is still there. They must have assumed it was mine. Well it is now. Call it payment for my silence.

The show reviews come in on Saturday morning. I lie in bed and flick through each of them on my phone; from the local papers and magazines about Shakespeare, to the nationwide papers weighing in their two cents.

This production has followed in Maxine Peake’s footsteps and cast a girl as Hamlet. This new interpretation has paid off as young Iorwen (Yor-wen) Davis delivers an unforgettable rendition of the Prince of Denmark. It is clear she has inherited her mother’s, the late great Clarissa Dalloway’s, talent…

I thought it was hopeless to get teens into Shakespeare. But this is not your average school play. With excellent sets, wonderful costumes and surprising performances from such young actors, I can safely say every school in Britain needs to see this. Hamlet himself is played by the daughter of the late Clarissa Dalloway, Iorwen Davis…

Clarissa Dalloway’s daughter, Iorwen Davis, shows us genderbent leads aren’t just for panto season. I was expecting her to break the fourth wall and shout “Hello, boys and girls!” in Act 2 Scene 2, only for her to subvert my expectations by paying homage to Sir Laurence Olivier’s 1948 film…

Clarissa Dalloway lives again in her daughter, Iorwen…

The daughter of Clarissa Dalloway has done her homework…

I frown every time I see my mother’s name barely two sentences away from my own in each review. No one else in the cast has been given the same treatment. Then again, they don’t have famous parents.

Later that morning, Tara and I meet at Waterloo Station and ride a train all the way down to Hampton Court Palace for our first date. We’re unlikely to run into anyone from school here. Dad’s given me a huge advance on my allowance so I pay for both our tickets. We stroll the gardens, pretending to be radiant ladies at the Tudor. We sit in the great hall and quote Hamlet, entertaining the other visitors. We admire every portrait we pass, wondering if Henry VIII’s codpiece was compensating for something.

We find a café on the grounds and get coffees. Two mochas with almond milk. Tara insists on paying this time. ‘Are you lactose-intolerant too?’ I ask.

She shakes her head. ‘Vegan. I thought you were one too. You only eat salad at school.’

I shake my head. ‘Salad’s just delicious and doesn’t bloat me.’

‘So you’re not simply weight conscious?’

I laugh. ‘It’s not my choice to be thin.’

Once we reach the maze, we start pretending we’re in Labyrinth. I sing songs from the movie at the top of my lungs but still keep the melody. Tara follows. Laughing in my wake.

***

Another week passes with no events. Hamlet continues to run, the house packed with London schools. However the consequences of what I did are present in Lewis. Some mornings, he comes into school with red eyes, as if he’s been crying, but once we’re warming up onstage, he’s back to his cheerful self. I almost feel bad when I have to kill him six times a week.

During our warmup on Friday, Ms. Elliott announces that they’re planning to extend the run into February so more schools can see us. It’s all we can talk about the next day at my pool party. Dad rarely says no to one, though he needs a week’s notice so he can hire a couple of lifeguards for the day and get food and drinks ready. I invite Luke, Olga and Dante to hang out with us.

Luke, Olga, Dante and I don’t say anything about the other week, but I can tell we’re all thinking about it when we’re sipping fruit punch by the poolside. Each time Luke complains about Art class, or Dante broods about his parents, or Olga bitches about Mr. Bush, we’re all thinking about the laboratory under the house. I tried to get back in, but the keypad has been replaced by a finger scanner.

Whether I like it or not, life will go on.

It’s the last Monday of January. I’m already groggy because I never sleep well on Sunday nights, and I have my three least favourite subjects in a row that morning. P.E, R.E, and Maths.

Yeah, bit rich of me to hate P.E, given I have the physique of a professional gymnast. But it’s the changing rooms I can’t stand because my scars make me self-conscious. (I put my kit on under my uniform in the morning)

R.E is simply dull. All telling and no discussion. Wouldn’t it be more fun to discuss Bible stories? Like, did the Egyptians deserve to suffer in Exodus, or is the Abrahamic God just a sick bastard?

And Maths. Don’t get me started. I can do the basics. I can find ‘x’ in simple equations. But never, ever expect me to understand how π works, or what 16.24601% of 22 is. No one cares! We have computers. Why do I have to risk panic attacks three times a week for something I won’t need?

I try to keep my head down throughout the lesson. Survive one hour, then lunch, then theatre. Sit at the back, look vaguely interested, don’t draw attention to yourself. Simple.

But there are two flaws in that plan. One: Vicki is on the desk next to me. She’s spent the past week whispering to her mates, then looking in my direction. A part of me wants her to be a secret vampire at this point, though my pencil’s too short to stake her with. Two: Mr. Whitman, the teacher, hates me. At the start of the year, I tried my best to answer whatever questions I could, but he never picked me. So I stopped trying to answer and he started putting me on the spot to solve complex questions in five seconds flat.

Vicki puts her hand up. ‘Sir! Yorick Davis is doodling!’

I stare at her incredulously. Yorick? She barely restrains her giggles as Whitman comes to my desk and demands to see my workbook. I sometimes do these swirly patterns one the inside covers of my workbooks: never-ending loops and curls with the occasional heart. But I wasn’t doodling today.

Nonetheless, it’s the proof Whitman needs. He snaps it shut. ‘All right, Davis, front of the class. Now.’

The walk up to the front makes the Green Mile look like Center Parcs. Whitman goes to his computer and fires up the interactive board, logs into an online teaching program and pulls up a problem about percentages.

Minnie, Donald, Mickey and Daisy are each due a bonus. Minnie is entitled to £1,250. Mickey has worked harder and gets 20% more than Daisy. Donald earns a quarter of Mickey’s bonus, and Daisy earns 30% more than Minnie. Show how their bonuses compare in a pie chart.

Whitman holds a red board marker out to me. ‘Use the other board to work it out.’

This seems unnecessarily sadistic, I think. Can’t you just tell me your point now?

I ignore Vicki and her friends’ snickers and try to think. First, I work out Daisy’s bonus. What’s 30% of 1,250?

I take a deep breath as I think what to do. Whitman sits at his desk and says, ‘Calm down, it’s not that hard.’

Shut up, you twit!

I divide 1,250 by 10, then multiply the answer by 3, which makes 375. So Daisy’s bonus is £1,625.

To find out Mickey’s bonus, it’s (162.5x2) +1625=£1,950.

And if Donald’s is just a quarter of Mickey’s, then I divide 1,950 by 4. £487.50.

Add the four bonuses together to a total of £5312.50

I have the results written on the board. Now I have to put that all into a pie chart. I turn to Whitman, who looks slightly abashed that I have managed this far. ‘Can I get my calculator for this bit?’ I ask.

Whitman crosses his arms and stands victorious. ‘I didn’t say you could use a calculator.’

I point to the board. ‘But it says right there, “calculator allowed”. You can’t expect me to divide two four-digit numbers and come up with a percentage.’

‘Why not? Your famously clever father could solve quadratic equations by thirteen.’

My jaw drops with outrage. This was the point he was trying to make?

‘But I’m not my dad!’

‘That much is obvious,’ says Whitman. ‘If you were anything like him, you’d be able to reach the top half of the board.’

The entire class explodes with a gasp while I’m at a loss for words. I’m surprised the pen doesn’t explode in my hand with how tightly I grip it. I want him to take that back.

The tension in the air shatters when someone comes knocking on the classroom door. Whitman sighs, ‘Come in.’

I’ve never been happier to see Tara. She briefly smiles at me then says, ’Sorry, sir, um—Ms. Elliott need to see the main Hamlet cast immediately.’

Whitman groans. ‘Can’t it wait?’

Tara shakes her head. ‘It’s urgent.’

‘Fine,’ he spits, literally, and shoots me a get-out-of-my-sight glare. I happily gather my stuff and leave in ten seconds flat.

Once Tara and I are halfway down the corridor, I grab her by the shoulders and kiss her as passionately as I can. She pulls away immediately and looks to make sure no one saw.

‘What the hell, Iorwen!’

‘I wanted to thank you and that was all I could think of.’

‘For getting you out of Maths?’

‘For getting me out of having to explain to the police why I killed Mr. Whitman with a board marker.’

‘Let me guess, he called you short?’

’Worse. He implied it by comparing me to my dad; ’cause he’s six-foot-two and can divide big fractions in his head, and holds the world record for the most PHDs held by one person’

She smiles and pats me on the back. ‘Well, I have something to cheer you up.’ She doesn’t say anything else until we reach the Drama Studio on the other side of the school and find Ms. Elliott waiting for us, along with Lewis, Robbie (who plays Laertes and Horatio), Penny (Gertrude) and Bradley (Polonius).

‘Ah good, you’re all here,’ says Ms. Elliott. We sit on the front row of the bleachers while she pulls up her desk chair. ‘I have a big announcement. I only found out this morning. The BBC wants to do an interview you all on Saturday. Live.’

We all gasp. Ms. Elliott continues, ‘They bought the rights to record our show. They’ll film a show next week and show it on Saturday, followed by the interview.’

Tara goes pink, smacking her hand over her mouth. Lewis rubs his hands together with excitement.

‘That’s not all,’ Ms. Elliott says. ‘The show will be released on DVD sometime after the broadcast. Each of you will be entitled to some of the royalties. Every school in Britain is bound to buy a copy too.’

Despite our excitement, Ms Elliott feels it important to instruct us on decorum. We only have one chance to present ourselves. No mistakes will be edited. Smile, never look directly into the camera, don’t interrupt anyone.

‘What should we wear?’ asks Tara.

‘Keep it smart,’ says Ms. Elliott. ‘No hoodies or ripped jeans. You never know, someone might be watching who will offer you a chance to be on a great show.’

She lets us go to lunch five minutes early. The surprise of the interview makes me want something more filling than the quinoa salad in my lunchbox, so I grab a jacket potato with tuna mayo filling. Tara gets vegetable casserole and suggests we sit together to discuss the interview. Lewis overhears us and follows, as does Robbie, Bradley and Penny.

‘I’m so going shopping later,’ says Penny.

‘I’ll begin looking tomorrow,’ I say. ‘I have my therapist after today’s performance.’

‘Girls,’ Bradley and Robbie sigh together.

‘It’s nice to know we’re getting royalties from this,’ says Lewis.

Tara nods. ‘It’ll be something to look forward to when I turn eighteen.’

‘What do you mean?’ asks Penny.

‘The money I earn from performing is in a trust fund I can’t access until I’m eighteen. It stops my mum from stealing it and spending it on herself and my useless brother.’

‘What kind of parent steals from their kid?’ I say.

‘It happens,’ says Lewis. ’My dad always demanded beer money from me. I’m glad I don’t live with him anymore.’

I can only respond with an awkward smile.

Vicki and her entourage enter the cafeteria a few minutes later. She sneers until she realises I’m sat right next to Bradley, Her eyes fill with jealousy.

‘Mr. Whitman is very cross with you,’ she says like a three-year-old.

I scoot close to Bradley until our shoulders are touching. ‘Did you hear something?’

‘Nah,’ he says, catching on.

I let him put his arm around me while we wait for everyone to finish eating. Vicki sits a few tables away, always hopeful to get a clear look at Bradley. This makes her within earshot when I say, ‘I think I’ll get my hair done for the big interview. Give it some volume. Ooh, and I’ll treat myself to a manicure.’

‘You look great whatever you wear,’ says Bradley, who kisses me on the cheek.

We let Vicki stare and grumble after us as we leave the canteen together. I feel evil in a good way.

© Alice of Sherwood, September 2019