Friday Barnes 2 Read online

  ‘Enough!’ snapped the Headmaster. ‘My knees are scraped, my ankle is sprained and my trousers are muddied. I do not want to stand here a moment longer, bandying hypothetical scenarios with the two most socially malfunctional students in the school.’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh,’ said Friday.

  ‘Yes, but fair, though,’ said Melanie.

  ‘You need ice on that ankle,’ said Malcolm. ‘Let’s get you to the infirmary.’ He started carrying the Headmaster towards the rear of the administration building.

  ‘What about the assembly?’ asked the Vice Principal. ‘Do you want me to take it for you?’

  ‘No,’ snapped the Headmaster. ‘The assembly is cancelled. I want all the students to return to class, where they will each write out 200 times, I will not dig holes on the school grounds.’

  ‘What if it wasn’t a student?’ asked Friday. ‘What if it was a member of staff trying to get you out of the way?’ She glared meaningfully at the Vice Principal.

  ‘How dare you!’ protested the Vice Principal.

  ‘Your fingernails are dirty,’ observed Friday.

  ‘Maybe he doesn’t wash properly,’ suggested Melanie.

  ‘I was gardening,’ said the Vice Principal, shoving his hands in his pockets to hide just how dirty his fingernails were.

  There was a thump.

  ‘Ow!’ cried the Headmaster, as he lay sprawled on the ground.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Malcolm. ‘I didn’t mean to drop you. I lost my grip.’

  ‘That’s quite all right,’ said the Headmaster. ‘Barnes, you can save your wild accusations for a time when I am not hobbling about in tremendous pain.’ The Headmaster turned to Malcolm and held out his hand. ‘Thank you, sir, for coming to my aid. May I repay you? Perhaps with a hot meal from our dining hall?’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ said Melanie. ‘It’s Monday. That means liverwurst sandwiches for lunch.’

  ‘I don’t want to embarrass you,’ said the Headmaster, ‘but perhaps a small monetary reward …’ He rifled in his pockets but all he could come up with was a half-eaten packet of Rolos. ‘Oh dear, it appears I’m the one who’s embarrassed.’

  ‘I don’t want anything,’ said Malcolm.

  ‘But what are you still doing here?’ asked Friday. ‘I thought you had your own place. What were you doing on school grounds?’

  ‘I wasn’t. I was over the road,’ said Malcolm.

  ‘Why?’ asked Friday.

  ‘Friday,’ said Melanie, ‘you know how you like me to tell you when your rudeness levels are peaking? Well, you’re definitely going up into the red zone.’

  ‘I don’t have to answer your questions,’ said Malcolm.

  ‘Fine, I just don’t want you to get into trouble,’ said Friday. ‘Schools can be very sensitive about having an ex-criminal nearby.’

  ‘Criminal?!’ exclaimed the Vice Principal.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ said Malcolm, glaring at Friday.

  ‘I have to notify the school council immediately,’ said the Vice Principal.

  ‘Great,’ said Malcolm. ‘I’d say it was a pleasure bumping into you again but it wasn’t.’ He turned and left.

  Chapter 11

  The Mystery of the Perfect Quiche

  For the next couple of weeks, life continued as normal. A rumour did go around that a mining company had placed a spy into the teaching staff and they were digging holes to try to find under ground oil reserves. This in turn set off a craze amongst students. They started digging holes in the school grounds themselves to get to the oil reserves first, but that fad wore off when all anyone ever found were old bottle caps and the occasional Chapstick. Students gradually drifted back to their regular pursuits, which, in Friday’s case, meant standing knee-deep in swamp mud as she peered into a hollow log, observing moths. She was researching a paper on autumnal hibernation patterns.

  ‘Hello!’ called Rebecca Rodriguez.

  Friday was concentrating so hard on the larvae that she was startled. She turned quickly, but because she was standing in thick mud, her rubber boots did not turn with her. ‘Oh no,’ said Friday as she over balanced backwards and fell into the mud, completely submerging in the thick brown slime.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Melanie, from the safety of the wooden walkway where she was sunbathing.

  ‘Of course I’m not all right,’ said Friday as she struggled to pull herself out.

  ‘I know,’ said Melanie, ‘but I had to say something, and I thought if I offered to help you might say “yes”. And I don’t really want to do that.’

  Friday was sitting up now and trying to use a mangrove branch to pull herself to her feet.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Rebecca as she hurried down the path to join Melanie. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’

  ‘It could have happened to anyone,’ said Melanie. ‘Friday’s off in a world of her own when she’s observing disgusting creepy-crawlies.’

  Friday was laboriously wading back to the walkway. Each step produced a loud squelch as she fought the viscosity of the mud and heaved her foot forward. ‘I’m covered in mud,’ complained Friday. She was not a vain girl but she disliked stinking like an overripe compost heap as much as the next person.

  ‘Yes, but on the bright side,’ said Melanie, ‘the mud almost perfectly matches the colour of your cardigan, so you don’t have to worry about it staining.’

  Friday made it to the wooden walkway, and Melanie grabbed hold of the straps of her backpack to help pull her out. Rebecca Rodriguez took several steps back while Friday made her messy transition to dry land.

  Neither Friday nor Melanie would have dreamed of asking Rebecca to help. She was not that kind of girl. It’s not that Rebecca wasn’t kind. She was just very neat and precise. As much as possible in her immediate vicinity, she liked her clothes and her hair to be perfectly clean, ironed and arranged at all times.

  Finally, Friday got to her feet. There was no point dusting herself off. The only way she could improve her appearance would be with a high-pressure hose. She would have to ask Mr Pilcher if she could borrow his, later.

  ‘Now,’ said Friday, gathering as much composure as a mud-covered girl can manage, ‘how can I help you? I assume you need help. Like the vast number of students at this school, you have never spoken to me voluntarily. And since you have sought me out – and in the swamp of all places, a location that must be repugnant to someone of your fastidious nature – I must conclude that you require my professional services.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ said Rebecca. ‘Would you mind terribly if I hold my nose while we talk?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Friday. ‘My clients with broken noses do it. So it would be petty of me to complain when clients of a delicate nasal nature would want to do the same.’

  ‘Judith Wilton has beaten me on the last three home economics assignments,’ said Rebecca.

  ‘I see,’ said Friday. ‘But I don’t understand how I can help you. Do you need coaching?’

  ‘I do not need coaching!’ declared Rebecca, who had clearly been insulted by the inference. ‘I am the best home economics student at this school.’

  Friday wasn’t sure why Rebecca would be proud of this statement. If she had gone home and told her own parents that she was top of home economics they would have given her a long and exhaustive lecture, possibly using a powerpoint presentation, on how disappointed they were that she was even studying the subject. But Friday’s parents were theoretical physicists, so they thought all subjects other than physics and advanced mathematics were silly.

  ‘If you’re the best,’ said Friday, using reasoning cautiously, as she had discovered that the use of logical arguments could sometimes offend the girls at her school, ‘then why didn’t you get top marks for your last three assignments?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ wailed Rebecca. ‘I think Judith must have cheated.’

  ‘How can you cheat on a home economics assignment?’ asked Friday. ‘Surely the proof is in the pudding
– literally, if the assignment is to make a pudding.’

  ‘I don’t know how she’s doing it,’ said Rebecca. ‘That’s why I’ve come to you.’

  ‘Let’s go back to the dorm,’ said Friday. ‘I need to clean up. We can talk as we walk.’

  The girls started heading up through the pathway.

  ‘Explain from the beginning what’s been going on,’ said Friday.

  ‘Last term Judith didn’t do particularly well at all,’ said Rebecca. ‘Her cakes were dry and her pastries limp. She was just as bad as all the other girls. My work was always, by far, the best. I got A++ for everything.’

  ‘You can get A++ for home economics?’ Friday whispered to Melanie. Melanie just shrugged.

  ‘But since the beginning of this term Judith’s work has suddenly become brilliant,’ continued Rebecca. ‘The first week back she made a Swiss roll that was perfect.’

  Melanie leaned close to Friday and asked in a lowered voice, ‘Is she talking about rolling a Swiss citizen along the ground?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Friday. ‘A Swiss roll is also a sponge cake with a jam and cream filling that is coiled into a cylindrical shape. I think it’s more likely that’s what she’s referring to.’

  ‘Then, in week three, she made a chicken and leek pie that didn’t just look beautiful,’ said Rebecca, ‘it was also delectable.’

  ‘Perhaps she practised her cooking in the holidays?’ suggested Friday.

  ‘No-one could improve that much,’ said Rebecca. ‘Besides, being a good cook isn’t just about practice, it’s about attitude. The discipline of precise measurement. And the art of combining organic products that are never exactly the same twice. You can mimic the greats by following their recipes, but you will never be great unless you have the right attitude. It has to be in your blood.’

  ‘I am gaining an increased respect for home economics,’ said Friday. ‘It is clearly a much more complicated subject than I imagined. I may take it next year. There is evidently a lot to be learned. A great deal of applied carbon chemistry, for a start.’

  ‘We’ve got another assignment due tomorrow,’ said Rebecca. ‘We have to make a quiche. I’m going to do my goat’s cheese and spinach quiche. It’s mouth-watering. There’s no way Judith can beat it. Not without cheating, that is.’

  ‘But surely you make all your assignments in class,’ said Friday. ‘Can’t you see what she’s doing as she cooks it?’

  ‘No,’ said Rebecca, ‘I sit in the front row. She is at the very back table, directly behind me. There are three workstations between us. With the other students buzzing around, I can never see what she’s doing.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ asked Friday. ‘I can’t take off a whole double period to come and watch your home economics class.’

  ‘Just be there at the end,’ said Rebecca. ‘The finished quiches will be presented and judged by the teacher in the last ten minutes of class. That’s the best time to denounce Judith and her quiche.’

  Chapter 12

  The Quiche-Off

  At ten minutes to eleven the following morning Friday told her history teacher, Mr Singh, that she was suffering from a bout of benign positional proximal vertigo. Since Mr Singh was tired of having all his dates corrected, he gladly allowed Friday to leave the class with Melanie on the pretext of going to sick bay.

  Friday and Melanie immediately hurried across the school, crunching through autumn leaves as they cut through the gardens, to the home economics classroom.

  No-one noticed as Friday and Melanie slipped in the back. It was the first time Friday had been inside this classroom. There were five large benchtops with built-in stoves and hotplates. They were all littered with dirty dishes, utensils and bowls, apart from the last bench, where the cook had apparently finished in such good time that they’d been able to do their dishes, which were now neatly stacked. At the other end of the classroom there were big picture windows looking out on the school’s impressive vegetable garden.

  At the front of the room a line of eight quiches had been set out on a table, which the students gathered around. Friday could immediately see there was a large disparity in the quality of the quiches.

  Six of them looked terrible. One was entirely blackened and still had globs of fire extinguisher foam on top, where it had evidently been doused. Another was wildly undercooked and had collapsed in a puddle all over the table. One was concave in the middle. Another was purple and smelled bad. One was limp and unappetising. And another had a slimy sheen on it that almost looked like botulism. The last two, however, were an entirely different matter.

  They were beautiful. Sunny and golden on top. High and deep with a crisp pastry casing. The vegetables coyly poked out of the eggy filling.

  The teacher, Mrs Piccone, had passed judgement on the first six quiches and was standing in front of the final perfect two.

  ‘Rebecca and Judith,’ said the teacher. ‘Well done, girls. You’ve done a lovely job.’

  Friday and Melanie edged closer to get a better look. The teacher was inspecting the two quiches very closely. Friday inspected the two girls. Rebecca looked her normal immaculate self, not a hair out of place, her apron spotlessly clean. But her face looked anxious. She wanted this. She wanted to win very badly.

  Judith, on the other hand, was the polar opposite. She looked a mess. Her hair was dishevelled, and there was flour all over her apron, her hands, on top of her hair and even the middle of her back. And she looked happy, like she was pleased to have made such a lovely quiche and had enjoyed the process.

  Mrs Piccone carefully cut into Rebecca’s quiche. ‘Good texture,’ she said, placing a slice on a plate. ‘Excellent colour on the inside.’ It looked lovely, the green spinach and white goat’s cheese all in cross-section. Mrs Piccone took out a spoon and scooped up a mouthful and tasted it. ‘Mmm,’ she said. ‘Nice balance of veg and cheese. Good spring in the egg mix. Perhaps … could do with a tad more salt, though.’

  Rebecca looked crushed. She hung her head and nodded, taking the criticism on board.

  Next, Mrs Piccone cut a slice of Judith’s quiche and laid it on a plate. It was gorgeous. Sticks of asparagus interlaced the mix alongside plump green sugar peas. ‘Stunning!’ said Mrs Piccone.

  Judith beamed with pleasure. The other girls smiled and congratulated her. Except for Rebecca. She just looked pale.

  Mrs Piccone tasted a mouthful of Judith’s quiche. ‘Mmm, oh my goodness,’ she said. ‘That is fabulous. What an intriguing blend of flavours. The egg mixture complements the vegetables perfectly. What is that condiment you used?’ Mrs Piccone tried another mouthful. ‘Is it … truffle oil?’

  Judith nodded. ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘How did you get the idea to make this wonderful combination of flavours?’ asked Mrs Piccone.

  ‘I was inspired by the garden,’ said Judith, indicating the school’s extensive vegetable patch beyond the window. ‘I wanted everything to be fresh. I picked all the vegetables this morning.’

  ‘An inspiration!’ said Mrs Piccone, putting another and even larger spoonful into her mouth. ‘Girls, you should all try this. You could learn a lot by following Judith’s example.’

  ‘Not so fast!’ declared Friday. ‘The only thing these girls can learn from Judith is how to be a cheat.’

  ‘Excuse me! Who are you?’ asked Mrs Piccone. ‘And what are you doing here?’

  ‘My name is Friday Barnes,’ said Friday, ‘and I am here to investigate the suspiciously brilliant cooking of your student Judith Wilton.’

  ‘You saddo,’ said Judith, turning on Rebecca. ‘You can’t handle being second best so you hired a detective.’

  ‘Rebecca may well have an unhealthy and irrational desire to be better than everyone else at cooking,’ agreed Friday, ‘but in this instance she was entirely justified in her suspicions.’

  ‘Miss,’ said Judith, ‘Friday needs to go to the sick bay, her brain has become unhinged.’

  The
other girls sniggered.

  ‘Girls,’ snapped Mrs Piccone, ‘you know making mean comments about another person’s mental health is against school rules.’

  ‘I’m only trying to help her, miss,’ protested Judith. ‘Just look at her clothes. She clearly doesn’t fit in here – or anywhere outside of a charity clothing bin. That brown cardigan is a cry for help.’

  ‘I wish I’d brought a voice recorder,’ said Friday, turning to Melanie. ‘Judith is putting on an impressive display of teenage verbal bullying clichés.’

  ‘You mean she’s being a cow?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘I wouldn’t use such a crude term,’ said Friday, ‘no matter how accurate. But her abuse is enlightening. It is a typical behavioural response to lash out and attempt to demean your accuser when you’ve been caught cheating.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ asked Mrs Piccone. ‘There is no way anyone can cheat in home economics. The students have to make their quiche right here in class, where they can be seen at all times.’

  ‘Improbable but not impossible,’ said Friday. ‘Certainly not if the entire class was in on the charade.’

  ‘What?!’ exclaimed Mrs Piccone.

  ‘I believe the entire class conspired to beat Rebecca at quiche making,’ said Friday.

  ‘But that’s delusional,’ said Mrs Piccone.

  Friday eyed the entire class. They looked unusually smug for a group in which all but one had failed disastrously.

  ‘I know,’ agreed Friday. ‘But there is no-one more petty and delusional than a teenage girl. And when you get a whole group of them together, their pettiness and delusion combine to form hysteria, and once teenage girls whip themselves up into a hysterical frenzy they are capable of any merciless act. The Salem witch trials are a prime example.’

  ‘Miss, she’s bullying me,’ complained Judith. ‘I want to call my father, to have him consult our lawyer.’