¡°Last call for passenger Miss Lara Croft of flight one-sixteen at gate twenty-four. Last call for passenger Miss Croft of flight one-sixteen at gate twenty-four.¡±

Startled, I quickly slammed my book shut and threw open the bathroom door. I ran the tap and dipped my fingers in the blessedly cool water, running a hand over my sleek brown hair, braided down my back. It wasn¡¯t my fault that I had lost track of the time, was it? I had broken my Omega rock climbing (it was that or my wrist) and father still hadn¡¯t sent me a new one. It wasn¡¯t my fault that the airport¡¯s lavatory was the only place I could read in complete solitude. Or that Miss Millet was a complete book lover (oh, she just loved books). Stupid finishing school, I swore silently. I could have had a governess. What was the difference anyway?

Father, I thought bitterly. Father was the difference.

Slinging my bag over my shoulder in the most unladylike position possible (whether intentional or not I couldn¡¯t tell), I made a mad dash for gate twenty-four. Eyes turned on me, mostly male. I wasn¡¯t too surprised. I wasn¡¯t a bad sight, after all.

¡°Miss Croft! What do I see?¡± shrilled a voice. I wished unto her a headache. ¡°Dresses are for walking in, not for running. And what did I tell you about posture? A lady does not hunch over like some primitive animal.¡± Miss Millet positively spat out the word, as if it were poisonous. Nothing wrong with primitive animals, if you ask me. Some people even believe we were descended from them, after all. I pretended to guiltily sort out my rumpled, ankle-length skirt, which was part of the uniform ¨C now that was primitive - for Millet Swiss Finishing School. It was also the worst possible thing to try running in. A wedding gown might have been a better choice, train, veil and all, right down to the blood red roses and sparkling diamonds. Fortunately she hadn¡¯t seen the tear down the side, which I had made on purpose anyway. Did she believe I enjoyed running in it?

¡°That¡¯s better,¡± she muttered, as if cursing me. From Miss Millet this was almost exuberant praise. Probably only because she had used up every ladylike insult on me already.

I quickly lost myself amongst the others in the line. Miss Millet proceeded to the front. I watched her walking - tiny, mincing steps with the ramrod-straight back, which seemingly defied gravity. The line constantly wavered as girls ran to talk to their friends further up or back in the line, giggling frantically as if their lives depended on it. I couldn¡¯t stand that.

Fortunately we soon boarded the plane. Or, perhaps, unfortunately. Being last in line, I had the task of being last of walking down the aisle of the aircraft. Rows and rows and faces and faces.

¡±Aye, it¡¯s Lara!¡± shrieked one girl. ¡°Laddies, look at her skirt! What¡¯s that, then?¡± The rip up side didn¡¯t show the skin-tight Bermudas I donned, rolled up so they were barely halfway down to my thighs. For their benefit, I pulled my skirt straight up, grinning widely. I didn¡¯t even have to bring it past my knees. They all screamed and covered their eyes.

¡°A shocking display!¡± wailed the school¡¯s model pupil, eyes squinted shut, looking as though she might cry.

¡°Honestly, it¡¯s books now. What¡¯ll it be next, glasses?¡± The speaker tossed her head like a shampoo commercial. ¡°Reading¡­¡±

If you were me, I just barely bit the words down, you¡¯d read too. Personally, crumbly pyramids and dusty mummies were better than crumbly school buildings and dusty teachers. Sacrificial rituals to manners and etiquette (not that they weren¡¯t necessary, but honestly!). Ancient royalty who grew up to murder their own parents to-

¡°Father,¡± I whispered out loud.

He was the reason why I ever came to this forsaken place anyway. ¡°My dear, if you are to grow a lady you must then know the basic rules of etiquette.¡± Etcetera, etcetera, blah blah blah. He was such a traditionalist, useless, a wet blanket. I frankly couldn¡¯t really stand him. Chew with your mouth shut. Don¡¯t talk with your mouth full. Good enough. But to go to a full-fledged school¡­

¡°Lara! You idiot! I say, there you are! I¡¯ve been looking everywhere for you! Lara!¡±

I glanced up. Rebecca, I realized, something next to relief surging through me. I hurried over to her.

¡°What did you do? Millet looks as if she might explode! I daresay, you are jolly flushed. Whatever have you been up to?¡± Smiling, Rebecca pushed her long, luxuriously curly blonde tresses away from her face. It was the kind of hair that went with enormous smoky violet eyes and full, glossy lips, which together made a good model for doll manufacturers. I was just out of my awkward stage ¨C braces just off, learning that I should never tie my hair in two ponytails unless I wished to look like a grasshopper. I hated how young I looked.

Rebecca was another forcibly put up pupil and my best friend at finishing school. She was also my only friend at finishing school and for the same reason as me - unhappy, upset, misunderstood, and sick of the damn place. I really, truly had someone to call a friend, for the first time in my life. I¡¯d helped her with some course work and in return she had taught me odd jobs she¡¯d learned here and there - picking locks, breaking into offices, that sort of thing. Where she¡¯d learned these tricks I truly couldn¡¯t say. I daresay she preferred chatting, but that way, I could read to a running commentary. Most amusing.

We weren¡¯t your typical best friends. True. A lot of our time was spent sitting side by side, reading. It was mostly a give-and-take friendship. Still, we were close.

I quickly took my seat next to her, a window seat. Miss Millet had booked the entire rickety flight (though there were only nineteen of us, including her) for the end-of-training ski trip to some cheap resort town just off the Himalayas. Probably to show off some last-minutes etiquette of how to ski with your legs firmly pressed together or something.

The flight was just about a cardboard box on wings, with a propeller with the might of a ceiling fan mounted on the front. We¡¯d probably go on for as long as I could hold my breath. Though for our sakes¡¯, I hoped not.

As expected, we both pumped our walkmans to the max and read. The other girls claimed to read too, but really they were just ogling the male models in fashion magazines; sometimes even Rebecca. Not me, though. There was one girl who read about horses and nothing else, but how many ways were there to curry a pony?

Nothing better than a long, quiet read of archaeology with the classics, I decided cheerfully. I did, however, lower my book ever so slightly as the plane took off to watch the nauseated expressions of my dear schoolmates. It was evident that none of them had thought of air sickness ¨C though I¡¯d seen someone packing mosquito lotion.

I should¡¯ve known it was too good to last.