¡°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.
