Italics are thoughts
Disclaimer : I wish I owned this game and it's characters, but I don't.
Chapter 6
"Yes?" The voice of a fifty-something man with iron streaks running into his brown hair and stern, steely eyes boomed about the room, marching through the door to Beatrice, who cautiously shuffled into the warm, clean office with a huge mahogany desk lost under paperwork. The room was almost the size of a classroom, she guessed, and far better furnished. A simpering Miss Danvers glanced at me before beaming at her precious Crabblesnitch, who looked up at me, oblivious to the secretary's adoration.
"Dr. Carabblesnitch, I need to speak to you about something... important, if you don't mind," Beatrice requested, glancing about the room through thick glasses. He waved a hand to dismiss Miss Danvers, who was still visually worshipping him. Would it kill her to kiss him and be done with it? Scowling at the girl, she walked out of the room, leaving behind a cup of steaming coffee for her darling Crabblesnitch.
"Right then, Miss Trudeau, what seems to be the problem?" At this, the nerd took a deep breath- reporting a rule-breaker was like stapling a "Kick Me" sign to your own face. Then again, at least Bucky would receive some justice.
"It's about Bucky Pasteur, Sir. He was beaten up a few day ago by Bif Taylor, Tad Spencer and Bryce Montrose. He was unconscious until yesterday."
"Are you sure- who told you this?"
"Bucky did, Sir. He said that they were drunk."
"Hmm- I'll see to it they apologise and there will be a detention for drinking." Detention and a fake apology. The offer was almost insulting, like giving a blind man a picture book for christmas.
"Sir, I think it's more serious than that," she persisted, using every ounce of self-control to maintain her calm tone. "Bucky's really badly hurt."
"Young men are very resilient, young lady. He'll get over it, so why ruin three futures over a drunken mistake?" Was he mad?
"He has cracked ribs and a broken arm, Sir. A detention is hardly a punishment." Beatrice replied slowly, as though trying to shove the thought into his skull.
"My dear girl, the Spencers and Taylors are major investors in our fine institution-". At this, she couldn't help herself from butting in.
"So that makes brutalising pupils all right, does it?" her voice quivered with the words.
"You're exaggerating, Miss Trudeau. I'm sure that-"
"Exaggerating!" Her voice rose about an octave. "My best friend is in a hospital bed, and you're given the brutes responsible a detention! They broke his arm! They smashed a bottle over his head! What if he hadn't woke up? What if he'd got infected? What if-"
"Miss Trudeau, control yourself," he said firmly, not seeing the fury rattling through the girl. Her thoughts were too focused on not slapping Crabblesnitch into Elizabethan England to register what he was saying.
"Never mind." I breezed, walking from the room before I murdered someone.
As the nerd stormed to English, a million murderous thoughts ran through her head. It looked like they would need another way to get their blood debts repaid. Suddenly, an idea struck like a shooting star- who needed Crabblesnitch? Halting at the lockers, she grabbed her diary, ripped out a few blank pages and scribbled dementedly before slipping a page in each of the boy's lockers.
The day dragged on through English until the school bell sung out, leaving the girl free to speed towards the library, occasionally tripping over my own feet due to walking too quickly.
And then she waited...