It’s a damp Monday in September 1986 when I first enter the 6A form room. You could fly a kite in here, the height of it, and the sash windows almost as tall. The clack of heels and the clatter of chairs bounce off the timber floors and the bare walls as the girls saunter into the room in their purple uniforms, satchels slung across shoulders, curly bobs tucked behind one ear. They stare and whisper as they settle at their desks, while I stand at the front of the class, arms folded, trying not to look like a complete eejit. I’ve got the uniform, even if it is second hand, but my spiky hair and patent brogues are clearly not the in-thing at Highfield.
Soon, I’ll be expected to speak and the words that stumble out of my mouth will brand me as pure outsider. I have a normal accent, the same as everyone else I know. It’s them, the Highfield girls, that are different. They don’t know that, but why would they? There’s no need for them to step off their pedestals; they’ll be expecting me to step up.
Sister Mullen, the English teacher, sits upright at the podium, white hair tucked into a dark gray veil. The way she looks out over the girls, beaked nose in the air, it’s not that she’s better than them, I think she wants me to know she’s one of them. Isn’t that the whole point of this place, that everyone knows it? Sure, why else would you spend so much money? Luckily, I am on a scholarship, so I don’t have to pretend to be on their level. I’m on the floor, blowing smoke up their skirts.
You’d swear they were saints, with their “moral values” and “inclusive ethos.” But beyond the braids of rain that trickle down the sash windows, past the tennis and netball courts, I see the cedars that shroud the grotto, a sacred shrine and the scene of Highfield’s summer scandal. Róisín Tunney, a third-year swimming champion, just fifteen years of age as she gave birth under the statue of the Blessed Virgin. They’d have kept it all quiet, only she was found by a visiting tennis player from rival Fairfield Grove and rumor has it you can’t trust those sneaky cows as far as you can throw them. Needless to say, Róisín hasn’t been welcomed back for fourth year.
I’m trying to suss out the lay of the land when Sister Mullen raises her hand for silence and the last few stragglers find their seats. She nods at me to begin and, in the hush, I’m half paralyzed by the glare of expectation and the smell of 4711 cologne. I focus on a lonely crucifix splayed across the back wall, a naked metal Jesus hanging from a wooden cross.
“I’m Louise Manson and I’m going to be here for sixth year.”
Sister Mullen rotates her hand impatiently and I shrug like I don’t understand.
“Tell us a bit more about yourself, Louise.”
“Like what?”
There are a few sniggers, and the aggro gives me something to work with. I throw side-eye across the room as if I’m the boss up here.
“Like where you come from and how many brothers and sisters you have.”
“I’m from Ballybrack and I have zero brothers and zero sisters.”
Whispers ripple across the back row and a hand goes up.
“Yes, Carol?” says Sister Mullen.
Carol has the look of someone who uses her cheekbones as currency. She’s smiling sweetly but I’ve known enough Carols not to believe it.
“Where’s Ballybrack?”
I look at Sister Mullen, but she’s waiting for me to answer.
“It’s beside Loughlinstown … Carol,” I say.
The hand is up again.
“Carol?”
“Where’s Loughlinstown?”
There’s a flitter of laughter around the room and it takes me a few seconds to realize it’s a badge of pride that they don’t know the working-class areas of their own city. I want to tell Carol where to go but Mam has warned me to keep my head down. She knows these people, grew up with them, she says. Before I came along and dragged her down to my bastard level.
“It’s near Killiney, isn’t it?”
At the end of the front row is a face I know from the school brochure: pale blue eyes and sun-kissed skin, white-blonde hair tied back in a high ponytail. Shauna Power, Highfield’s star swimmer and Olympic hopeful. She’s wearing the dark purple sash and implicit confidence of a prefect and she’s throwing me a bone.
“Thank you, Shauna,” says Sister Mullen.
I give Shauna a grateful smile and I’m edging away from the front of the class when another hand goes up, a girl next to Carol with thick wire braces and a fit of the giggles.
“Stephanie?” says Sister Mullen.
“Is it Lou-eez or Lou-wee-uz?”
I wonder if she has a hearing problem, or if the acoustics of the room have distorted my voice in transit. But the smirk unfolding on her lips leaves no room for doubt. I turn to Sister Mullen to protest, and I swear I see a conspiratorial glance flash between them.
“Give it a rest, Stephanie.” It’s the girl beside Shauna, all dimples and ringlets like a Billie Barry kid, and I wonder what her deal is.
“Melissa,” says Sister Mullen, “can you please watch your tone?”
“What?” says Melissa. “Me and not her?”
The three of them eye each other in a Mexican stand-off and you could hear a pin drop.
“It’s actually Lou,” I say. “I hope that’s simple enough for you.”
As I walk past Melissa to the spare desk behind her, she says, “Ignore Carol, she’s a bitch.”
When I think about everything that happened, when I wonder what I could have done differently, I always come back to this moment, the crumb Melissa threw that I devoured.
HIGHFIELD SITS ON A HILL of the same name, looking down on the rest of Dublin. It’s the sort of school that expects everyone to know it by reputation and, to be fair, I did. After all the trouble at my old school, Mam was ecstatic when I suggested repeating sixth year at Highfield. In a rare burst of optimism, she filled out forms and went to meetings. I did the tests and we both went to the interview and pretended to be devout Catholics, and they must have believed us, or else my results were too good to turn down. Whatever it was, I got a scholarship and Mam got a break.
I’m not sure what I expected. That it would be like my old school only grander? That I’d be left alone to observe from a distance? It’s not just the dim corridors with their dark wood paneling and checkered floor tiles, or the clocktower turret that rises into the clouds. Everything at Highfield is shade and shadow, forged by hidden hierarchies and unspoken rules as much as granite pillars and cedar boughs. Even the prefects, their privilege worn across their chests, are evidence of an inner circle within the elite. One that would never be open to me. But I haven’t come for any of that. I don’t want to stand up or stand out. I’m at Highfield to watch and listen and bide my time, until I’m ready to pounce.
I’m not here for prestige. I’m here for revenge.