The Santiago Sisters

As the redhead passed, her slanted green eyes narrowed in malice. Tess felt a sharp yank at the back of her neck, so quick as to be unsure whether it had happened. Her locks were scarcely mended after the attack. Despite Simone’s efforts, Emily’s scissors had triumphed. ‘Nice hair,’ said the redhead unkindly, and closed the door.

It was easy enough to stay away from Emily during the day—Tess spent most of her time in Fast-Track French and was scheduled to join the main curriculum at the end of spring term—but, at night, there was no escape. Emily’s clique clustered into one another’s beds after lights-out and giggled and tittered under the sheets, sucking on illicit squares of bitter chocolate and sipping from bottles of Orangina, which Emily’s outside contact had supplemented with vodka. Sometimes they would throw things at her in the dark—nothing that hurt, just a sock that one of them had worn in Games, or a balled-up note written in French that she couldn’t understand and, sometimes, Emily’s favourite, a tampon or a sanitary towel from the supply under her bed.

The redhead’s name was Fifine Bissette, but everyone called her Fifi. She was the only daughter of France’s premier power couple; her father was a renowned surgeon whose services graced only the affluent, while her mother was an ex-model-turned-socialite. A running joke at Sainte-Marthe was that Fifi’s papi had once borrowed cold-blooded Fifi’s heart for another patient and forgotten to replace it.

She and Emily made the perfect match.

Through it all, Tess forged her vendetta. Slowly but surely, her plan took shape, and became the fuel that kept her going. She used her hatred for Emily as a way to endure the monotony and loneliness of the days at Sainte-Marthe, in which she got up alone, dressed alone, and ate breakfast alone; in which she withstood her solo French classes with Madame Fontaine and saw no other girls, then when she did felt too unsure of the language to attempt a friendship, and the longer she left it the more difficult it became and the stranger they decided she was. She used her anger as a passage through the emptiness of the night, the moonlight and the taunting laughs, as she lay still as a corpse because then they might leave her alone.

Every moment, she was thinking. She was plotting.

It was risky, but the risk was worth it. Tess had no fear. She had nothing. In the days and weeks since the adoption revelation, she had shut out the world. It had been necessary, a method of reassembly, of digging inside herself and cancelling out all those weak parts, the parts that cried for her twin and longed to be held by her.

She had wiped the slate clean and started again—with the person she wanted to be: strong, intrepid, powerful. Emily deserved it. She deserved her revenge.

The following week, before chapel, Tess approached Fifi in the waiting line. The other girls backed away: breaking rank was the ultimate offence.

‘Where’s Emily?’ Tess asked in French.

‘None of your business.’

‘I wanted to wish her luck.’

Fifi was sceptical. ‘With what?’

‘The song,’ Tess widened her eyes, ‘for Monsieur Géroux? Oh, no, don’t tell me she forgot. Aubert will go crazy—she told us about this ages ago!’

‘Told you about what?’ Fifi was impatient, but Tess detected a sliver of anxiety, of wanting—no, needing—to do right by Emily. Not to mess up.

Tess sighed. ‘Look, I know Emily’s been skipping Fontaine’s classes.’

‘She doesn’t need to speak French,’ Fifi jumped in, and the clique nodded in agreement. ‘She’s going to Hollywood to become an actress. So it’s irrelevant.’

‘I know,’ Tess was all sympathy, ‘but you know what our mother’s like …’

It felt weird saying it, but she had to remind Fifi of their allegiance. That she did have a connection with Emily, and it might stand to reason, despite Emily’s bullying, that she should wish to help her. Anyway, it was true. Emily was meant to attend Madame Fontaine’s lessons. Instead she spent the entire time smoking around the back of the music block. What wasn’t true was that Tess actually gave a shit.

‘Aubert told us weeks back that Géroux was leaving,’ Tess went on. Monsieur Géroux was their music teacher. He caused quite a stir among the pupils, due to being thirty-six, inoffensive looking, and in possession of all his own hair. He was moving to Switzerland to take up another position. ‘She asked us to prepare a song,’ she lied, ‘with Fontaine’s help, to perform for Monsieur today. As in now, in chapel.’

Fifi looked horrified.

‘Oh dear,’ said Tess. ‘I worried this would happen. She hasn’t done it, has she? Aubert will go mad! Not to mention Simone … Emily really is going to get it for this. Like, big time. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was suspended.’

Fifi stumbled. ‘I don’t think she’s done any song—she hasn’t said anything …’

‘Alors,’ said Tess, handing over a piece of paper, ‘just give her this, OK?’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s the piece I wrote.’ She waved her hand, as if it were no big deal. ‘I don’t mind if Emily shares it. We can pretend we arranged it together. I’ll go tell Aubert now. Just make sure she gets it, OK? Or it’s going to be majorly embarrassing for her in there.’ Oh, she’ll get it. She’ll get it all right.

Fifi clutched the paper. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked suspiciously.

Tess lifted her shoulders. ‘Fifi, we’re family. Haven’t you heard of loyalty?’

Satisfied, she turned on her heel and went inside. Quickly, she located Madame Aubert and tied up her ploy. Tess explained that she had wished to perform a farewell song for Monsieur, and would it be OK if she and Emily interrupted morning service for a few moments to do so? Aubert thought it was a wonderful idea, and no doubt couldn’t wait to report back to Simone on how well her girls were getting along. Ha, Tess thought as she took her place in the pews, if only you knew.

Minutes later, the assembly was called into chapel. Tess spotted Emily looking suitably worried. She was frantically reading through the sheet of handwriting, and each time Fifi or one of the others attempted to peek over her shoulder, she swiped them away, unwilling to admit she hadn’t a clue what words were written there. Emily could barely introduce herself in French, let alone tackle the complex structures Tess had toiled hard on, looked up in the library, and double-checked with a bunch of geeks in an online forum. Excitement surged in her chest.

She didn’t have to wait long. After the school refrain had been sung in its usual dispassionate drone—’Aujourd’hui, nous sommes graines; demain, nous sommes des arbres’—and an announcement had been made about the forthcoming hockey tournament against the rival girls’ academy, L’École de Françoise Barbeau, it was time for Tess and Emily’s performance. Across the pews, Tess shot her a sweet smile.

‘Beloved Monsieur Géroux,’ crooned Madame Aubert from the lectern, as there was a general expectant shuffling in the ranks, ‘our girls in Special French wished to say goodbye to you in the way you taught them best. I think this is a lovely gesture and proves how much you mean to them—and to everybody here. So, without further ado, please welcome them to the stage: Tess Geddes and Emily Chilcott!’

Emily hesitated and, for a horrible moment, Tess thought she wasn’t going to fall for it—but, at the last moment, she shuffled up to the front. She shot Tess a strange look, half gratitude and half loathing. It serves you right, Tess thought, remembering how her hair had been slashed, and every cruelty and unkindness she had suffered at Emily’s hands. You underestimated me. You all did.

Tess saw Monsieur Géroux in the pews, his expression open with happy surprise. The piano struck up a lively tune. The song began.

The first verse went without a hitch. The teachers beamed through all Tess’s carefully constructed sentences, praising Monsieur’s delightful teaching style and prowess on the instruments, and Emily mumbled alongside her, finally falling into the tune. Then something strange happened. As they hit verse two, Tess’s voice gradually receded. She turned to stare at Emily, a practised mask of disbelief on her face, as Emily continued to belt out the words, her cheeks flaming with the effort of her botched—but still, lamentably, understandable—pronunciation, and when she realised she was singing out of kilter with Tess she sang even louder to make up for it.

‘Emily …!’

An elfin blonde named Claudette squeaked from the ranks, as Emily’s clique, including Fifi, turned ashen, along with the professeurs. Emily, thinking the shout had been some show of support, continued to sing as clear as a bell, her voice ringing out above the music, before suddenly, at Madame Aubert’s signal, the piano stopped. Emily’s voice travelled alone to the end of the refrain, and then fizzled out.

The congregation was staring, appalled. A few nervous laughs rose up from the chapel. Madame Aubert rushed over, red and flustered. Without a word she snatched Emily by the elbow and led her off the stage. Tess followed. On the way down they passed Monsieur Géroux, whose eyes were trained on the floor. The tips of his ears were bright red. Tess could sense the gaze of every girl boring into her.

‘Vous horrible fille!’ Madame Aubert lambasted Emily when they reached the courtyard. ‘What were you thinking? Was that some kind of joke? Allez au bureau de la directrice, immédiatement! Until then, consider yourself a month in detention!’

‘But—’

‘No buts, young lady.’

‘I don’t—’ Emily turned to Tess, but Tess gave her nothing. ‘But she … I—’

‘Go. Now!’

When Emily had scurried off, Tess said, ‘I’m sorry about that, Madame. I don’t know what got into her. It must have been some prank she and Fifi thought up. I mean,’ she blushed, ‘not to wrongly implicate anyone, it’s just I saw them talking outside and giggling over something. Emily was fine in rehearsal.’

Madame Aubert, who hadn’t been sure whether or not to be cross with Tess, thought a moment then shook her head. ‘Don’t worry, ma chérie,