“Come in,” I call out. My Aunt Ruthie enters and smiles at the girls.
“Good morning. I have a bit of news,” she begins.
“This won’t be good,” I sense.
“It depends on how you look at it,” she returns.
“I’m ready,” I say, bracing myself. “Lay it on me.”
“So dramatic,” Audrey teases.
“I just got an interesting phone call from Shell Beach Hall. Seems someone pulled a prank last night at the school.”
“Oh boy,” I respond.
“Indeed. Someone, or a group of someones, turned one of the pipes so there’d be a leak. Apparently, it was supposed to be just a trickle to annoy one of the teachers they didn’t like—”
“I bet it’s Mr. Bradbury,” Isla guesses.
“You’d be right,” Aunt Ruthie tells her. “But…”
I make a face. “Here it comes.”
“What started as a trickle, turned into a waterfall. Apparently, they loosened the fitting too far and it completely came apart under the water pressure.”
“No way!” Audrey exclaims. “What are we supposed to do for school on Monday—in two days.”
She’s panicking, and I rub her back. “Relax. They’ll figure something out.”
“They already did,” Aunt Ruthie continues. “Shell Beach Hall will be moving all of its classes to Shell Beach Academy for the unforeseeable future.”
“What!” Isla screeches. “They can’t do that!”
“Oh, I can’t even,” Audrey starts.
I groan. “Say it isn’t so, Aunt Ruthie. Private school is bad enough, but now having to go with the snobs…” I groan again.
“I wish I could help you, but boys will be boys and their little prank backfired and took you all down right along with them,” she tells us.
“Do they know who did it?” I ask, my hand forming fists. What do I think I’m going to do? Go beat up a couple—or a group—of guys? As if. I’d be pummeled.
“No, unfortunately. But since they’re moving the classes over to SBA, SBH will be completing the renovations they’ve wanted to get done for a while now.”
“Boom!” I exclaim. “Any more bombs you want to drop on us?”
She laughs. “No.”
“Do we get to wear regular clothes?” Audrey asks.
“Afraid not. You’ll wear the same uniform and so will those at SBA.”
“Oh my God. As if there isn’t already a line drawn between us, this will make it impossible to integrate,” Isla cries out. “Two different schools, two different uniforms—”
“Two different kinds of people. Snobs versus realists. Lovely,” I murmur.
“It won’t be that bad. They are making it impossible not to integrate. They’re mixing students and teachers,” she relays, and my mouth hangs open, dry. I pray she’s not saying what I think she’s saying.
“What does that mean?” Audrey asks.
