Megan Cole - Riches - Snog, Steal and Burn

Celine sank back in the chair and stared up at the large crack in the ceiling. Her head was definitely still spinning from that last round of Flaming Sambucas. Despite the trouble she was about to be in, it had still been worth it. Celine snuck out at least twice a week to hit the clubs: see friends, meet boys, party. It was pathetic that they were kept locked up here; she was an adult for God’s sake.

With her tall, lithe figure and white-blonde hair, Celine Van Der Berg stood out like a sore thumb at the super-strict St Winifred’s. The teachers had nearly had a fit when she’d sauntered into assembly the previous week with a new pixie hair cut, shaved up one side. That had earned her another detention, but Celine didn’t care. It was nearly the end of the final term. In three weeks, she’d be out of this place forever.

See you, losers.

Getting up, she wandered round the room, looking at the school photos that had adorned the walls over the years. Rows after rows of blank smiling faces, all brainwashed by rules and regulations. Sheep. How she’d lasted in this place without topping herself, Celine would never know.

She examined a black-painted nail. Miss Ramone was probably trying to call her parents right now. Luckily they were out of the country on another archaeological dig, but Celine hadn’t bothered to mention that. Tibet, Celine thought it was. They went on so many. She hadn’t really been paying attention when her mum had told her.

Celine loved her parents and tried to share their enthusiasm, but digging old pots out of the ground? Really? Even her older sister had followed them into it, just like she and her mother had been to St Winifred’s before Celine. Her family were short on fun, big on tradition.

The school had fallen over itself to take Celine at first. Everyone knew the Van Der Bergs. Descendents of Dutch settlers, they were the equivalent of Argentinian aristocracy. It helped matters that her mum and dad were famous archaeologists, and were constantly appearing on television and stuff. The geeks in her history class practically wet themselves whenever her parents’, name was mentioned. ‘Ooh, Celine! Bet you can’t wait to carry on the family tradition!’

Actually, Celine couldn’t think of anything worse. Her interest was in the modern world, not people who died, like, a billion years ago. A brilliant linguist, she was fluent in her native Spanish, as well as English, Italian, French, Arabic and German. Since St Winifred’s didn’t have Japanese on the curriculum she was teaching herself, just for fun.

Language was Celine’s pass to the outside world. Her dream was to work in the fashion industry. Size 8, with endless Bambi legs, she was always being approached by model scouts when she went out in Buenos Aires, but Celine wasn’t interested in that side of things. What she really wanted to be was a designer. She was constantly being told off in classes for drawing, but it was like a drug to her. Making clothes was all she’d ever wanted to do. She wanted to study at the prestigious Instituto Marangoni in Paris and then start her own label, VDB. McQueen meets Westwood, with Celine’s own style stamped all over it. The new enfant terrible of cutting-edge fashion.

Unfortunately, her parents had other ideas.

As far as they were concerned, their daughter’s obsession with clothes was just like any teenager’s. There was no way she could make a serious career out of it. So Celine had gone along with it and passed what she had to in order to progress through school, all the time inside screaming: this isn’t me! Her grades had been the only thing that had stopped her being kicked out, and now she’d just been accepted on an archaeology course at a prestigious university in New York. Her parents were thrilled, her sister was thrilled, the teachers were ecstatic to be getting rid of her at last. Everyone was happy except Celine.

Eighteen years old and trapped, she thought. How the hell did that happen?

A door slammed and Celine heard the sound of footsteps clumping down the hallway. She’d know the sound of those lesbian shoes anywhere. Here we go. The headmistress was so strict she made Mrs Gonzales look like a pot-smoking hippy.

‘There you are, Celine.’ Even though it was the middle of the night, Miss Ramone was in her usual frumpy tweed skirt and blouse, horn-rimmed spectacles on the chain around her neck. She probably slept with them on. She gave Celine a severe look.

‘Come this way.’

Celine put her chic-slut spiked stilettos back on and got up. The headmistress was very calm, which was always a bad sign. Celine followed her into the office next door. Miss Ramone went round the big wooden desk and sat down.

‘Take a seat.’

Celine crossed her legs, noticing she’d dragged a cigarette butt in on the bottom of her shoe. Another ten points from Gryffindor. In the eyes of St Winifred’s, smoking was up there with terrorism and nuclear war.

But instead of giving her a dressing-down, the head-teacher looked at her in a weird way. ‘How are you, dear?’

Miss Ramone was asking after her wellbeing? Celine frowned. ‘Hasn’t Mrs Gonzales been to see you?’

The head teacher blinked. ‘Oh, that. Yes, well, under the circumstances, I will forgive you.’

Sneaking out after school hours was major. Something was definitely up.

Miss Ramone clasped her hands and undid them again. ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news.’

That was a bit dramatic. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Your mother and father, they’ve gone missing.’

‘Missing?’

‘No one has been able to get hold of them for the past twenty-four hours,’ Miss Ramone said.

Was this what all the worry was about? ‘Of course no one’s been able to get hold of them,’ Celine said. ‘Reception isn’t that great when you’re halfway up a mountain.’ At the same time a little warning bell went off in her head. Why were people trying to get hold of her parents?

Miss Ramone sighed. ‘There’s no easy way to say this so I’m just going to come right out with it. Celine, I’ve just received a call from the Argentinian embassy in Delhi. Your parents have been taken hostage by rebels on the Indian border.’

The headmistress may as well have said they were break-dancing on the moon. ‘Run that past me again,’ Celine said slowly. Eduardo hadn’t slipped something in her drink, had he?

Miss Ramone repeated herself. Celine shook her head. ‘Sorry, not possible. My parents are in Tibet.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure,’ Celine said, getting annoyed. ‘I know where my own parents are…’ She trailed off.

Had they said Tibet?

‘The police will be here soon,’ Miss Ramone said gently. ‘They will be able to tell you more. In the meantime, I think you should see something.’ She gestured to the computer on her desk. Certain this was some kind of sick punishment for sneaking out, Celine went round and stood behind Miss Ramone’s chair. She’d never been this close to the old bat before. She noticed a warty hair sticking out on the back of the headmistress’s neck.

Ewww.

Celine looked at the computer, hoping Miss Ramone couldn’t smell the alcohol on her breath. There was a BBC news website up on screen. Celine never went on things like this - she was all about fashion apps and blogs. The main headline was something random about nuclear tests. Miss Ramone wasn’t going to start testing her on world affairs, was she?

‘What am I supposed to be looking at?’ she asked. Someone needed to sort the design out on this; it was seriously boring. The cursor moved down the page and Miss Ramone clicked on something. A headline flashed up.