Sweet Bombe Alaska

First Day

'The fashion tragic piling hot chips on his plate?' I followed the line of Simon's fork across the lunch hall. 'That's Bainbridge.'

The pudgy teacher was hard to miss; his fluoro pink shirt was so loud it squealed.

'We call him Parabola,' Simon said from the other side of the table. 'Cause his gut is a perfect example of a curve based on a conic section.' He sniggered over a fork stacked with ravioli.

'He's not a bad maths teacher,' CJ said beside me. 'Just make sure you hand in your homework. Bainbridge is quick to slap you with detention, even if your excuse is legit.'

'Gave me four last semester,' Simon said around a mouthful of pasta. He chewed, swallowed. 'Got out of all of them.'

'Yeah, made his daddy call and threaten to cut funding for the new science block,' CJ said.

Simon just shrugged and shovelled more food into his mouth while I made a mental note to stay in Parabola's good books. Unlike Simon, I didn't have a parent with clout to ring up and complain.

The puke-like smell of Parmesan wafting off Simon's lunch was putting me off my sandwich. Other than that, my first day at Armsworth Grammar was turning out okay. Three twenty-five wasn't far off and, so far, no one had asked any awkward questions.

As I watched the steady stream of summer blazers and pleated skirts surge through the lunch hall doors, my hand reached for the lapel of my own uniform. The expensive wool was soft, almost silk-like; the complete opposite to the government school polyester zip jackets I'd worn for the last eleven years. Thank god the scholarship included a new uniform. Nothing shouted 'scholarship kid' louder than a badly fitting blazer and faded, second-hand pants. Not even Parabola's pink shirt could divert that kind of attention.

They'd find out eventually. But until they did, I wanted to enjoy the illusion, the never-gonna-happen fantasy, that I was like the rest of them-with loaded parents, a holiday house in the south of France and my biggest problem deciding whether I wanted a BMW or Golf for my eighteenth birthday.

Simon gave up scanning the lunch hall for other teachers he could give me the run down on. Instead, he nudged me with his shoulder. 'Enough of the stiffs.' He tipped his head at a group of girls sitting at a table to the side of us. 'Now for the ladies,' he said with a grin.

CJ rolled his eyes. 'Here we go.'

'Shut it.' Simon threw him a look meant to intimidate but on his clean cut, Country Road catalogue face it just looked constipated.

'This is important,' Simon continued. 'So Kahled here doesn't go making an idiot of himself.' Simon turned his preppy face my way. 'Right, the blond ponytail is Emma Tauber. Hot, but no joy there; she's going out with Mark Bush, captain of the basketball team.' Simon gazed longingly at Emma for a moment before snapping out of it.

'That one with the short, black hair?' He pointed to a girl sitting opposite Emma, her back to us. 'Jasmine Tang. We went out for a bit last year.' Simon sucked the inside of his cheek, then let go with a loud pop. 'She's okay but I got bored.'

CJ snorted. 'More like she dumped you.'

That earned CJ another constipated look. 'Cause she knew I was bored, birdbrain. She got in first and broke it off before she lost cred.'

CJ shook his head but Simon ignored him and went on to name the other three girls at the table, listing their relationship status and probability of them saying yes if I were to ask them out. He should have saved his breath. I wasn't asking anyone out in a hurry. Any interested fish in these privileged waters would swim in the opposite direction as soon as they realised I came from the scholarship pool.

Simon was rattling off facts about someone standing in the cafeteria line, when a girl on the other side of the lunch hall caught my attention. She sat alone at a corner table. Her face half obscured by a heavy curtain of smooth mahogany, she nibbled at her sandwich while she devoured a novel.

'No chance,' Simon mumbled around a mouthful of something. 'That's Hannah Owens. We call her Bombe Alaska.'

'Bombe Alaska? Like the dessert?' I asked.

'Yeah, hot on the outside but cold in the middle.' I turned just in time to catch him pretend to shiver. 'Her dad is a big-shot lawyer.'

'He's the Owens in Spencer and Owens.' Both CJ's eyebrows lifted with meaning. I nodded like I knew what he was talking about.

'And she's up herself,' Simon continued. 'Got her nose up so high she's constantly sniffing ceiling paint. I invited her to spend New Year's on our yacht. Told her dad toasted every New Year with a bottle of that fancy Dom Peridot stuff.'

This time CJ closed his eyes when he shook his head.

I clamped down on my lip to keep from laughing. 'I think you mean Dom Perignon.' Maybe I didn't know what it was like to count in New Year's on a yacht but at least I knew the difference between a rock and 'fancy' French Champagne.

Simon frowned at me. 'Isn't that what I just said? Anyway, that wasn't good enough for Bombe Alaska.' He stabbed the last of his ravioli with his fork. 'Maybe if your parents pull more than seven figures a year you might have a chance.'

In that case, I had less than 'no chance'.

'Ever thought she's just not interested?' CJ asked.

Simon cocked a brow. 'What? Nah! She's a snob.' Like Parabola's gut, his voice bulged with conviction.

Just then Hannah glanced up from her book. Our gazes brushed ... locked. Something guarded-almost defiant-flashed in her eyes. Then the shrill sound of the bell set the sea of Armsworth Grammar students into motion, taking Hannah with it.