magazine. My second cousin’s the editor. We’re, like, Siamese-twins close. Practically best friends.”
“Which cousin’s that?” a dark-haired girl asks. “Tiffany?”
“No, Tiffany’s taking a cooking course in Ballymaloe, remember? Where they send all the Leaving Cert rejects. It’s costing Uncle Seb a fortune. He says if she can whack out a decent steak, she might just bag herself a rich husband. It’s the only hope for her. No, I’m talking about Cliona. She’s the editor, you dim sim.”
I give a tiny gasp. “She’s not talking about
your
Cliona, is she?” I whisper to Clover.
“You eavesdropping too, Beanie?” Clover nudges me before shaking her head. “It can’t be, though. Cliona might be a wagon of the highest order, but she’s a goth, and a goth being besties with a D4 is a step too far.”
“Cliona’s an inspiration,” Amber is saying. “It’s the first time a second year’s been made editor.” She lifts her hair off her neck, letting it fall back across her shoulders in a wave, and even several feet away, I get a whiff of expensive shampoo.
The D4 pack has reached some concrete steps to the right of a large modern building, and Amber suddenly stops dead. She lifts her hand like a traffic warden and swings round to face her tribe. (She’s much prettier than I’d imagined, with a heart-shaped face and wide-set hazel eyes, like a cat’s.) “Halt!” she says. “Makeup check.”
At her command, all the girls whip out cosmetic bags and hand mirrors and begin topping up their gloop.
Clover stops too and pretends to study her mobile phone. I linger beside her, watching the D4s from the corner of my eye.
“Remember, first impressions are, like, crucial,” Amber says, snapping her compact closed and slipping it back into her leather satchel. “Today is the most important day in your college career. Hit the stands with pride. We are Mounties, girls. We belong here. Heads up, shoulders back, boobs out. Let’s show them what we’re made of.”
And like a plague of rich, privileged locusts, they swarm up the steps, past a bronze globe sculpture, and into the college building.
Clover stares after them. “I can’t spend four years surrounded by Mount Rackville monsters, Beanie. Girls from that school think they’re so superior, and I hate the way they call themselves Mounties. I think I’ll just register, grab my student ID card, and then head in to the
Goss
office and get some work done.”
I look at Clover, but her eyes quickly dart away from mine. She seems nervous, agitated.
“Can we just have a quick look at some of the society stands?” I say. “There’s free pizza at the Students’ Union, and the engineers have a bungee run. Pretty please?”
We flicked through the Freshers’ Week program on the DART on the way in, and some of the societies sound fantastic. I know if I can just get her to look around, she’ll be excited again. I won’t let her be put off by a bunch of D4s!
She sighs and rolls her eyes at me. “OK, fine. But first I have to register in the exam hall and pick up my student card. You need an ID card before you can join any of the societies, anyway. Which way, bloodhound?”
“Follow the crowd, I guess.” I point at a group of Crombies (the male equivalents of D4s). They are all in matching jeans and Abercrombie & Fitch Ts and are jostling one another with their broad rugby player shoulders.
“It’s a sad day when I have to trail Crombies — but I guess you’re right, Beanie.”
We tail them but keep our distance. After walking through a narrow opening, we find ourselves in a huge cobbled square that is thronging with noisy students. It’s also heaving with stands — some are tented, some are decorated with colored banners, and all are manned by students in hoodies or tops printed with their society’s name.
We sniggle our way through the bodies. The air is thick with sweat, beer fumes, and aftershave so strong you can taste it.
“Which cousin’s that?” a dark-haired girl asks. “Tiffany?”
“No, Tiffany’s taking a cooking course in Ballymaloe, remember? Where they send all the Leaving Cert rejects. It’s costing Uncle Seb a fortune. He says if she can whack out a decent steak, she might just bag herself a rich husband. It’s the only hope for her. No, I’m talking about Cliona. She’s the editor, you dim sim.”
I give a tiny gasp. “She’s not talking about
your
Cliona, is she?” I whisper to Clover.
“You eavesdropping too, Beanie?” Clover nudges me before shaking her head. “It can’t be, though. Cliona might be a wagon of the highest order, but she’s a goth, and a goth being besties with a D4 is a step too far.”
“Cliona’s an inspiration,” Amber is saying. “It’s the first time a second year’s been made editor.” She lifts her hair off her neck, letting it fall back across her shoulders in a wave, and even several feet away, I get a whiff of expensive shampoo.
The D4 pack has reached some concrete steps to the right of a large modern building, and Amber suddenly stops dead. She lifts her hand like a traffic warden and swings round to face her tribe. (She’s much prettier than I’d imagined, with a heart-shaped face and wide-set hazel eyes, like a cat’s.) “Halt!” she says. “Makeup check.”
At her command, all the girls whip out cosmetic bags and hand mirrors and begin topping up their gloop.
Clover stops too and pretends to study her mobile phone. I linger beside her, watching the D4s from the corner of my eye.
“Remember, first impressions are, like, crucial,” Amber says, snapping her compact closed and slipping it back into her leather satchel. “Today is the most important day in your college career. Hit the stands with pride. We are Mounties, girls. We belong here. Heads up, shoulders back, boobs out. Let’s show them what we’re made of.”
And like a plague of rich, privileged locusts, they swarm up the steps, past a bronze globe sculpture, and into the college building.
Clover stares after them. “I can’t spend four years surrounded by Mount Rackville monsters, Beanie. Girls from that school think they’re so superior, and I hate the way they call themselves Mounties. I think I’ll just register, grab my student ID card, and then head in to the
Goss
office and get some work done.”
I look at Clover, but her eyes quickly dart away from mine. She seems nervous, agitated.
“Can we just have a quick look at some of the society stands?” I say. “There’s free pizza at the Students’ Union, and the engineers have a bungee run. Pretty please?”
We flicked through the Freshers’ Week program on the DART on the way in, and some of the societies sound fantastic. I know if I can just get her to look around, she’ll be excited again. I won’t let her be put off by a bunch of D4s!
She sighs and rolls her eyes at me. “OK, fine. But first I have to register in the exam hall and pick up my student card. You need an ID card before you can join any of the societies, anyway. Which way, bloodhound?”
“Follow the crowd, I guess.” I point at a group of Crombies (the male equivalents of D4s). They are all in matching jeans and Abercrombie & Fitch Ts and are jostling one another with their broad rugby player shoulders.
“It’s a sad day when I have to trail Crombies — but I guess you’re right, Beanie.”
We tail them but keep our distance. After walking through a narrow opening, we find ourselves in a huge cobbled square that is thronging with noisy students. It’s also heaving with stands — some are tented, some are decorated with colored banners, and all are manned by students in hoodies or tops printed with their society’s name.
We sniggle our way through the bodies. The air is thick with sweat, beer fumes, and aftershave so strong you can taste it.
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